Chapter 33 Luisa
Jade Jackal on the move,” I whisper into our radio’s private channel.
“Eyes on the target.” Tripp, Griggs, and his cronies step onto the club’s vast lawn, where cocktail tables and plush patio furniture have been arranged for private conversations.
Metal floor lanterns line the steps down from the ballroom and strings of light run the length of the garden, casting a warm glow over the guests.
“Roger that,” Holly responds, as I pretend to clear out glassware and plates. “We’re getting really good at this,” she adds, more animated. “Maybe we should start a PI agency after this is all over.”
“Over and out, Honey Badger,” I deadpan, unable to stop myself from smiling at her shenanigans.
The men move down a second set of stone steps toward a secluded courtyard, away from the other guests.
I watch from the terrace above, as musty-scented cigar smoke bellows into a clear summer sky.
They make for a bizarre menagerie of characters: Captain America, Ol’ Mags the banker as Jumaji’s murderous big-game hunter, Judge Thacker as an exact double of Colonel Sanders, and Jim Wade in a… Is that a Godzilla cosplay suit?
The deal is about to go down and Tripp is perfectly situated to record the whole thing, ask the right questions, make sure Griggs and the others incriminate themselves. A thrill of excitement coils through my body in anticipation of our big payoff.
“Back at the house, you asked me if I knew of any solid investment opportunities,” Griggs says, gently tapping his cigar.
Tripp nods but doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to look eager.
Everything is unfolding exactly as we planned. Griggs has taken the bait. Holly was right, this man would never be able to resist a gullible young angel investor with a trust fund to burn.
“I’m working on this development down in Westlake,” Griggs continues. “High-end luxury homes, restaurants, golf course”—he motions forward with the hand holding a cigar—“that kinda thing.”
“It’s gonna be one helluva course,” Ol’ Mags remarks, puffing on his cigar.
“More than one course,” the judge says. “Three. Heck, maybe we’ll play a round on all of ’em, and I just might have a chance at winnin’ back my money.” He nudges Tripp, and they all laugh.
“You set up the tee times, and I’ll be there,” Tripp replies cheekily. “Hard to resist a winning streak.” They chuckle at his brashness, and once again I’m awed by Eli’s sagacity when it comes to telling these people what they want to hear.
“We’re closed to outside investors,” Griggs offers, gesturing to the other men, in a confidential tone. “But we agreed that you’re just the sort of man we want to be in business with.” He drops one hand on Tripp’s shoulder, and I lean closer to the railing, careful not to be seen. “You in?”
“Sounds intriguing,” Tripp says blithely—interested, but not too interested. “I’m listening.”
“The situation over there in Westlake is a bit delicate,” Griggs says, a conspiratorial grin spreading over his villainous face. “So here’s what you need to understand—”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck yes. I want to pump my fists in the air, victorious.
“I think we got ’em,” I can’t help but call out to Holly over the headset. “Deal’s going down, and Griggs is about to spill.”
Holly starts to reply, but her words are drowned out by none other than Virginia, striding across the lawn, crying out, “There you are!” I’m too dumbstruck to react, much less stop her as she steps down to the courtyard below, where the men are assembled.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” A young man trails after her in a black football jersey, the phrase MEAN MACHINE stitched in red over a white number 18.
Tripp reaches out a hand to the newcomer, his voice dropping to a deep baritone as he recites what must be a line from a movie, “We may not have the most talented team, but we’ll definitely have the meanest.”
“Who we gonna crush?” the guy calls back.
“The guards!” Tripp exclaims in response, as both burst into laughter. “I loved that damn movie, The Longest Yard.”
“I knew you’d hit it off.” Virginia claps in delight. “This is Little Shuggy. Remember? I told you about him at the derby party?”
I clutch the railing with sweaty hands, trying to steady myself. How can this be happening? Why is Shuggs here?
“Your cousin, right?” Tripp’s eyes go wide, but he still manages to paste on a welcoming smile. “I thought you were off on a European adventure.”
“Had to cut it short,” Shuggs says. “Turns out they don’t love Americans who carve Greek letters into walls in Pompeii.”
“You didn’t,” Virginia exclaims, aghast.
“Hell no,” he replies. “I’ve got better sense than that. But my buddy Tabs, not so much.”
The whole crowd laughs in a shared understanding that boys will be boys, and on occasion, they’re entitled to a little bail money.
Meanwhile, I’m sweating buckets and my mind is racing to catch up.
Little Shuggy was decidedly not part of our surgically stitched plan for this evening.
