Nowhere Man: A Riley King Mystery

by Richard Neer

  Charlene said, “That’s right admirable of him.”

  “Yes, it was. Like I was saying, a little over a year ago, he did a show there and when he was done, he found a notebook lying on the little makeshift stage they set up. He was going to turn it in, but he looked through it first. He took it home. I think you can guess the rest.”

  I said, “And Trig couldn’t tell us this himself?”

  “I think he’d be embarrassed to admit that in front of Ms. Jones. But he did authorize me to try to make it right. He had no idea the songs belonged to this Townes fellow. Sounds like he probably died ten years before Trig was born. We’d never heard of him until tonight. Trig just figured God was rewarding him for his good deeds.”

  “So if I find a cashier’s check for a million bucks on my way to church, it’s okay to keep it because God put it there to thank me for keeping the faith?”

  “There was no name on the notebook. It wasn’t obvious who it belonged to. Trig was going to give it back, but when he played the songs for his band mates, they thought they were his and loved them. By that point, he was too deeply in to admit they weren’t. He told me that he planned to give St. Agnes a big donation this Christmas as thanks.”

  Webster’s story cast Trig in a different light. I consider myself an honest fellow, but if I’ve been undercharged on a purchase, I rarely go back and bring it to the store’s attention. There’s a difference between the few dollars I may save versus the millions Trig stood to make. In both cases, they are not the actions of an completely honest man, if in fact, such a being does exist.

  I said, “Your boy still did wrong. I think both of you know that. You said he empowered you to make it right. How do you intend to do that?”

  “I’d be willing to negotiate a settlement with an authorized representative of his widow. Provided of course, that there’s an NDA.”

  “Let’s cut the legal bullshit, Victor,” Charlene said. “You’re a lawyer, we’re not. But I know a damn site more about the music business than you do. Don’t matter how Dawson got hold of them songs, he made a profit on stolen goods, whether he knew or not. We have proof. So to make it right, like you put it, Townes’ widow is entitled to 100% of the songwriting royalties.”

  “You’re not a lawyer Ms. Jones, but I’ll allow that is a good opening gambit.”

  She flashed a sarcastic smile. “We hold all the cards. We can handle this nice and quiet-like or we can litigate this through the media. Ever hear the term one-hit wonder? That’d be The Flying Machine.”

  “How old is this widow?”

  Charlene scrunched her nose. “Not polite to ask a lady her age, but I’ll humor you. She’s mid seventies. Don’t see what that has to do with the price of beans.”

  “You think you hold all the cards. If we decide to fight this in court and we can string it out. I don’t know -- five, ten years. There’s precedent for it taking that long. Even if she wins, will she be around to enjoy it? I’m sure the record company will back us.”

  Charlene looked like she was ready to spit at him. “So you’re willing to sacrifice Trig’s career to screw an old lady out of what’s rightfully hers? Trig’s okay with that?”

  “Folks, we can go to war over this or we can work it out to benefit all concerned. That’s what Trig wants and I hope your widow feels that same way.”

  The game was afoot. Finally. I said, “I sense a counter-offer coming.”

  “Forty percent.”

  “Seventy five.”

  “Fifty.”

  Charlene’s eyes bounced back and forth as Webster and I jousted with other peoples’ money. It could all be a colossal waste of time if the principals wouldn’t sign off on it. I’d already misjudged the widow Townes’ intentions once before, when she fought us about taking money from the benefit concert.

  I did what Moses had done on my behalf with the Audi dealer. I hoped the technique would work with numbers a hundred times higher.

  “Split the difference. She gets sixty two and a half per cent of songwriting royalties and Townes gets co-writing credits.”

  “That could be awkward.”

  Charlene said, “Happens all the time. A line someone picks up in a conversation with a friend gets used in a song. Depending on how much is at stake, it might just mean on the next pressing, the credits get altered a tad. Or they could go for the jugular and get half. In this case, Trig really didn’t add much if anything to the original.”

  “I’ll take it to Trig and advise him to accept. I trust you’ll consult the widow. This is all contingent on verification that the song you played for me was truly recorded forty years ago. And again, both sides will need to sign an NDA.”

  I said, “Sounds fair. We’ll have an attorney contact you to work out the language. We’ll want to see the notebook, too.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Trig copied the songs in his own hand and destroyed the notebook.”

  37

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been tricked by a crafty lawyer. I was feeling sympathetic --- it seemed Trig was a good kid who had been caught in a thorny dilemma and was uncertain about the right thing to do. Then he destroyed the evidence --- a clear indication he knew he did wrong and took steps to avoid getting caught. I should have tacked on another ten per cent.

  Charlene and I had dinner after Webster left. She would call her agent in the morning to try to get a bead on what the royalties would be. She guessed that it would dwarf anything they would raise at the concert.

  She said, “The show’s already sold out so we can’t cancel it. If Carla Townes don’t want the money, she’ll get plenty coming her way that her husband earned. What do we do with it?”

