Snake in the Grass

By Susie McKenna

Snake in the Grass has something for everyone: a dead body, racism, social injustice, kids coming-of-age, the challenges and dangers police face, and romance, all served up with a dash of snarky humor.

The good guys are a mixed-race male detective, a smart wise-cracking female cop, and the officer’s daughter. The bad guys are a network of white supremacists masquerading as respectable neighbors while covertly promoting a culture of systemic racism.

“Dedicated detective Will Kelley’s search for the murderer of a corpse discovered at the bottom of a country club pool forces him to expose a privileged community’s evil underbelly, a network of white supremacists masquerading as respectable neighbors while covertly promoting a culture of systemic racism. The exciting twists and turns of this suspenseful mystery about social justice make for a great read.” Ked Oder, Author of the Whippoorwill Hollow Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665716734

Susie McKenna

Susie McKenna was born and raised in the Midwest. A successful career as a software entrepreneur led her to Virginia, where she now makes her home. A snowshoe trek in search of virgin snow was the inspiration for her first book, the thriller Last Tracks.

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Copyright © 2022 Susie McKenna.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1672-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1673-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021925414

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/22/2022

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

To my husband, Lew—thank you for all your love, sneaky ideas, and support.

Snake in the grass: A person or thing that is evil, dangerous, hidden, or seemingly harmless.

PROLOGUE

YEAR 2060

It looks so much smaller than I remember, Sarah said.

Her best friend, Carmen, chuckled. Right. In my memory, it is bigger than the Tesla factory at home.

And it used to be one of the nicest looking buildings in town. I remember the first time I met Peter. I was a freshman. Mom brought me to school that first day. Sarah pointed to the front door of the two-story brick building. He held the door for us.

The heavy double doors that led into what was once Leesville’s high school were now covered in graffiti. The women’s eyes moved from the dented bottoms of the metal doors to the shattered glass in their top halves. They exchanged a glance. Both of them shook their heads. The grass next to the sidewalk barely covered the red clay beneath it. The few blades left were brown and dry.

Mom asked Peter where the principal’s office was. He offered to guide us there. He shook my hand—I thought he was very grown-up—and welcomed me to the high school. Little did I know then that we would fall in love. Her voice started to shake. I didn’t think it would bother me to come back. So many memories, good and bad.

Sarah laughed and then continued. I dyed my hair black and went to a tanning booth until my skin was a beautiful light brown. Peter’s dad thought of everything. He was afraid we’d get stopped while leaving the United States at the border, especially me, a young, pregnant woman with blond hair.

Carmen put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Will saved us. We were the lucky ones.

Three decades had passed since they had left their former hometown as young women. Their hair was gray, their figures were a little fuller, and their steps were not quite as lively. The two friends turned from the building with arms interlocked and walked back to the thirty-year-old Cadillac that was waiting for them on the street. The blue paint was faded and crumbling. The rear end was dented. A big crack ran down the front windshield. The car came with a driver: a skinny, sallow-faced man who was around thirty years old. Only citizens of the Nationalist United States were allowed to drive cars.

Peter, Sarah’s husband, had refused to get in the car at the airport. He had walked around the car while shaking his head. Too polite to insult the already sad-looking driver, Peter had whispered angrily to Sarah, This car is a piece of crap. No respectable used-car dealer at home would even put it on their lot.

Seeing the frown on her face, he had whispered, Well, I might have sold it for junk and let someone haul it to the Nationalist United States. They had both laughed.

Peter was now waiting for them outside the old Caddy. His head of straight black hair was now sprinkled with gray. He had a beautiful smile when he smiled. He hadn’t smiled much since arriving in Leesville. He knew that his wife and her best friend wanted to visit the town where their young lives had been formed. They wanted to visit their parents’ graves and put memories to rest. Too afraid for their safety to let them travel alone, Peter had taken a break from his legal practice and accompanied them on the trip to the past.

Are you all right? Peter asked after seeing the two women who were hanging their heads and locking their arms together.

Sarah’s face brightened at her husband’s concern. "Yes, querido, we are fine. Take us home."

The driver opened the doors of the tired-looking car and helped the women into the back seat. Sarah turned her head to hear the men talking outside the car.

Sir, the driver said speaking quickly, I’ve applied for an orange card to Mexico. I’m a hard worker. Please, please, if you know of anyone who needs an honest, good worker, I would like to immigrate to Mexico. The man’s voice was strained.

