Seeds of Trust

by Cynthia Reese

  Mee-Maw poked, that was the only way to describe it. She’d pick things up, turn them over in her hands, make a comment about the products under inspection, then gently replace them on the shelves—label facing out, top dusted off.

  She even troubled herself to straighten out a couple of little messes the stock boys had left.

  It drove Becca insane. Ordinarily it wouldn’t. Ordinarily she would have been charmed by Mee-Maw’s shopping style.

  Ordinarily Becca’s dad wasn’t packing up this very minute to come and take over the investigation.

  Becca was resigned to the fact that her dad would, indeed, come south. But she didn’t have to be happy about it—and she wasn’t. She wanted to present him with good solid leads, a way of saying “See? I didn’t need you after all. You could have stayed in Atlanta.”

  Mee-Maw managed to choose a suitable chicken to buy after she’d fussed over the conditions of the fryers in the meat case—much to the dismay of the market manager, who seemed to know her well. She sent a stock boy to get her an undented can of Crisco. She hefted a bag of flour into her cart. A few items later, she stopped at the dairy section, dropped a carton of whipping cream into her cart, inspected the eggs with a sniff of disdain.

  Becca ground her teeth some more as she waited for Mee-Maw to dicker with the frozen-foods manager to see whether he would like some farm-fresh eggs—he would—and what price he’d be willing to pay for them—not enough, in Mee-Maw’s opinion.

  At the checkout, she waited still longer for Mee-Maw to carefully glance at her register tape to make sure the total had been tallied correctly. Becca refrained from tapping her foot while the store manager came and cleared up a small discrepancy in the bill.

  Outside, after the bag boy had carefully stowed the groceries in the car and admired the import, Mee-Maw settled herself back in the passenger seat.

  “Well, now. That didn’t take too long, did it?”

  Becca decided her aunt’s advice—not to say anything if you couldn’t say something nice—was appropriate for the situation.

  Mee-Maw didn’t seem to notice Becca’s continued attack of muteness. “I expect,” the old lady said, “you want to talk to Charlotte. She ought to be just getting off—I think I timed it just right. That Nell Evans—she owns the diner—don’t like people chatting up the help on the clock.”

  Becca twisted in the seat, her hand on the gearshift. She gaped at Mee-Maw. She’d poked in the grocery store so that Becca could have time to talk with Charlotte?

  Mee-Maw’s face split into a wide grin. “Had you goin’, didn’t I? I called Charlotte right before we left. She said to meet her at the diner after she got off this morning.”

  She closed her eyes, still smiling. “Being that you didn’t blow up on me during all that shopping, I can tell you’d be right-good granddaughter-in-law material if that’s what you were after. But no matter…time will tell on that subject. Still, if you can learn how to make my cream biscuits and a proper fried chicken for that stubborn ol’ grandson of mine, I expect you’ll get whatever help you need out of Ryan. Now, hurry up. Charlotte’s not going to hang around forever, and I don’t want my milk to sour.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHARLOTTE HOOKS MET THEM in the diner’s parking lot. She wore her white poplin uniform and a worried expression on her face.

  She didn’t wait for Becca to even close the car door before she asked, “Is J.T. in trouble? Is he okay?”

  Becca and Mee-Maw had pulled up to the rear of the diner, where the help used the back door for access. A battered old picnic table and a smoker’s urn beside it had been left as a designated smoking area.

  Mee-Maw got out of the car stiffly and made her way to the table’s bench.

  Terrific, Becca thought, I’ve got an eighty-four-year-old sidekick who might just have an interest in making sure I don’t find J.T.

  Charlotte still peppered Becca with more questions. Obviously she’d misunderstood Mee-Maw on the phone and thought they knew J.T.’s whereabouts.

  “Whoa. Wait.” Becca held up a hand to halt Charlotte’s onslaught of questions. “I haven’t found J.T.—not yet—but I’m looking for him. I was hoping that you could help me with that.”