  “You know how it works. Once the lawyers get involved, it’ll be months before she sees any cash from The Flying Machine. We can give her some of the proceeds to tide her over. Once she gets her royalties, she can pay it back. McCarver’s Foundation can hold it in the interim until you and Jason figure out what charity to give it to.”

  “Sounds right, sugar. What do we do tonight to celebrate?”

  There was no mistaking what Charlene had in mind. I’d like to blame the three single malts I had at dinner and the two glasses of champagne in the motel afterwards. Even with two strikes against her, it was hard to lay off the next pitch she offered.

  But in the end, I summoned up enough strength to stop after a lengthy session of passionate kisses. We made out like high school kids. I slept alone that night with an aching in my heart and somewhere else.

  ~~~~~

  We went out for breakfast the next morning, all dewy eyed and sparkling from the night before. Charl spent a half hour on the phone with her manager to explain the details of what we’d agreed upon with Webster. Of course, he said he could have done better and that we gave away the store. She put him in his place. He would only get a fee for the boilerplate and not a percentage of the deal, which he would normally get for negotiating.

  I used the time to update Jason Black, who asked if it was too early to share the happy news with Carla Townes. I told him that since he had been the impetus for starting the ball rolling; he should be the one to tell her. I cautioned him to make sure she understood that this was preliminary and the terms could change. Also, that it could be as much as a year before she saw any proceeds.

  I called Ginn. He sounded less enthusiastic when he heard the glad tidings.

  I asked him why he didn’t sound thrilled, since he had been a big part of breaking the case. He said, “Tell you later but it ain’t got nothing to do with Townes. You know the job ain’t done, 5-0. Get thee to a nunnery.”

  “Good call, my Shakespeare quoting friend. You’re not always so literate.”

  “That’s Hamlet by the way, not Othello, even though I do identify with the Dusky Moor.”

  “Say hi to Alex. And tell Bosco I miss him. We’ll talk about your holiday blues when I get back, maybe tonight or tomorrow. After I visit Saint Agnes.”

  ~~~~~<
br />
  Charlene rode along with me to the convent rest home. After what I’d almost done last night, my Catholic upbringing made me queasy about talking to nuns. The last time I’d had contact with any women of the cloth was back in New Jersey, when I’d helped the principal of a Catholic High School locate a renegade English teacher.

  A little research informed us that the mansion and valuable tract of land hard by the Pamlico Sound had been bequeathed to the Sisters by a shipping magnate who died in the early nineteen hundreds. Its value to a developer today might approach eight figures, but the sturdy mansion that stood on the property had been designated a historical site and couldn’t be touched.

  The ornate summer home of this robber baron had the look of a resort hotel. There were twenty bedrooms, now used to house the patients. The sisters lived in a dormitory building that was once the servants’ quarters. The three story main building contained a massive dining room and several offices which had once been libraries, sitting rooms and living rooms that they had run out of names for.

  The headmaster, Sister Annunciata, was a prim lady of around sixty. She wore no formal habit, nor did any of the other women scurrying about who I assumed had taken vows. She reminded me of Elizabeth Warren, down to the rimless glasses and sensible haircut. Her manner was ‘just-so’ --- straight to the point, no wasted words.

  Upon introducing Charlene, I said, “I don’t know if you know country music, but Ms. Jones is a big name in that field.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with that genre. I listen to Albinoni. Handel. Respighi.”

  Charlene said, “The Pines of Rome. I love it.”

  The girl struck a chord with the nun. When we lived together, I don’t recall her ever listening to classical music, but her mention of that particular piece made the good sister smile.

  “I have a great recording of it with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. I’ve practically worn out the grooves with scratches I’ve played it so much.”

  I said, “We’ll have to find you another copy. I know a record shop that specializes in vinyl. But let me explain why we’re here.”

  I told her about Trig Dawson discovering the notebook but said nothing about the value of its contents. “Do you have any idea who it may have belonged to?”

  “You say it’s been here for forty years?”

  “I don’t know that. The notebook was that old, but it may have come here some time since then. I imagine you have a lot of people pass through.”

  “We have. 1980? I think the only person on our staff who’s been here close to that long is Winston. Our caretaker.”

  “Winston? Is he available? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “We can accommodate that. But before you speak to him, I must warn you. I wasn’t here when he first came to us. He’s a sweet, lovely man but he’s quite developmentally challenged. He’s been a caretaker here for many years. He’s verbally challenged as well, although he does communicate in simple sentences.”

  “So he maintains this huge building by himself?”

  “Oh no. He’s quite good at fixing small things. His duties have become somewhat more custodial as he’s aged. We have a maintenance contract with a company that takes care of the big items. Winston is almost more a patient now who keeps busy cleaning and painting. Light tasks.”

  “How is his memory?”

  “Not good. Comes and goes. He’s around seventy, as near as we can tell. You’re welcome to talk with him but I’m not sure he’ll be able to tell you anything.”

  Charlene asked “I understand that most of your residents have no family. When they pass, what happens to their possessions?”

  “They really don’t have much. We donate their clothing for what it’s worth. We have consignment shops in the area that will take certain items and we make a few dollars that way. We do have a storage room. We hold family pictures and such there for a short period after their passing, in case a distant relative sees an obituary and requests a remembrance.”

