The Voxlightner Scandal

by Don Travis

  “Enlisted right out of high school and saw service in Iraq and Afghanistan. Decided that was enough. Time to start working on my education.” A smile played at the corners of his broad mouth. “The kind I could talk about.”

  Maybe a blunt question might shake him. “Where were you on the night Pierce Belhaven died?”

  “Wednesday’s a school day. Like I said I usually work on Thursdays. Thursdays and Mondays unless Mr. B. called me in for some special job.”

  “Happen often?” Roy asked.

  “Enough. This neighborhood was built in the fifties and sixties, so the houses take some TLC. Anyway on that Wednesday, I had two classes, went to my place and did homework, wrote a theme… at least got it started. I went malling for a while until beer o’clock, then met some guys at the Hogshead Tavern up on Montgomery.”

  “I’m not up on the local slang,” I said. “What time is beer o’clock?”

  “Got there about eight. We closed the place down at two.”

  “Witnesses, I assume,” Roy said.

  “Yeah,” Spencer answered. “Sometimes two, sometimes three. They came and went.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “Same table all night… except for pit stops. The Hog has the best craft beer in the state.”

  “What was your and Belhaven’s relationship,” I asked.

  He didn’t even blink. “Employee… employer. Friends. Sometimes even companions when he let his hair down and acted human instead of like a Voxlightner. They’re in a world of their own, you know.”

  Recognizing a ploy, I pressed on. “Define companions.”

  “Buddies. We’d hoist a glass or two. I’d sit and listen to him go maudlin when he overdid it. Put him to bed once in a while. Next day we were employee-employer again.”

  “So he left you two hundred fifty grand for putting him to bed a couple of times?”

  Spencer regarded me through milk-chocolate eyes. “Okay. Far be it for me to sully a dead man’s reputation, but he asked a little more from time to time.”

  “Define more.”

  He looked down his frame and spread his hands. “All of me sometimes.”

  “Just to be clear, are you saying you were his lover?” Roy asked, his voice rising.

  Spencer’s charming grin appeared again. “Don’t have an aneurism, man. No big deal. I already told you about it. But just on Thursdays and Mondays.”

  “For five years?” I asked.

  Spencer nodded. “Yeah. He picked me up in a bar—the Hogshead, as a matter of fact—and we fit so well together he wanted to meet again. We did, and it became a permanent thing. Why not? His wife was dead by then, his son wouldn’t talk to him, and his daughter lived in Grants with a husband Pierce couldn’t stand. The guy was entitled to some companionship, wasn’t he?”

  I could see Roy was bursting to introduce Sarah Thackerson into the conversation. I preferred he didn’t at this point, but he was in charge.

  “What about Ms. Thackerson?” he asked, his cheeks somewhat flushed.

  “What about her? Oh. I see what you mean. She was his beard, I think the term is.”

  “Are you saying she didn’t go to bed with him?”

  “Sure she did. But I was the one who meant something to Pierce. She was merely his thing on the side.” He frowned. “Of course, he left her $250,000 too, so….”

  We waited, but he didn’t pursue the matter further, although I could see from his eyes he was reevaluating the situation. After a brief grimace he smiled. “If he was playing around with Sarah, that’s all it was, playing around. Ours was the relationship that counted. Might sound strange to some ears, but Pierce loved me.”

  “And you? Did you love him?” I asked.

  “I was fond of him, and he knew it. I never tried to smoke him, and he appreciated that. Think he liked having a straight guy respond to him. Lots of gays do, I guess.” Spencer frowned. “Didn’t have any idea he was about to get the cosmic dope slap. Bummer.”

  Paul must have heard my mental caution because he kept his mouth shut, although I saw his lips twitch.

  “Anyway,” Spencer went on, “we had a good relationship. It satisfied both our needs.”

  Paul broke his silence. “His emotional and your financial, I gather.”

  Spencer smiled pleasantly at him. “Aren’t most unions based on economics? Husband works and feeds the kids, wife takes care of husband and family.”

