It was a study in provenance and background.
“There are two more binders just like these,” Rosalee said, pointing to the shelf. “I never knew Ana Mae paid so much attention to these details. Shoot, I’ve made stuff and given it away and couldn’t tell you who I made it for or gave it to if you paid me.”
“Ooh, look at that one,” JoJo exclaimed, pointing to a photo in the binder Rosalee held. “That is gorgeous!”
The blue, gold, and cream king-size quilt had a cross in the middle of it.
Rosalee looked over. “Oh, she made that for Pastor and Sister Leonard’s anniversary. They don’t use it on their bed, though. They said it was too pretty for that, so they have it hanging up on the wall, like a picture.”
“A tapestry,” Clayton said.
None of the women paid him any mind.
“Here’s my favorite one,” Rosalee said. “She made this for my niece when she graduated from the Duke University law school. She’s a lawyer up in D.C. now, working for the government in the Justice Department. That’s my sister’s girl, and we’re all really proud of her. Ana Mae put a lot of love into that quilt.”
JoJo fingered the image of a quilt made with blues and yellows. The color combination reminded her of a picture she’d seen of a French countryside. She’d decorated her own kitchen in the color palette. It amazed her what Ana Mae could create with just the stuff in this room.
Fabric and thread. A sewing machine. And a lot of love.
“I think she put love into all of her quilts,” JoJo said.
It did not take a genius to see that the Futrells were causing a stir in Drapersville. But the spectacle that had been Ana Mae’s funeral paled when compared to the law being called out to her house for crowd control the previous day. And unfortunately for Everett Rollings and Sheriff Dan Daughtry, the weekly Drapersville Times & Review had gotten wind of the call and made it the lead story on the front page. The story was written by Eric Peters, the owner and editor of the paper.
Reluctantly, Everett Rollings admitted to himself that he would have done the same thing if he’d been the editor of the newspaper and something like that had happened right on deadline for the next edition. Nothing that interesting had happened in Drapersville in quite some time.
That did not, however, mean Rollings had to like it. And now he hoped to get in a bit of damage control, even though the damage had clearly already been carried out in the name of the First Amendment and that most sacred of Southern commandments, interpreted as a constitutional entitlement—the people’s right to know their neighbors’ business.
“Dammit, Everett. Why didn’t you give me a heads-up about this?”
“Because there was nothing to give you a heads-up about.”
Rollings tossed the newspaper on Sheriff Daughtry’s desk. This was the sort of conversation that needed to take place in person, so he’d driven to the county government building before a consultation with a newly bereaved family.
“That photograph makes it look like two hundred people were gathered there. That is just not true. And despite that headline,” he said pointing to HIDDEN RICHES? in big, bold type, there is not any money buried in Ana Mae Futrell’s yard.”
The sheriff eyed the photo. “How do you know for sure? Deputy Howard said it was like a mob over there.”
Rollings threw up his hands. “Oh, for God’s sake, Danny. You are sounding like that idiot brother-in-law of hers. You knew her, and she was not a foolish woman. All of Ana Mae Futrell’s money is right where it should be, in banks and investments earning compound interest for her estate.”
“Hmm. She really was rich?”
Rollings nodded. “But the only tangible assets of financial value are the savings bonds she purchased for her two nieces and her nephew. And those are going out to each of them from my office via certified mail first thing in the morning.”
That comment drew the sheriff’s attention away from the newspaper and to the lawyer and undertaker.
“Certified mail? Why? That’s pretty expensive for a couple of savings bonds.”
If Rollings’s skin wasn’t so dark, the man would have blushed. As it was, he cleared his throat a couple of times. “Well, sheriff. To say it is a couple of savings bonds is rather disingenuous.”
The sheriff frowned at the complicated word, but refrained from saying anything.
“In truth,” the funeral director-cum-lawyer said, “she had been saving up and buying bonds for the kids for years, ever since they were infants. I told her there were better ways to invest for them, better returns that she could get on her money. But she liked what she called ‘good, old-fashioned United States of America brand savings bonds.’ She bought them like clockwork—years ago in small denominations, but later in one-hundred- and two-hundred-dollar-face-value certificates. The Treasury Department doesn’t even issue paper bond certificates anymore.”
Sheriff Daughtry leaned back in his chair but carefully eyed Everett. “How many years’ worth of savings bonds?”
“The oldest niece is twenty-one or twenty-two years old now, and the other two are teenagers, fifteen and seventeen or sixteen and eighteen.”
Daughtry whistled. “That’s a sweet gift from Aunt Ana Mae.”
Rollings leaned forward as if he was about to share a confidence, which was true. “And the best part,” he said, his voice a bit lower even though they remained the only two people in the office, “is the parents have no idea. The oldest one is JoJo’s, the other two, the teenagers, belong to Marguerite.”
“Who is Marguerite?”
Rollings just managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “Delcine Futrell.”
“Oh,” Daughtry said. “I didn’t know her well.” He shook his head. “But from what Deputy Howard told me and what was in his report, and in Eric’s,” he said jerking his head toward the newspaper, “the relatives don’t exactly get along.”
