Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Clay Odum
Boyd sat behind the mahogany desk in his second-floor office, staring out the window at the sprawling brick complex of the Gaines Peanut Company. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the loading docks where flatbed trucks were being stacked with heavy burlap sacks of fresh roasts.
In front of him sat Fay Trimble, the veteran receiving coordinator who had worked for his father for thirty-five years. She was holding a cup of lukewarm black coffee, her spectacles hanging from a beaded chain around her neck.
"Trudy's got a lot of sway around here, Boyd," Fay said softly, setting her cup down. "You knew that before you went down to that cafeteria."
"I knew people respected her," Boyd said, rolling the small brass key between his thumb and forefinger. "I didn't know she was running a quiet reign of terror against a bench chemist."
Fay sighed, shaking her head. "It ain't quiet to those who remember Clay. Clay Odum was the golden boy of this plant. Worked maintenance, played softball for the company team, helped everybody with their yard work on weekends. When he died two years ago, it nearly broke this town."
"And Rosalyn?"
"Roz was Clay's fiancé," Fay explained, her tone shifting to something more cautious. "They were together for almost eight years. Lived in a little rental house over on Maple Street. Everyone thought they were getting married as soon as Clay finished saving up for a down payment on a place out in the country."
Boyd frowned. "Then what happened?"
"Three months before the accident, things went sour," Fay said. "Clay started coming to work looking like he hadn't slept in a week. He was short-tempered, missing shifts, losing weight. Then, out of nowhere, Roz broke off the engagement. Packed her bags, moved to Montgomery, and blocked his number."
"Why?"
"Trudy says Roz cleared out their joint bank account," Fay replied, her voice dropping. "Five thousand dollars Clay had saved up for their wedding. Said Roz told him he wasn't ambitious enough for her, that she wanted a man with real money. Two weeks later, Clay was driving his pickup down Highway 84 at three in the morning, lost control on a curve, and hit an oak tree. The highway patrol said he’d been drinking. Clay never drank, Boyd. Not until she left him."
Boyd looked down at the brass key in his hand. It was an old key, worn smooth at the edges, with a small number stamped into the head: 412.
"And everyone in the plant believes Trudy's story?" Boyd asked.
"Why wouldn't they?" Fay countered. "Trudy's lived in Dothan her whole life. Her family built the Baptist church on 3rd Avenue. Roz was an outsider from South Carolina who met Clay at a state agricultural fair. When Clay died, Roz didn't even come to the funeral. She sent a card. That was it."
"If she hated him so much, why did she come back here?" Boyd murmured, more to himself than to Fay. "Why take a job at the exact plant where his mother has worked for nearly three decades?"
"That's what nobody understands," Fay said, standing up and smoothing her denim skirt. "People think she came back to rub it in Trudy's face. Or maybe she ran out of money in Montgomery and figured we wouldn't remember her. But folks around here have long memories, Boyd. If you take her side, you're going to alienate half the workforce."
"I'm not taking anyone's side, Fay," Boyd said firmly. "I'm managing a company. And I won't have an employee ostracized based on town gossip."
After Fay left, Boyd leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the brass key. He recognized the stamp. It wasn't a door key. It was a key to a safety deposit box at the First National Bank of Dothan—the old bank downtown that still used mechanical locks from the 1970s.
He pulled up Rosalyn Carter's personnel file on his computer monitor.
Her application was meticulous. High test scores, excellent academic records, glowing performance reviews from her previous employer in Montgomery. But as Boyd zoomed in on her emergency contact section, he saw something strange.
Under Primary Emergency Contact, she had typed a name, then violently crossed it out with black ink until the paper was nearly torn.
Boyd zoomed in further, adjusting the contrast on the scanned document. Beneath the black ink, the faint outlines of the letters were still legible:
Clayton Odum.
Boyd closed the file. He picked up his jacket, placed the brass key in his pocket, and headed downstairs toward the Quality Control laboratory.
The lab was tucked away behind the main processing floor, a long, sterile room filled with stainless steel counters, centrifuges, and rows of glass beakers filled with peanut oil samples. The air here smelled of rubbing alcohol and roasted legumes.
Roz was standing at a sink in the back, washing a stack of glass test tubes. The white lab coat she wore was slightly too big for her narrow shoulders. Her dark hair was tied back in a neat bun, but several loose strands hung around her neck.
"Ms. Carter," Boyd said, stopping a few feet behind her.
Roz jumped slightly, dropping a test tube into the sink. It didn't break, clattering against the rubber matting. She quickly turned off the water and wiped her hands on a towel, turning to face him.
"Mr. Gaines," she said, her voice guarded, her eyes still rimmed with red. "If you're here to give me a warning about cafeteria conduct, I assure you I won't create another scene."
"I'm not here to give you a warning," Boyd said gently. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brass key, holding it out to her. "You dropped this."
Roz's eyes widened in instant panic. Her hand shot out, snatching the key from his palm so fast her fingernails grazed his skin. She pressed the key against her chest, her breathing turning shallow.
"Did you... did you look at it?" she asked, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper.
"I saw the number," Boyd admitted softly. "Box 412. First National Bank."
Roz closed her eyes, taking a long, shaky breath. "Please, Mr. Gaines. Just let it go. Fire me if you have to. Tell everyone I quit. But leave this alone."
"I can't do that, Rosalyn," Boyd said, stepping closer. "Trudy tells everyone in that building that you stole five thousand dollars from her son and drove him to his death. If that's true, why are you here?"
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Roz opened her eyes, staring at him with a mixture of profound exhaustion and deep, agonizing grief.
"Because Clay asked me to come," she whispered.