  Paul’s look turned dark, so I stepped in to avoid a confrontation. “That might be the way it worked in the last century, but not so much anymore. It’s more of a partnership.”

  Spencer spread his hands. “That’s what I’m saying. Our partnership took care of everybody’s needs. The fact he loved me and I was fond of him was a plus, right?”

  Paul and I left Roy to collect Spencer’s alibi witnesses and returned to the office.

  “Something about that guy,” Paul said on the drive back. “He’s a hip-shooter.”

  “To the contrary. I have the feeling he told us exactly what he wanted and not one iota more.”

  “He didn’t seem guarded to me.”

  “More than you think. He’s pretty good at dropping pearls among his hipster talk.”

  Paul fell silent, and I was left to wonder at the fact we found Spencer’s casual attitude toward his lover so objectionable, while Pierce Belhaven probably understood and even relished it.

  I’d noticed glances Spencer threw Paul’s way. They weren’t motivated by avarice—not monetary avarice at any rate. Even so, I had no doubt Spencer bedded the ladies at every opportunity. As I parked in my spot in the lot on Fifth, I reached the conclusion Spencer Spears was a pansexual—someone who was gender blind. Someone capable of forming a romantic attachment to anyone who appealed to him regardless of gender or mannerisms or physical attributes. Was there anything wrong with that? Not that I could see… so long as neither party hid his motives, as seemed to be the case with Spencer Spears and John Pierce Belhaven.

  Chapter 4

  WHEN PAUL and I went to the office the next morning after an early therapy swim at the country club, a surprise awaited us. Hazel waved a phone slip in my face the moment I came through the outer door.

  “You have a call you need to return right away.”

  I accepted the pink slip with a name and number printed in Hazel’s careful handwriting. “Lucinda Caulkins…. Caulkins,” I mumbled.

  “She’s old Marshall Voxlightner’s daughter,” Hazel said. “Caulkins is her married name.”

  “Ah.” No wonder my office manager was so animated. She either anticipated a client to pay for the work we were already doing or someone demanding that we cease doing it. Either way an advantage for the firm’s bottom line from her perspective. “Okay. I’ll give her a ring.”

  Paul joined me as I placed the call and activated the speaker phone when someone answered the ring. I identified myself and was asked to hold.

  Within a minute a calm, well-modulated voice came on the line. “My name is Lucinda Caulkins, Mr. Vinson. Thank you for returning my call. I wonder if it would be convenient for you to drop by and speak with my mother? She has a matter she would like to discuss.” The hint of a slow drawl reminded me she had lived for the last several years with a real estate developer husband in Virginia.

  “Certainly. When would be convenient?”

  “Would two suit your schedule?”

  “See you at two.” At Paul’s frantic pantomime I hastily added, “Would it be permissible to bring an associate?”

  “Of course.”

  A UNIFORMED maid answered the door, but a slender woman with frosted brown hair stood behind her in the foyer. She stepped forward and offered a hand as the maid discreetly slipped away. Her simple but elegant outfit wasn’t off the rack.

  As we exchanged greetings, I identified Paul as my associate. Lucinda Caulkins greeted him as politely as she had me before leading the way to a large, comfortable room. I would have called it a living room, but i
n this setting, it was more properly a drawing room. The outside of this stone-and-brick edifice might truly resemble a medieval castle, yet the interior was modern, with big airy rooms… although the effect was spoiled somewhat by furniture that might easily have come out of the Victorian age.

  A small, thin woman I’d completely overlooked when we entered the room rose from the depths of a tufted wing chair with the aid of an ebony cane. Despite being emaciated she moved with alacrity. Her smile was welcoming, not formal.

  “Mother,” Lucinda said, moving to the older woman’s side, “may I present Mr. B. J. Vinson and his associate, Paul Barton. They’ve come at our invitation. My mother, Mrs. Dorothy Wellbourne Voxlightner.”