I force my nerves to remain calm and think clearly: How can I remove Virginia and her cousin from the picture before they inadvertently blow up our scheme?
“Sorry to hear,” Tripp says, laughing as he grasps hands with Tripp, then pumps twice. “I’m Tripp Bedford.”
Shuggs’s head tilts sideways. “Tripp Bedford?” he asks, his laughter dying off as he grasps hands with Trip. “From Ole Miss?” He releases Tripp’s hand.
“The very one,” Virginia adds, stepping beside Tripp, resting one hand on his bicep.
“Theodore Reynolds Bedford the Third,” Tripp says, his voice faltering slightly.
Shuggs stares at him, confused.
I blink repeatedly, a sense of foreboding rising from deep in my gut.
My pulse quickens as I take in Shuggs’s mystified expression.
He cuts his gaze to his grandfather, the judge, then back to Tripp.
“I don’t know who you are, man,” he says, more certain this time.
“But you’re not the Tripp Bedford whose family is from Greenwood—the guy whose grandfather everyone calls ‘The Colonel.’ ”
I watch, panic-stricken, as if having an out-of-body experience.
“What do you mean?” Virginia asks, her tone still light, half laughing at her cousin’s confusion. “Of course he is.”
“I’ve met Tripp Bedford,” Shuggs tells his cousin.
“Last fall, at an Ole Miss alumni event for premed students.” Then to the judge, he says, “He’s one of those Doctors Without Borders types—was on his way back to some jungle in Cambodia.
But he gave me his contact info, said he’d write me a letter if I decide on Bama for med school.
” Shuggs pulls out his phone, begins to scroll.
My stomach bottoms out. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Even from a distance, I can sense the tension building below. The friendly banter has vanished, replaced by a shroud of suspicion and hostility.
“Oh, I know that guy,” our Tripp says dismissively, an attempt at regaining control.
“People always confuse the two of us.” He removes his phone from his suit, too, pretending to scroll, surely buying himself some time.
“I’m pretty sure I have a picture of us together. At a frat party, way back when.”
There’s no such photo. I know because I would’ve been the one to create it. Why the hell didn’t I think of it before?
“So, you’re a Phi Delt, too?” Shuggs asks, still befuddled.
“Sure am,” our Tripp says, trying his best to project confidence. I recall all that Holly has taught him about the fraternity and start to feel the tiniest flicker of hope that this will get back on track.
“Well, then, we can clear this up right now—” Jim Wade says, gesturing to Ol’ Mags.
“Absolutely,” the banker says. “You’re looking at a proud Phi Delt from the great class of ’78 at Washington and Lee University.” His right hand protrudes from under the safari cape draped over his shoulder. His creepy Van Pelt grin, muttonchops, and handlebar mustache make me shudder.
Tripp pauses, staring at the extended hand for a beat. Is this some insider frat bro joke? It doesn’t sound like a joke. And why is Tripp not shaking the man’s hand?
“Come on, don’t leave the man hanging,” a belligerent Griggs demands. “What’s the Phi Delt handshake?”
There’s a literal secret handshake—of course there is. Because frat guys are perpetually stuck in a childish game of “who gets to play in my super-secret tree house.”
Tripp hesitates, and I can practically read the thoughts that must be swirling inside Eli’s head. He could attempt to fake the handshake, or just try to play it off.
“You don’t fucking know, do you?” Griggs’s nostrils flare, eyes going wild behind his Captain America mask.
An ominous, damp chill crawls over my skin. I reach for the call button on my walkie-talkie, my tone clipped and frantic as I urge Holly to come meet me in the courtyard.
“You’re gonna regret you ever set foot in this place,” Griggs barks, quickly taking a combative stand.
Eli’s lead foot is angled forward, back foot angled out, knees bent slightly, body weight shifted back, readying himself for a fight.
To her credit, Virginia remains by his side. I don’t know if I should be pissed or grateful. She may be the only thing preventing Griggs from physically going after Eli.
“Hotty Toddy, my ass,” Griggs says, baring his teeth like an animal, spittle flying, his polished Atlanta accent gone. “You’re a fucking fake.” Eli flinches at the accusation, balling his hands into fists beside him. “And you’ve fucked with the wrong people.”
Holly appears beside me, breathing hard from exertion and nerves. “What’s going on?” she asks, but I don’t have to respond.
“Surely,” Virginia ventures, her tone honeyed sweet, “this is all one big misunderstanding.” She places one hand on Griggs’s chest, right above the star, trying to build some space between them. “Tripp is a common name. Maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”