I was tired of her condescending manner. “The clarinet was more enjoyable than some instruments I can think of. Being a cheerleader, Lonnie, you’re probably an expert on the subject.”
She glared, then decided, “I guess I deserved that. How about we call a truce until we get things sorted out?”
I agreed, and moved closer to the desk. I was looking at an aerial photo of the citrus groves, the pasture, and Mr. Chatham’s cabin hideaway—Salt Creek Gun Club. A yellow highlighter divided the property into hundred-acre parcels.
“Harney wanted to give you the cabin, plus the river frontage and Reggie’s little shack. All the highway frontage is mine, except for this narrow little ingress-egress, which we’re somehow supposed to share.” She ran a finger along the access lane to illustrate, while I noted her careful phrasing. She’d said “wanted to give” instead of “Harney gave you.” Already, her mind was made up. She was not going to honor her late husband’s wishes.
I played along, and paid attention.
“My expert knows real estate,” she continued. “More important, he knows the citrus business. At first, he suggested we package our two hundred acres, get the zoning changed to commercial, and quietly offer it to some big-money developers he knows. Half the trees are dead anyway, so it made sense until he saw this.”
The leather-bound office ledger was placed in front of me. Two spiral notebooks were added. “This might be the real game changer,” she said. “When I told my guy—this expert—I’d almost thrown these books in the trash, he nearly had a fit. That was two weeks ago. He’s had time to do the research, to contact the right people and check everything out. Take a look. I had no idea of the potential value of what’s in there—but I’m fairly certain you do.” She tapped the notebooks for emphasis.
I opened the ledger instead. Inside, on the cover page, was a man’s bold handwriting in ink. I leafed through a few pages, seeing diagrams and notes, all related to citrus greening disease. “This belongs to Kermit Bigalow. His name and phone number, all his personal information, it’s right here plain to see.”
“So what?”
“I’ve got no right to be looking at the man’s personal papers. You don’t either, as far as I’m concerned.”
The woman stared with feline intensity. I got the impression she had been waiting for this moment. “Not according to my attorney. Kermit was contracted by Chatham Enterprises, L-L-C. Every scrap of work he did was proprietary. In other words, the company owns all his research and everything else he produced on our time. What’s the problem, dear?” Her smile lasted through a silence that forced me to make eye contact.
“I don’t care what your attorneys say. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair?” she chuckled. “At your age, if you believe life is fair, you’re in for a shock. The law doesn’t give a damn about fairness—or justice, for that matter. Are you sure it’s not something else?”
I closed the book and pushed it away. “This is between you, your lawyer, and Kermit. It’s none of my business.”
Her eyes moved to the ledger, then the notebooks. “Open one of those and you’ll change your mind. In his notes, you’re scattered all through there, including a diagram of your house and citrus grove. What tree is located where, even their approximate ages. He used your initials quite often. Come on, Hannah, do you still think this is none of your business? I know Kermit has the hots for you. That’s the real reason you’re upset, isn’t it?”
I looked away from the notebooks, worried about how much personal detail they contained. “I barely know the man,” I said. “We talked about citrus trees, mostly, but—”
“That’s not how I know,” she interrupted. “It’s the way he lit up when your name was mentioned. That Chatty Cathy kid of his couldn’t shut up about you and your boat. It was Captain Hannah this, Captain Hannah that, until I finally took him aside. Kermit claimed I was imagining things. But from the look on your face right now, I’d say . . .” The woman nodded as if she’d just confirmed something. “Why, you poor little fool. That was just one of many lies the bastard told Harney and me. God knows how many he told you. I hope you at least had some fun while it lasted.”
I got to my feet and collected my purse, saying, “His wife has no reason to be jealous. You don’t, either, if that’s your problem. This conversation’s over.”
Truth is, I felt numb and needed air.
“Jealous?” she said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “I don’t give a damn about a man like him. He was trying to steal your idea for a biotech patent. That’s why I kicked his ass off my property. Well, one of the reasons. Don’t you get it? You, your idea, all the research Kermit did—it all belongs to me now.”
Yes . . . she had been waiting to say those words. It was in the controlling way she motioned for me to sit down.
I remained standing. “Lonnie, what do you want? Just tell me, so I can be on my way.”
“Be sensible,” she said. “We have too much in common to be enemies. That’s all I’m asking. Kermit was in the process of filing a provisional patent. Do you know what that is? Of course you don’t. It’s a bunch of complicated forms neither one of us would understand.” She reached for another folder, then decided the evidence could wait. “He would’ve done it, too, if I hadn’t locked him out of his office. Be thankful for that, at least. If you don’t believe me, I can arrange a meeting with my attorney.”
“I’m still waiting to hear what it is you really want.” This I said calmly despite the tension I felt.
“If your patent idea works out,” she said, “we’ll split the profits, minus whatever expenses I pay out of pocket. In exchange, I want the property Harney left you; the cabin, and everything else that’s rightfully mine. And one other thing”—her eyes locked onto mine—“it’s not important to me, but my citrus expert is the obsessive type. He’s convinced you know the location of a very special orange tree. The mother tree, he called it. Is that true?”