  “Of course. Welcome to Voxlightner Castle.” The frail hand she offered still had strength in it. I estimated she must be in her mideighties. Her voice reminded me of her daughter’s without the slight, acquired southern drawl. I’d heard stories about this woman all my life, and here she stood, without hubris, not a prima donna or misanthrope, but warm and charming.

  She startled us with a tinkling laugh. “I used to be so self-conscious over such a pretentious description of our home, but Marshall was adamant about it. Over the years it’s become easier.”

  “It is a castle, ma’am,” Paul put in, a smile dimpling his cheeks.

  “I like this one,” the older woman said, taking his hand to shake and pat at the same time. “You must call me Dorothy.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips.

  She drew him to a big camelback sofa and pulled him down beside her. “I didn’t know they made them like this any longer.” She addressed Paul. “Tea? Coffee? You don’t look old enough for highballs.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll pass.”

  After I also declined refreshment, Lucinda put things back on track. “Mr. Vinson, I understand you’re working with the police on Pierce’s murder, is that correct?”

  “Both Paul and I are consulting with Detective Roy Guerra, the officer in charge of the investigation.”

  “Then we have a proposition for you.” Lucinda glanced at her mother and received a small nod before proceeding. “As you may be aware, my brother, Barron, disappeared on Monday, March 15, 2004 and has not been seen or heard from since. We believe it is time to have him declared dead. We would like your help.”

  I wasn’t able to hide my astonishment. At a minimum my eyebrows must have reacted. “I am surprised you haven’t taken that step before now. New Mexico law requires only a waiting period of five years. Five years elapsed in 2009.”

  “My father wasn’t willing to live the scandal all over again. And any such petition was certain to raise it. Then, of course, that was the year my father died, and probating his estate occupied our attention. Since then we’ve honored his wishes.”

  “Likely out of inertia,” Mrs. Voxlightner put in.

  Distaste edged Lucinda’s voice when she spoke after a slight pause. “When Pierce told us he was going to recreate all the details with his new book, we objected. But he claimed he was going to expose the perpetrators and exonerate the family.”

  “Did he identify these perpetrators?”

  She shook her head. “No. He rudely refused to reveal anything. Said it was too dangerous. And given what happened to him, perhaps he was right.”

  “You believe someone involved in the scandal killed Pierce Belhaven?”

  Lucinda leveled a cool stare at me. “What other explanation could there be?”

  I turned to Mrs. Voxlightner. “Are there children other than Mrs. Caulkins and Barron?”

  She shook her head. “Barron was our only son.”

  “All right. I understand the situation now, but you don’t need my services. As I understand the Uniform Probate Code, you are not required to conduct a search for your son. If he has not been seen nor heard from this past five years, that is sufficient. Your attorney can file a petition for a declaration of death.”

  The tiny elegant woman sitting beside Paul on the sofa cleared her throat and claimed the room’s attention as she reached for a leather-clad folio on the coffee table. “I fear we’re not making ourselves clear. Because Pierce was so certain he could uncover the swindlers who looted the precious metals company, we want you to investigate his death and bring his murderer to justice. If in the process you determine exactly what happened to Barron, that would be a plus for us.”

  She opened the folio and held out a photo in her graceful fingers. “This is the way the world last saw my son. It’s the final image of him I have as well. This is not acceptable to me.”

  I took the FBI wanted poster of a wild-eyed image of Barron Voxlightner staring back at me. The legend read: Wanted for Murder and Grand Theft.

  “This is not the way I want to remember my son. Nor do I want others thinking that of him. Locate Barron if you can. If not please see if you can determine what happened to him. When you are finished, we will have my son declared dead… if it’s appropriate.”

  The room was still while I nibbled on my lower lip. “Mrs. Voxlightner, the police and a couple of insurance companies investigated that situation years ago. They had no luck, so it’s doubtful I can do better.”

  The lady smiled at me. “But don’t you see? Pierce swore he uncovered something he believed would lead him to the answer to the mystery. Since you’re investigating his death, you just need to find what that was. While he did not share his information with us, I do know it was something he came across while he was with the New Mexico Power and Light Company.”