  “Finally!” Charlotte plopped down beside Mee-Maw. “I’ve been worried sick about him and nobody seemed to be concerned. He wouldn’t have run off without telling me where he was going—or at least, that he was going.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He…he left me a note. That’s all. Said that he had to go off for a while and that he’d try to get back. Said it might be some time before he could call. Not to worry. Not to worry! How could I do anything but worry?”

  “So he came by your house? Or here? When? The day after Mr. Mac’s funeral?”

  “No. He must have left sometime during the night, after they buried Mr. Mac. He left the note with Mee-Maw.”

  Mee-Maw nodded. “Yes, indeedy. Had Charlotte’s name on it, so I called her after I found it and gave it to her.”

  “And no warning? No hints about it beforehand?”

  Charlotte chewed on a hangnail on her thumb. “Well, he’d been plenty preoccupied about something for a while before Mr. Mac passed. J.T. wasn’t much to share his troubles. Some guys, you know, they’re like that.”

  Boy, do I ever. J.T. and Ryan must be cut from the same cloth.

  “You don’t know what he’d been worried about?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I thought maybe Mr. Mac had gotten sick or something. But all I know is that J.T. finally got so worked up, he had to drive out to Texas and he was gone a week. He said that would take care of it, but it didn’t. He just got more and more worried.”

  “Family, I suspect,” Mee-Maw butted in again. “J.T. had family near Odessa. Good place, Odessa. My cousin’s people moved out there. Made a little money. ’Course, Maisey never saw ’em much, but that’s one reason Mac hired J.T.—he could check him out with a couple of calls. Maisey’s folks out there knew J.T.’s people.”

  Becca drew a different conclusion. A week would barely give him time to get to Texas, then turn around and drive back. He went to pick up something.

  Three guesses what that was.

  “Did he bring anything back with him? Any plants? Any seedlings? Any dirt, maybe?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Can’t help you there. He came in late one night, and I didn’t see him until the next day. Mee-Maw might be able to tell you.”

  Mee-Maw got a mild look of surprise on her face. “I certainly didn’t inspect J.T.’s belongings. If he brought anything like that back from Texas, he didn’t tell me. Oh, wait…he did bring me something.” She beamed. “He brought me some cornmeal that had been ground at a little mill near where he grew up. Fine cornmeal in an old-fashioned cloth bag. Made some good muffins from that meal. J.T. ate all but one.”

  “Do you still have the bag?” Becca asked her.

  “Lord, no. It’s been many a year since I had to save cornmeal and flour sacks. Don’t rightly recall what the name of the meal was, either. The ol’ brain’s not what she used to be.”

  Becca turned back to Charlotte. She quizzed her on what sort of truck J.T. drove, what her memories of him were, asked for a picture of him.

  Charlotte rooted around in her purse until she found her wallet. She flipped it open and pulled out a tiny strip of photos.

  “J.T. took me up to Macon one Saturday.” The waitress let a finger slide over the images. “Took me to the Olive Garden, let me wander all around that mall up there. There was a picture booth.” She looked up at Becca. Her eyes were full of tears. “Can I get this back? It’s the only picture I have of him… Of us.”

  “Sure. I’ll get duplicates made somewhere and get it back to you.”
Becca held out her hand for the pictures, excited to get her first glimpse of the mysterious J.T.

  But Charlotte held on to the photos. She stared at the images until one tear slid down her cheek. “He was the best thing that ever happened to me. We had plans, you know. He was gonna save up some money, maybe see about buying a little piece of Mr. Mac’s land for our own farm one day. He was happy. He said I made him happy. He said after you’d been in prison, you didn’t take happiness for granted anymore. That’s—that’s why I know he didn’t just take off.”

  “I’ll find him, Charlotte. If he’s in trouble, I’ll do what I can to help him, okay? That picture will be a big help.”

  Charlotte nodded. She sighed, caressed the photo one last time and handed it over to Becca.

  The man in the photos smiled broadly in one image. In the next one, he was glancing down with clear affection at Charlotte—who was grinning into the lens. The last photo showed them cheek to cheek, looking very much in love.