Sarah saw her husband pat the man on the back. I’ll see what I can do.

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CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 2018

SOUNDS OF GLASS breaking filled the cool night air, followed by, Aw shit, man. I think I cut my foot.

Andrew, keep it down, warned Jeff Bradshaw III. Someone will hear you and call the security guard. Why’d you take your shoes off? You shouldn’t have gone in the water anyway.

I’m serious, man, Andrew pleaded in a lowered, urgent voice. My foot’s bleeding. Get over here. Shine your lighter.

It was just after Labor Day, but the humidity made it feel like summer. The pool was closed. The only light was coming from a sliver of moon. There was enough light to see dark liquid dripping from Andrew’s foot. A casual observer would have looked at the picture of the four skinny sixteen-year-old boys, who were barely visible in the moonlight, and thought, Harmless—just a few kids sneaking into the pool for a swim. They wore the summer uniforms of country-club kids who were used to playing tennis and golf: khaki shorts, untucked pastel polo shirts with various popular logos on them, no visible tattoos, and tidy prep-school haircuts.

When discovered, the silent witness to the kids’ vandalism—the dead man at the bottom of the pool—would trigger an investigation into the evil and hate that were hiding inside the gates of the Bellevue Country Club, a residential community at the foot of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. The gated community represented the hottest trend in real-estate development in the United States. It had really taken off in this part of the country, the South but not quite the Deep South, which was on the edge of the country where memories of the Civil War were still strong. Parks, battlegrounds, and cemeteries kept the memories alive and maybe even North-South wounds festering. After all, a museum honoring the Confederacy was just down the road.

Two universities were located in the small towns of Stuartburg and Leesville, which were next to Bellevue. They were two of the oldest schools of higher education in the state. They were respected for their histories and the quality of the education that they provided. It was a scenic, peaceful area situated far from the crime and pollution in the larger cities. It offered cultural activities and a few good restaurants. As the brochure for Bellevue advertised, Come to Bellevue for Peace of Mind and Southern Hospitality. There was no reason for anyone to suspect the four lanky sixteen-year-old boys of anything more than carrying out an innocent lark.

Trevor Byrd reached for his phone, pressed a button on the screen, and pointed the light from the phone at Andrew’s foot. Trevor looked at Jeff. The cut looks pretty bad. He needs to get to a doctor.

OK, OK. Let me think, Jeff ordered in a lowered voice. Can you ride your bike home? he asked Andrew.

No, I can’t! Andrew yelled. I’m calling my dad.

Keep it down, Jeff said. We need to get out of here before you call your dad. Right now, I need to take a crap. Lean on Marty and Trevor.

The boys watched Jeff walking quickly to the men’s bathroom door.

Damn it. It’s locked. He grabbed the door of the women’s bathroom. Locked. Jeff turned to the boys with a smirk on his face. Watch this. Jeff walked out on the diving board, dropped his pants, and used the pool as a toilet bowl.

Marty and Trevor both groaned and said at the same time, That’s disgusting!

Trevor remembered his mom’s excuse for never using the pool: Little kids and old people pee in the pool. He only mumbled loud enough so that Marty and Andrew could hear, If my mom hears about a turd in the pool, I’ll never be allowed in the water.

Andrew didn’t seem to care. He just wanted to get help for his cut. Come on, Trevor. Let’s go.

OK, now I can think, Jeff said, rejoining the group. We’ll get you to the clubhouse. Then you can call your dad.

Marty said, Jeff, that was gross but not as big a crime as breaking into the cash register.

Jeff didn’t respond to Marty’s criticism. He just gave him a dirty look.

Trevor knew this was not going to end well. Jeff would probably take off and leave the rest of them to face Andrew’s dad. His heart sank. He hadn’t really done anything. Sure, he and Marty, his best friend, had been part of the group, but they hadn’t broken any windows or stolen anything.

Jeff had surprised him when he pulled a hammer out of his backpack and started breaking the windows of the pool’s snack bar. Jeff tried to hand out candy and drinks. Only Andrew took them. Trevor and Marty both said, No. It was one thing to be in the pool area after hours, but they didn’t want to do any real damage or commit any crimes. Jeff used the hammer to whack the cash register until it broke open. Then he stuffed the cash into his pockets, complaining that there wasn’t much. Trevor and Marty tried to tell him that they would get in big trouble if anything was stolen. Jeff just snorted, laughed, and called them weasels.