This is what I’d been waiting to hear. “I knew it,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You hired a crazy man to follow me. He almost killed me the other day. Is that what you want?”
The woman started to get up, then decided it was wiser to stay where she was. “What in the world are you talking about? This is business, for god’s sake. Calm down and listen. I don’t give a damn about orange trees or some damn disease, but I do care about my financial security. When an expert I’m paying talks about millions in potential profit, I’m going to take his advice. You should, too.”
“Answer my question,” I said. “You hired Larry Luckheim to bully and intimidate—”
“Larry who?” The woman shook her head as if confused. “If you’re being followed, it’s because the word’s out, Hannah. People in the citrus industry talk. I guarantee, Kermit’s not the only one willing to steal your idea, or anything else, if there’s big money in it. How many people you think are combing this state right now, looking for some damn old tree? And not just your tree. Keep that in mind. There have to be others.”
I maintained eye contact. “Are there?”
Lonnie and her icy smile—I could picture her practicing in front of the mirror. “The two most dangerous animals on earth,” she said, “do you know what they are? I’ll tell you: stupid men and smart women. Hannah, the smart thing for us to do is to cooperate, join forces. You and your mother will never see one goddamn cent of Harney’s money if you don’t. Is that what you want?”
Her phone, which she had turned back on, rang. She looked, and said, “Oh shit, I’ve got to take this. Do you mind?”
She wanted privacy. Fine. The temptation was to put the ledger and the notebooks under my arm and march out the door. I could’ve done it. How would she stop me?
I didn’t, but she stopped me anyway by stepping in front of my SUV as I was leaving.
“Reggie’s dead,” she hollered, the phone
still to her ear.
My window was down. I heard her plainly enough but demanded that she repeat what I didn’t want to believe.
“One of our Mexican guys just found him,” she said. “Suicide. He hanged himself. I thought you’d want to know.” She covered the phone and demanded, “Hannah, come back inside. We have too much in common—”
That’s all I heard before I drove away.
EIGHTEEN
The gate to the Salt Creek Gun Club was open. I turned left on the dirt lane to Reggie’s house but stopped when I saw emergency vehicles in the distance. I’d hoped Lonnie had told an outrageous lie to manipulate me, but it was true. I didn’t want to see the chauffeur’s body, or answer more questions from the police, yet I couldn’t believe he had actually taken his own life.
I put my vehicle in park and stared at the flashing lights. It had been a little more than two hours since I’d spoken to Reggie on the phone. A man contemplating suicide might polish a cherished car as a farewell gesture, but he wouldn’t encourage visitors, and he certainly wouldn’t have said he preferred barbecue to homemade sandwiches for lunch. Unless . . .
In a sack on the floor was a slab of pork ribs and containers of coleslaw and baked beans. The smoky fragrance, otherwise pleasant, became a queasy reminder that there was another explanation. Reggie might have been in the process of taking his own life when I’d called. Perhaps, in his mind, by accepting my offer to bring lunch, he could die with the comforting assurance that a friend, a woman he trusted, would be the first to find his body.
It was a painful possibility to consider, worse to imagine happening. That poor, distraught, lonely little man . . .
I spun my car around but could not escape the despair that descended. It would have stuck with me had I not seen a familiar truck as I approached the gate. I slowed and watched the truck enter from the main road, then accelerate toward the log cabin and river. The driver remained oblivious to me, and the dirt lane that led to Reggie’s place.
It was a white Chevy Silverado.
My despair made a welcome transition into anger.
I sat and waited several minutes. If Kermit Bigalow was willing to trespass on a late Sunday afternoon, there had to be a reason. Rather than listen to more lies, I wanted to find out for myself what he was doing.
• • •
Beyond the horse stalls and the equipment shed, a path led to a dilapidated greenhouse walled with Plexiglas. Kermit’s white Silverado was parked among trees to the side of the building and out of sight.
I approached on foot. He wasn’t in the truck, so I went to the greenhouse door and peeked in. Kermit, wearing jeans and work gloves, was busy loading a wheelbarrow with planting pots, some containing fledgling trees, others just soil. When the door closed behind me, he jumped, as if shot, and spun around. Relief registered on his face. “Geezus . . . thank god, it’s you. What are you doing here?” He busied himself brushing dirt from his pants and gloves.
“I might ask you the same thing,” I said from the doorway.
“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m stealing plants I grew and giving them enough dirt to keep them alive. Someone needs to look after them.” He indicated the wheelbarrow. “Do I really have to explain?”
“It’s sort of funny,” I said. “Until this afternoon, I dreaded having to tell you. Now I feel just fine about it. Mr. Chatham left this property to my mother and me in his will. And Reggie. You’re the trespasser, Kermit, not me. When’s the last time you saw him?”
The man resumed selecting gallon-sized pots from a row. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor. He left you the citrus groves, too? That’s great news.”