  Either he was a good actor, or this guy hadn’t planned on leaving the happiness he’d found. Charlotte’s and Mee-Maw’s description of him had shattered any preconceptions Becca might have held—or that her father certainly held—that J.T. had been a no-good con who skulked around waiting for a chance at mischief. Becca kicked herself for her earlier cynicism. The first time she’d heard Charlotte say the phrase, served time, Becca had stereotyped J.T.

  A truck drove past on the highway that ran alongside the diner. The driver braked abruptly and cut the wheel sharply to make a late turn into the parking lot. Gravel sprayed up, bouncing off the door of the truck—a door that read, Murphy Farms—Not For Hire.

  The truck came to a sudden, shuddering stop and the driver’s door flung open. Murphy’s boots—still crisp and new with no trace of mud on them—hit the gravel. He came toward them.

  “Miss Reynolds. I thought that was you. I’m surprised you’re still around after what I heard happened to you at the motel.”

  Becca’s stomach lurched. She managed to compose her face so that hopefully it wouldn’t reveal exactly what she thought of the scum before her. “It takes a lot to scare me off an investigation, Mr. Murphy.”

  “I do like a woman who’s dedicated to her work.” The words and his tone seemed to contradict each other. “But I fear you’re just wasting everybody’s time. And by the way, I don’t want you on my property talking to my tenants again, not without my permission. I’m particular about what happens on my land, Miss Reynolds. I don’t appreciate you sneaking around.”

  “I had permission from the…tenants, sir. I’m not required to get a landlord’s permission.”

  “You are if you want to use a private access road—or cross a field of mine. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay well clear.”

  “With threats like that, you’re not helping your case, Mr. Murphy.”

  “I don’t care what I’m doing. There is no case. I want my money. Now. I want you to get on the phone with Ag-Sure and tell them to start cutting my check or I’ll sue. I’ll sue Ag-Sure and I’ll sue you…you know how that feels, don’t you, Miss Reynolds? You know how that goes, huh?”

  Her stomach rolled and pitched again. “Do what you must. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Come here, Miss Reynolds.” He beckoned with one fat, stubby finger. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  She exchanged looks with the other two women, then crossed the gravel halfway to the still-rumbling truck.

  Murphy reached in for a file folder on the passenger seat, then met her where she’d stopped. “Flip that open. Go on. Look at it.”

  She did as she was told. Inside, there was a past-due tax notice from several years previous on the property of one Hiram G. MacIntosh.

  The amount due, with penalty and interest accrued: just over eleven thousand dollars.

  “Mac MacIntosh didn’t always pay his bills as you can see. That’s the house—the one you’re staying in, if I’m not wrong. Mrs. MacIntosh doesn’t know about Mac letting this one slide. He worked it out on the sly with the county tax commissioner when ol’ Mac couldn’t pay both his fertilizer bill and his taxes. Right now the county’s been looking the other way about this bill on account of Mrs. MacIntosh and her age, and the fact that Mac just passed not too long ago. That’s the reason I wanted to have a word with you in private,” Murphy said. He inclined his head toward the women, who sat out of earshot with concerned expressions marring their faces. “No need to worry Mrs. MacIntosh. Yet.”

  Becca hated the way the papers shook in her hands. She tried to protest that her own financial research on the farm had turned up nothing like this, but Murphy lobbed another guided missile her way.

  “You’d better take a gander at the rest of what’s in there, Miss Reynolds.”

  She did. The next thick stack was the transcript from the libel lawsuit. She felt ill at the memory of the humiliating cross-examination she’d endured at the hands of the plaintiff’s attorney. Who knew why that jury had returned a verdict in her favor.

  “You libeled a man, didn’t you?” Murphy asked. “Got a story all wrong. You and your dad have kept this quiet, haven’t you? Ag-Sure doesn’t know about this. I’ll just bet Ag-Sure’s gonna believe your word over mine. Go home, Miss Reynolds. Pack up your bags and get out of this county. Or else you and your daddy are gonna lose your biggest customer…and Mee-Maw over there is gonna be crying when her farm is sold off on the courthouse steps.”

  * * *

  IN THE CAR, Becca refused to tell Mee-Maw what Murphy had shown her. She needed to talk to Ryan first, see if he knew anything about the tax debt. Surely he would have some clue.