  I knew what Charlene was getting at. She said, “I was thinking that the notebook might have been kept in storage. Maybe Winston or someone noticed it had musical notations and passed it on to someone on the outside.”

  I said, “Does Winston have a last name?”

  “Mr. King, we don’t even know if Winston is his real name. The story I was told by my predecessor is that he was dropped off here by a long distance trucker who had picked him up hitchhiking. He had no identification. We asked the police to let us know about any missing persons in the area. There was no one fitting his description. He mumbled the name Winston Bogie when he was asked who he was. We could find no such name anywhere. We’ve tried in recent years with social networking and such. To no avail.”

  “We’d like to talk to him anyway. On the off chance he might know something.”

  “I’d like to stay in the room when you speak with him. He doesn’t always take well to strangers.”

  A few minutes later, a young woman ushered the old man into Sister Annunciata’s office. He had shoulder length curly hair streaked with gray. Despite the season, his face had strong color. Deep furrows ran down both cheeks. His eyes were dark and sunken. He moved as nimbly as a man of his years could be expected to. Physically, he seemed in decent health.

  When he raised his head and we saw him full on, Charlene and I gasped.

  Winston Bogie was Colton Townes.

  38

  Townes couldn’t stop staring at Charlene. “Pretty lady” he said, softly, as if to himself. “Are you coming to stay with us?”

  Charlene and I were too shocked to talk. All this time we had assumed that Colton Townes was in the belly of some beast. To see him alive was beyond any expectations we harbored.

  Sister Annunciata sensed our discomfort. “Yes, Winston, Ms. Jones is a beautiful woman. She’s just visiting us today.”

  Townes said, “I can show her around. She would like that.”

  The man had taken to her (as most men do) and she’s never been shy about using that to her advantage.

  “That sounds like a lovely idea. I’m sure Charlene would appreciate a tour with you both. If you have time, that is,” I said, gesturing toward the young nun who had accompanied Townes.

  The headmaster approved. “Please do that, Sister Victoria. I’ll entertain Mr. King. Try to be back in twenty minutes.”

  Charlene rose, took Townes’ hand and off they went.

  “Obviously, something is going on, Mr. King. Please explain.”

  I told her about Townes disappearance. How his songs had recently resurfaced on a bestselling album by Trig’s group. How Townes widow lived in squalor and never gave up faith that her husband was alive somewhere, against all odds.

  “Are you sure that Winston is Townes?” she asked.

  I showed her the picture on my phone that I’d gotten from Carla.

  “There is a strong resemblance. The years make it hard to be certain.”

  I said, “Add that to the songs and it makes a good case. The timeline matches up with what your predecessor told you. My guess would be that Townes suffered brain damage from the accident and hitchhiked, probably on I-95. A trucker picked him up and dropped him here when he realized there was something very wrong with the man. He must have known about your good works and figured this would be the best place to care for an indigent with no identification.”

  “Again, I wasn’t here at the time but I was told they tried but couldn’t establish his identity.”

  “No offense to the cops here, but it happened in the winter. I’d imagine their resources were limited. They didn’t have the national computer network we have today for missing persons. And the police in South Carolina weren’t trying too hard to find him. They considered him a troublemaker and ‘good riddance’ was how they treated it.”

  Even allowing for the advances in tracing missing persons over the last forty years, even a cursory effort in 1980 should have borne fruit. Another strike against Ji
m Bolton. The county should have sent out an all points photo that would have reached the Outer Banks.

  The nun said, “Winston’s been nothing but a model citizen with us. Stays mostly in his room after supper. Never creates a disturbance. And from the beginning, he pitched in with chores and repaired things. He became a fixture here. It’s tailed off in recent years, but there was a time when I wouldn’t know what we’d do without him. He once climbed up onto the roof during a storm to repair a leak that threatened to flood a number of rooms.”

  “Do you pay him for his work?”

  “Mr. King, we have no means to do that. We take care of him. We feed and clothe him. Provide medical care. We had a neurologist examine him and he said that Winston had suffered a massive trauma to the brain. It affected his speech and cognitive ability as well as his memory. He’s not capable of fending for himself in the outside world.”

  “I want to bring his wife here to see him. I think she’d qualify as his legal guardian. Any decision regarding his further care would be in her hands.”

  “I hope you’re not implying we haven’t done our best.”

  “Not at all. You’ve kept him safe and in good health. From what you say, there’s not much more anyone could do. Is he happy, do you think?”

  “He’s always smiling and chipper. Never a cross word. Does that qualify as happiness?”

  “Good question. I’d like to arrange for his wife to come here ASAP. She needs to know he’s alive and well.”

  “Is she the kind of woman who’ll accept his condition? Would seeing him in this state be the best thing for the both of them?”

  “We can’t make that call. I do know she’ll be overjoyed he’s alive.”

  ~~~~~

  I called Jason first. He was on his way to see Carla and had only told her that there had been a break in the case, without specifying what it was. He wanted to speak to her in person.