“Half the grove. Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m happy for you—yeah, I really am. Anything’s better than Lonnie inheriting a place she doesn’t give a damn about. What are you going to do with it? I could see you living in the cabin; have a little boat on the river, maybe a dog or two. If I’d known, trusted Reggie enough, I would’ve stopped and asked to take these—plants I grew from seedlings. I’m glad you’re here. We have to talk.”
“Do we?”
He looked up for a moment. “Let me guess. You’re not mad about me trespassing. You’ve been talking to Lonnie. I warned you she’d make up some sort of lie about why she fired me. What did she say? I bet it was a good one.”
“What about Reggie?” I asked again.
“I haven’t seen him in . . . I don’t know . . . a couple of days, I guess. What’s he have to do with it?” The man’s expression transitioned to concerned. “Hey . . . what’s wrong? You’re really upset about something. What did that crazy woman say?”
“It was more of a show-and-tell conversation,” I replied. “When she brought out your notebooks, I accused her of being the thief. Has that ever happened to you, Kermit? Defended someone you wanted to trust, then it turns out they were making a fool of you?”
“So that’s it.” He stood and sighed in the tolerant way of a man who’d been wronged but was willing to talk things through. “What else did she say? You couldn’t have gone through my notes very carefully. If you had, you wouldn’t be mad, you’d be helping me. I’m doing this for both of us, Hannah.”
I decided it was safe to walk toward the wheelbarrow, a dozen or so fledging plants, and potting soil containers in neat rows. “You filed for a provisional patent on an idea that wasn’t mine to begin with. And it sure as heck wasn’t yours. You stole those seeds from my mother’s property. Where’s the tree you took? I should’ve asked that three weeks ago. Don’t deny it. Loretta saw it in the back of your truck. I was a fool not to believe her.”
Kermit, with his copper hair and cowboy tan lines, stood patiently, open to any accusation I wanted to make. “Get it off your chest,” he said. “When you’re done, I want to show you something.” After a glance at the door, he added, “Don’t take too long—unless this property’s already deeded over to you. She’d put me in jail.”
“Maybe that’s where you belong.”
“You don’t believe that. You really think I’d risk hurting Sarah? Or you?”
“Leave your family out of this. And stop talking as if there’s something between us, Kermit. There never was. It was just a stupid kiss, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “I remember that night a little differently.”
“Bullshit yourself,” I hollered.
We argued like that for a while. My accusations were delivered in anger. He responded calmly to each one. Only when he showed me the citrus tree he’d taken from our grove did I begin to soften. But I didn’t soften much.
“How do I know that’s really it?” I asked.
“Do you see any others around? I can’t force you to believe me, Hannah. I admit I took the damn thing. Isn’t that enough?”
The tree was a fledgling, barely knee-high, far too small to be grown from a seed my uncle had planted six years ago. Kermit claimed it was one of many seedlings on our property. This was true, but I refused to acknowledge it.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said. “You did give me permission to take oranges from your oldest trees. But you’re right, I did it in a sneaky way.”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “But not as sneaky as filing for a patent on an idea that doesn’t belong to you.”
“A provisional patent,” he said, “that I never actually filed. What Lonnie took from my office was only a rough draft, but even in that draft—”
“I don’t care, Kermit! I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. I won’t tolerate someone who treats me or my family in a two-faced, lying way.”
The man’s tolerant manner vanished. “Lying? Is that what you really think of me?”
“You could’ve told me about filing for a patent,” I said. “You didn’t even bother to ask. There’s no difference between an intentional omission and a lie, as
far as I’m concerned.”
He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground, but only long enough to control his temper. “How could I ask you? You told me not to contact you for at least a month. I called anyway, the same night. Remember? You didn’t answer. For weeks, do you have any idea how many times my phone rang and I hoped it was you calling back? Then, this morning, you hung up on me before I could say a damn word.”
Now it was me who stared at the ground. I evaded the hurt look on his face by saying our relationship was all wrong to begin with. Then added something suitably inane, which was, “Everything happens for a reason, I suppose.”
“Depends on what you’re willing to settle for,” he replied. “I think I’ve apologized enough for one day. Wait here.” He went past me, out the door, then reconsidered. “Come on, it’s hot in here and we both need to cool down. I’ve got something in my truck that might change your mind.”
What he wanted me to see was inside a weathered khaki bag. He handed me a sheath of papers. The cover sheet was headed with the logo of the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, blue with white lettering, Washington D.C.
“Keep it,” he said. “I have other copies. When you get home, take your time, go through it. I have no idea what Lonnie showed you, but you either didn’t read it or she gave you something she printed herself. She called this morning, screaming at me, then asked for your address, but I didn’t tell her. That woman’s either crazy or desperate, I’m not sure which.”
I opened the document, saying, “Kermit, just point me to the right page.”
He found a section titled “Declaration for Utility and Design.” There, at the bottom, on lines provided for the signatures of applicants, was my full name—Hannah Summerlin Smith. It had been typed above the name of a second applicant, Kermit L. Bigalow.
I stared and swallowed. News of Reggie’s death had pushed me near an emotional edge, yet I was reluctant to let go of my anger. All I could manage to say was, “Sometimes I’m too quick to judge. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.”
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