Here’s the plan, Jeff said, confirming Trevor’s suspicions. When we get to the clubhouse, Andrew will call his dad. The rest of us will jump on our bikes, split up, and head for the river.

Andrew threw an arm over his friends’ shoulders. The trio awkwardly started shuffling out of the pool area. Marty stopped, throwing Andrew off balance. Trevor managed to grab him before he fell.

Andrew yelled, Marty! What are you doing?

I’m sorry. I just tripped.

Jeff said, Quiet, everybody. Let’s get—

We’re gonna get caught. Someone will see us before we get there. The security guard might drive by to check on things, Marty said.

Jeff asked, You think the lousy guard at the gate can catch us? He can’t keep up with us on foot or follow us in the car if we head across the field to the river. They’ll just blame it on the Mexican workers anyway.

If they do, Trevor and I will tell them who did it, Marty growled, sounding more like an angry fifty-year-old man than a teenager so thin that he looked like he lived on bread and water. Right, Trevor?

Trevor looked at his best friend with pride. He nudged Marty on the shoulder and then directed his attention at Jeff. Don’t even think about dragging the workers into this.

Trevor knew Jeff was right. The country club’s dirty work was done mostly by Hispanic workers. They were blamed for everything. There had been a rash of car break-ins. He had heard his mom telling someone that she was sure it was the Mexicans. Seeing Jeff with the hammer, Trevor started to wonder if Jeff had had something to do with the break-ins.

What about Andrew? Trevor protested.

But Jeff didn’t get a chance to respond. There was a loud clunking sound. The powerful flood lights around the pool came on and lit up the area. The boys shielded their eyes from the sudden blinding glare and blinked until they could adjust them. When they could see, they huddled in a small circle. Andrew still leaned on Trevor’s shoulder. Four heads swiveled back and forth like chickens looking for a way out when the neighbor’s dog breaks into the chicken coop. The police and the Bellevue Country Club’s security guard were in position behind the five-foot chain-link fence that enclosed the pool area. The boys turned their heads from one police officer to the next. Uniformed figures were looking back at them from all four sides of the pool.

They might have been able to outrun one Bellevue security guard, but they were not going to outrun four armed policemen. While they had been worrying about Andrew’s bloody foot, the police had quietly surrounded the pool area.

I’ll handle this, Jeff whispered under his breath. Keep quiet.

Wh-what? escaped from one of the boy’s mouths as they started to understand that not only had they been caught but the police also might have been standing outside the pool, watching and listening to them for the past fifteen to twenty minutes.

Oh, man! came from another mouth.

And, I think I’m going to be sick, came from another.

More worried about Andrew than the trouble they were in, Trevor said loudly, Andrew’s foot is cut. He needs to see a doctor.

Trevor heard a man say, Get an ambulance here. No sirens.

When it became clear that the officer in charge, Detective Will Kelley, intended to take them to police headquarters, Jeff stepped out of the group. He turned his head toward Ron Coates, the chubby security guard whom he had thought would never be able to catch them. Hey, Ronnie, this is crazy. The gate wasn’t locked. We just wanted one last swim. He held his hand up, crossed his heart, and smiled sweetly. We’ll go home quietly. No more trouble. Honest, cross my heart.

Ron Coates was sixty-five and retired from a maintenance job with the city. He needed this job to supplement his retirement. He didn’t smile or answer Jeff. He figured that he might lose his job if Jeff Bradshaw were arrested and complained that he had let it happen. It was Jeff’s dad who had recommended him for the job. Ron didn’t care. He just wanted to see the right thing done. And he was plain tired of being called Ronnie by a kid. He also thought it would be better for Jeff and his friends if they were stopped before their crimes got worse. Ron stared at Jeff for barely a second before turning to look at Detective Kelley.

Jeff sneered at Ron before addressing the detective. You can’t arrest us, he said, dropping the coaxing voice in favor of an angry one. We’re juveniles. You have to call our parents!

Detective Kelley calmly said, You are being taken into custody and will be placed in a juvenile holding area at the Stuart County jail. An intake officer will call your parents. The detective’s voice was calm but icy cold. He locked eyes with Jeff when he finished speaking. Jeff lowered his gaze.