“No. They don’t,” Rollings said. “And that just broke Ana Mae’s heart.”
The two men fell silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts about life, death, and family. Then Sheriff Daughtry pushed aside the copy of the Drapersville Times & Review.
“Well, no matter what they like or don’t like about each other, we have to do something about this,” he said.
“We? I came to you for help. You are the law enforcement.”
Daughtry frowned as if to say, “Don’t remind me.” But he instead replied, “And just how did this hair-brained idea get hatched?”
Rollings sighed.
Thanks to the junk man, Eddie Spencer, who was probably aided by Rosalee Jenkins, the details of the legacy quilt were in the newspaper story. He did not think he would break any client confidentiality by telling the sheriff about the quilt blocks.
Daughtry listened to the story and then shook his head. “You’re right, that Lester is an idiot, and I don’t appreciate you calling me one too, in case you think I was letting that slide.”
“Sorry about that,” Rollings said. “This has just all been so . . .”
“Idiotic?”
Everett grinned. “Something like that.”
“Well, tell you what. I’ll get a man to sit there overnight so no treasure hunters—relatives, neighbors, or otherwise—go digging up the yard again.”
“With all due respect, I do not believe that one night of increased patrol is going to solve anything.”
“Yeah, I know,” Daughtry said. “That’s why I’ll keep a man out there for a bit. Until things die down and the relatives go home. Maybe until I can convince Eric Peters to write an article that clearly says there is no money to be found buried in Miss Futrell’s yard or anybody else’s.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Don’t thank me,” Daughtry said, picking up the newspaper, then tossing it into the trash bin next to his desk. “I’m gonna be billing you and Eric Peters for the overtime.”
Later that evening at the bed-and-breakfast, Clayton pulled out several of t
he Zorin Corporation envelopes he’d taken from Ana Mae’s house. Particularly interested in the annual report that had his sister’s photo on the cover with the CEO, he wanted to know more about the company and Ana Mae’s involvement in it.
When Archer came in an hour later, packages in both hands, Clayton looked up. “Hey there.”
“Hi, Clay. I found the best gallery ever. Who would have known that your little hamlet could produce this?”
From one of the shopping bags he whipped out a piece of abstract sculpture. “It’s by a sculptor named Pablo Diego Muñoz. Wonderful stuff. I got a small piece for the beach house, too,” he added, unwrapping a second piece of art.
“I also got the artist’s information and Web site. We should commission a piece,” Archer said.
He then pulled out a long beige cashmere scarf and draped it around Clayton’s neck. “It’s a little warm now, but this, my dear, will be perfect for those cool San Francisco nights.”
Clayton smiled his thanks and caressed the sumptuous fabric. “It’s lovely.”
Archer kissed Clayton, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “What has you so pensive?”
“I’ve been going through some of this Zorin Corporation stuff from Ana Mae’s house.”
“So what kind of company is it?”
“Cleaning products,” Clayton said. “Apparently they supply a lot of businesses all across North America. And, according to this annual report,” he said, picking up the glossy publication that had Ana Mae’s picture on the front, “they’ll be branching out into the consumer market this year.”
Archer studied the cover of the booklet. “Is that Ana Mae and that crying man from her funeral?”
“Yep. And guess what other name I found in there?”
“Who?”
“That Fisher boy. Jeremy, the inventor.”
Archer was quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yep,” Clayton said. “I think Jeremy Fisher neglected to tell us something about Ana Mae’s investment in his company.”
Rather than all of them calling David Bell at different times, Clayton and Archer decided to tell the girls about the discovery. Delcine would join them after checking out of her hotel. But on the drive from the bed-and-breakfast to Ana Mae’s house, Archer bowed out of the meeting.
“This, as I said before, is something between you and your sisters,” he said. “I’ll drop you off and then head back to the suite to get some work done.”
“Work?”
Archer glanced at him. “Yeah, that lawyerly stuff I’ve been neglecting for shopping, reading . . . and you.”
Even though he did not want to voice the suggestion for fear Archer might actually take him up on it, Clayton bit back his reservations and made the offer that he knew needed to be made.
“You can head home if you’d like,” he said. “Winslow left to head back to D.C. There’s no reason you need to hang around Drapersville.”
“Oh, really?”
Clayton didn’t know quite what to make of the tone of Archer’s question. Was it sardonic? Or was it just a question that Clayton managed to read far more into than actually existed?
“Clay, I’m here in North Carolina because you’re here. You just lost your sister. I’m not going anywhere until you do.”
The joy that filled Clayton could only be described as rainbows and fairy tales, the stuff of good dreams and happily ever afters with the one you loved.
“Thank you.”
The simple expression of gratitude seemed all he could manage at the moment.
Archer took Clayton’s left hand in his and pressed a kiss to it. “Besides,” he added, “there is no way I would leave you alone and defenseless against that idiot brother-in-law of yours.”