  In her financial research, Becca had turned up the old tax lien, but it had been canceled. She’d been sure of that. If Mee-Maw hadn’t been with her, she would have been on the phone with her dad, getting him to double-check the financials.

  The whole episode with Murphy had left her as nauseous as she’d been right after the man had assaulted her in her motel room—Murphy had that same smug arrogance that he could have his way.

  Charlotte had scuttled to her beat-up little compact the moment Murphy had slammed the truck door shut. “I need this job,” she’d said. “And Murphy and the owner are in real, real tight, if you know what I mean. One word to her and I’m history. If you…if you find J.T., tell him that I love him—and that I still believe in him, okay?”

  Becca helped Mee-Maw unload the groceries. Her brain was frantic in its attempt to work out how Murphy had managed to resurrect an old tax bill for leverage—never mind how he’d dug up her old skeletons. True, the trial was public record, but the transcript was available on file only at the Fulton County clerk’s office. Murphy had gone to a lot of trouble.

  She shoved milk and butter and cream, along with the chicken Mee-Maw had fussed over so, in the fridge.

  “Mee-Maw, I need to make some phone calls, okay?”

  Mee-Maw nodded, uncharacteristically quiet. Her own face seemed shadowed. “I was planning on showing you how to fry that chicken—unless you already know how.”

  “I’d like that, Mee-Maw, but later, okay? Maybe for supper?”

  “Sure, child. I think—I think I’ll just go lie down for a bit.”

  Out on the porch, Becca dialed her dad’s cell-phone number. She spilled the story about Murphy to him.

  “Already I hate this man,” he told her. “I’m going to take him down if it’s the last thing I do. He wants to play hardball? Well, he’d best bring his lunch.”

  “Dad, you’ve got to do some research on that tax bill—”

  “It’s not there. I know. I just went back over the financials—I, uh, was afraid you might have missed something.”

  “What?”

  “Well…you seem pretty soft on this MacI
ntosh fella. I didn’t… I just did a thorough checking over, okay?”

  Becca was too overjoyed that Murphy had been bluffing to be angry. After all, what her father had done had been no more than what she had called to ask him to do. The fact that he hadn’t completely trusted her stung a little—she could admit that. But knowing Murphy had been lying more than took away that sting.

  “Good. I was afraid I was turning an old woman out of her house.”

  “Any more information on this J.T. fella?”

  Becca relayed all that Charlotte and Mee-Maw had told her. “I’ve still got to get J.T.’s social-security number out of Mee-Maw.”

  “No matter, I can chase him down with this, though the social would be good. Get it to me later today, okay? I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. You’re still staying on the MacIntosh farm?”

  “Yes, sir…I, uh, think they wouldn’t mind you—”

  “I got us rooms at the Holiday Inn in Dublin. It’s not far, and we’ve got a good Internet connection there.”

  Regret at this being her last night with Ryan surged through Becca. She couldn’t stay without arousing her dad’s suspicions that she was more than just a little “soft on this MacIntosh fella.” Maybe Mee-Maw’s irresistible hospitality would swamp her dad and pull him in.

  No. Not likely. Unlike Becca, her dad was all business.

  She rang off the conversation with her dad in time to see Ryan stalking across the fields.

  He came to a stop a few yards from her. “I just got off the phone with Murphy. He called me. On my cell phone.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s holding a tax lien over my head, do you know that? An old tax bill that Gramps didn’t pay. I guess you turned it up, huh? Well, Murphy’s saying either you go, or he’ll force a foreclosure on the farm.”

  “No, Ryan, my dad says he’s bluffing—it’s not on your financials. I just double-checked.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Murphy’s brother-in-law is the tax commissioner. He’s pulled a stunt like this before when Murphy’s set his eye on a piece of property—that’s what happened to Jake Wilkes’s land. Suddenly this old tax bill comes out of nowhere, and just as suddenly you find yourself having to scrape up the money or see your place auctioned off. And guess…just guess who is, oh-so-willing to buy your land to ease your tax troubles?”