The name Kelley might conjure up the image of the stereotypical Irishman—sturdy build, medium height, maybe red hair, and freckles. The description was partially accurate in Will’s case. He was stocky and muscular, but his close-cropped hair was jet-black. His light caramel complexion and dark brown eyes made him look more Italian than Irish. His African-American mom and Irish dad used to tell him he was living proof that intermarriage produced superior results. No taller than Jeff, he still carried himself with the self-assurance of the boxer that he had been in his twenties. His handsome face was marred by a crooked nose, the result of a close encounter with an opponent. The combination of the close-cropped hair and damaged nose made him look fierce.

He had spent his youth working, mostly construction or anything else that he could get to pay for college. He remembered how tired he had been at the end of the day when he was their age. He would have been too beat to go out and raise hell. And he had too much respect for other people’s property to do it.

These kids did not understand how lucky they were. He would bet that none of them had jobs. They probably spent the day hanging out at the very pool that they were vandalizing. He felt sorry for them. They were missing out on some important stages of growing up. Kids their age learned responsibility by working their first jobs. They learned what it was like to be an adult, and they received some sense of self-worth. Will remembered that he had envied kids who could take off and go swimming every day. Now he thought that maybe too much leisure time and money was as bad for young kids as too much work and too little money.

An officer wearing skintight, blue protective gloves handed Detective Kelley a twelve-inch-long ball-peen hammer. Kelley pulled out a pair of protective gloves and snapped them open while letting his eyes run over the four boys who had all stopped moving. Does this belong to one of you? Kelley watched the boys. Three of them kept their eyes on their feet. Jeff seemed to hold his breath while sliding his eyes to look at the others and then mimicking them. Kelley caught a sly grin on Jeff’s face. Check it for prints, Kelley said, handing the hammer back to the officer.

The grin disappeared from Jeff’s face. The four boys listened to the charges against them: vandalism and destruction of property. At least one of them had defecated in the club’s pool, broken into and stolen from the snack bar, and broken windows. They were all scared on some level, but they knew their parents would take care of the problem. Three sets of shoulders slumped. If you were watching them closely, you could see them holding their breath. At least one struggled to hold back tears. Three boys’ heads hung down while their eyes nervously slid from the ground in front of them to Detective Kelley.

Only one boy didn’t appear to be taking the situation seriously. Jeff smiled through the whole process and stood with his feet wide apart and his arms crossed. The smile hid the nerves that his constantly moving body betrayed. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and then crossed them again. He kept smiling, made eye contact with the other three, and even winked at Andrew. When he looked at Trevor and Marty, his smile was met by a short look from Trevor. Trevor’s shake of the head and cold eyes told him what Trevor was thinking: This is your fault.

Trevor and Marty exchanged a glance and a nod. They ignored Jeff.

Seize their wallets and cell phones, Kelly instructed his officers.

The crooked smile on Jeff’s face slipped. It was replaced by a flash of fear and surprise. In an angry voice, he said, No, don’t give them your phones. They can’t take them.

Kelley exhaled. Keeping his voice calm and a reassuring smile on his face, his eyes moved from one boy to the next. He said, We are legally permitted and expected to secure phones and wallets. We cannot look at the phones until we receive a search warrant. He paused and watched for a reaction. He was rewarded by seeing Jeff’s face relax. Kelley continued by saying, We should have the search warrant before we get you to the station.

Jeff was very still. For the first time, he looked like a scared young kid. There was definitely something on his phone that he didn’t want the police to see. His eyes darted toward the pool. He took a step closer to the edge.

Suspecting that Jeff would throw the phone in the pool, Kelley yelled, Stop! The sudden command startled Jeff. His phone and wallet fell on the concrete surface and skidded to a stop in front of the detective. Kelley stooped to pick up the items. It took all of his self-control not to explode with a round of expletives at the sight of the sticker that was affixed to the back of the phone: a Pepe the Frog sticker with the number eighty-eight on it. The average person didn’t realize that the adorable frog was a commonly used symbol to identify supporters of white supremacy.

He looked at Jeff and caught a smirk on the young man’s face before Jeff dropped his head. Very interesting, Kelley thought. He wondered if Jeffery Bradshaw Sr., an upstanding community member, knew and approved of his son’s beliefs. Kelley sighed deeply and turned away from the officers and budding criminals. His gaze lingered on the pool. A dark spot on the