Clayton chuckled. “Lester is as much your brother-in-law as mine.”
“Don’t give him to me. I’d rather adopt dull and dour Winslow.”
“You know,” Clayton said, as Archer turned onto Ana Mae’s street, “there is definitely something going on with them.”
“With JoJo and Lester?”
“Well, yeah, them too,” Clayton said. “But I was referring to Marguerite and Winslow. I think they’re having money trouble. I overheard Winslow on the phone at the funeral home.”
“You and her husband are the only two people who call her that, you know?”
Clayton shrugged as he undid his seat belt. “Who am I to deny someone the right to call themselves whatever they want?”
“Touché,” Archer said, as Clayton opened his door. “Call me.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Archer tooted the horn as he pulled away. Clayton walked up the driveway to the house with a big smile on his face. Whatever had been bothering Archer these last few months seemed to have resolved itself.
North Carolina had been on Clayton’s most loathsome list for so long that he found it on this side of surreal that this place where he’d been shunned was the same place that was restoring energy into his relationship.
He glanced to the sky, mostly clear and blue with a few fluffy clouds languidly drifting by.
“Thanks, Ana Mae.”
“Hey, guys,” Clayton said, greeting his sisters and Lester when he came through the side door and into the kitchen at Ana Mae’s house.
“Hi, Clay,” JoJo said. “The water is on for tea, and I just made a pot of coffee.”
The women sat at the table, Delcine with her hands around a coffee mug and JoJo with coffee and a generous slice of pound cake.
“Thanks,” he said. He sent a chin-up nod toward Lester, who stood near the refrigerator. Lester nodded back. There were never many words between the two men.
Clayton wasn’t happy to see Lester there with Delcine and JoJo. He thought it would just be the siblings going over things. A glance at Delcine, who was scowling in Lester’s direction, confirmed for Clayton that she had been under the same impression.
Lester seemed incapable of detecting nuances, particularly the kind directed toward him. Winslow had left for home. Why couldn’t Lester take the next flight back to Vegas?
But Clayton knew the answer to that. It was because millions of dollars were at stake and Lester intended to claim what he considered was “his share.” Resigned to the fact that his obnoxious brother-in-law would be with them, Clayton took a seat at the kitchen table after making a cup of tea.
“So, what exactly is this Zorin Corporation?” JoJo asked.
Clayton explained what he’d read in the company’s annual reports. He pulled out his mobile phone and typed in a few things. A moment later, the company’s Internet site popped up.
“Listen to this,” he said. “The Zorin Corporation, based in Columbus, Ohio, in the United States, is the leading manufacturer and distributor of innovative solutions for businesses and industries.”
Lester, leaning against the refrigerator, tapped a cigarette from his ever-present pack. “What does all that bullshit mean?”
“Don’t smoke in the house, Lester,” JoJo said.
“Do not smoke in this house,” Delcine said at the exact same time.
Lester scowled at the two women, then tucked the cigarette behind his ear.
Clayton turned and held the phone out so Lester could see the image displayed on the screen in high definition.
“Cleaning supplies,” he said. “The company makes and sells cleaning supplies.”
“So?”
Clayton was about to answer when JoJo stood up.
“Hon,” she said, walking over to her husband. She placed a hand on his paunchy stomach. “I think we’re low on beer. Can you make a run over to the Walmart to get some?”
The fate of running out of that essential had Lester erect and looking alarmed. He yanked open the fridge door.
“Shit,” he said. “You’re right.”
Moving as fast as any of them had seen him go since the day Everett Rolling
s said Ana Mae had left three point eight million dollars, Lester was making tracks to the door.
“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll pick up some more smokes, too. I cannot believe how cheap cigarettes are here. Hmm,” they heard him say as he pushed out the side door. A few moments later, they heard Ana Mae’s car start up.
“Oh, Lord,” JoJo said.
“What?”
“Now he’s gonna be thinking about how he can make a buck running cigarettes,” JoJo said.
“Well, at least he’s gone so we can talk,” Delcine said. “And that is truly a thriving business up where we live. People run guns and cigarettes from Virginia, where they’re both cheap and easily accessed, and haul them straight up Interstate 95 to New York.”
“Yeah,” JoJo said, “I saw something about that on 60 Minutes or one of those news shows. They were talking about how shootings in New York City were done with guns bought in Virginia. I wondered how that happened.”
“Girls,” Clayton said in an attempt to rein them in and get them back on track before JoJo could launch into another of her as-seen-on-TV moments.
“Oh, yes,” Delcine said. “We were talking about cleaning supplies. And, by the way, smooth move, Jo, getting Lester out of the house.”
JoJo beamed at the praise.
“Ana Mae cleaned houses,” she said.
“And that Fisher boy . . . ,” Delcine added.
“Jeremy,” Clayton supplied.
“. . . that Fisher boy invented things that made cleaning easier.”
“Exactly,” Clayton said. “So I’m thinking . . .”
“Oh, my goodness,” Delcine exclaimed. “I think you’re right.”
Hidden Riches Page 18