  “You are aware his files were stolen and his computers destroyed, aren’t you?”

  “Come now, Mr. Vinson, we have faith in you. I’ve made some inquiries and am satisfied you can uncover something for us. If nothing else, make certain Barron has truly vanished without leaving a trace. Please provide us with whatever contract you require, and we will give you an appropriate retainer.”

  “On one condition, Mrs. Voxlightner.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?”

  “You’ll call me BJ instead of Mr. Vinson.”

  “Agreed. And I am Dorothy.”

  HAZEL WAS pleased as Punch with the news someone was going to foot the bill for what she knew I would do come what may. She insisted on delivering the contract and collecting the retainer personally. I think she was motivated by a desire to see the interior of Voxlightner Castle, a privilege not accorded to many. Meanwhile, I went through the formality of notifying Gene of my engagement on a case that might brush up against an official police investigation. Paul would do the same with Det. Roy Guerra. While we were already involved—more or less by invitation—the fact we had a paying client might at some point put our motives at odds. Unlikely, but possible.

  As agreed earlier, Roy delivered Pierce Belhaven’s appointment book. Books, actually, since APD collected several dating back as far as 2003, which would assure us of covering the scandal from beginning to end. Voxlightner Precious Metals Recovery had been incorporated on September 1 of that year, but Barron personally financed a series of fire assay tests in the months immediately prior. The venture ended on March 15, 2004 with the disappearance of Barron Voxlightner and Dr. Walther Stabler. The scam took less than a year to pry almost $50,000,000 out of investors.

  THE CHARLIE Weeks part of Vinson and Weeks, Confidential Investigations, was involved in another assignment, so Paul volunteered to help me go through Belhaven’s appointment books. We settled down at the table in the corner of my office, where we started with the newest and worked backward. APD found no diary, but Pierce had made comments in his appointment books, virtually rendering them into a journal.

  I quickly found the note that had insinuated itself into my memory. On Monday, January 10, of this year Belhaven circled a comment in red ink: Meter readings are key! That’s what he meant. Okay, what meter readings? And who is the “he” Belhaven reference? I alerted Paul to watch for any notation referencing meter readings.
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  When one does not know what one is looking for when reviewing nine years of another man’s hen scratchings, the process grows tedious and boring rather quickly. At times my eyes glazed over, causing me to go back and review a page or two all over again. A chink in Paul’s investigative armor appeared when he all too readily bailed on me when Roy Guerra called and invited us to accompany him on an interview with the AFD arson supervisor. I recognized Paul’d had his fill of donkey work for the day—his disco leg had jiggled for the last half hour—and agreed he should go with Roy while I kept at the drudge work. Despite the feeling I was searching for a raindrop in a drought, there was something here, and I was determined to find it.

  Pierce Belhaven wrote in a precise hand except when he was tired. The morning notations were clear, but as the day wore on, his writing became more difficult to read. He apparently possessed an acerbic mind. After some of his appointments, he categorized a certain individual or individuals with either gushing or caustic comments. He also changed his mind about some of his associates, as one time they would be a “fine fellow” and at others a “stodgy clod.”

  I found one entry referencing Paul and some issue at SouthWest Writers. I smiled at his characterization: A toothsome handful! If the old boy only knew.

  By the time Paul returned with Roy, I was down to the last couple of books without finding much of interest. The unread books covered the years 2003 and 2004, the period when the scandal occurred. Nonetheless I was wiped out and gratefully put aside the examination of the appointment-cum-diary books to hear the results of their interview with Lanny Johnson, the AFD lieutenant in charge of arson.

  “Didn’t learn much,” Roy said as he claimed a chair in front of my desk. “The fire was deliberately set using book matches tossed on Belhaven’s gasoline-soaked clothing.”

  “Matches? Plural?”

  “Yep. Ignited a whole book of them and tossed them on the body. Gasoline caught and toasted Belhaven but didn’t do much damage to the garage.”