“Then how come they let their husbands beat up on them?” Mutt said.
“That’s a whole other issue,” Amos said. “Mostly they know it’s coming. They either don’t trust their instincts or are afraid to leave. You interested in a trip to Bigelow?” he asked Geoff.
“Not yet. I want to find out what kind of reports Whitehead was talking about first. Hiram may have found out he and his little consortium considered themselves owners of acreage actually in the parcel Hiram paid for. Somebody in Atlanta should have the original survey, the deeds, titles, all that stuff. If we’re lucky, Hiram’s lawyer will have copies. I’ll have someone in my office check in Atlanta.”
“Won’t get much info until Monday,” Amos said as they walked back to the police station. “Nobody mans those offices on the weekend.”
“Hey, ve haf our methods,” Geoff said in an exaggerated German accent. “May not be able to get anyone in the office, but those records are probably on computer. What’s on the state’s computers, the state’s agents can access, even on Saturday.”
“Robertson won’t be in his office either.”
“If I can reach him at home, I’ll drive over and talk to him. This is murder. He’s an officer of the court. I think he likes Merry anyway, so he’ll probably see me.”
*
Robertson lived in a big, foursquare house, probably built around the turn of the last century, in an affluent section of Bigelow referred to as the garden district. Big old trees met over the streets, and the houses all sported well-tended lawns and gardens. Old money spent wisely. Robertson himself opened his front door and ushered Geoff in.
“Janeen’s out shopping. We can go into my office. Want a beer?”
Geoff followed him toward the back of the house. He wore elderly chinos belted slightly below his bulging tummy and a faded maroon polo shirt that his wife probably wanted to throw away. The hair on his chest was white. Geoff hadn’t met him previously, and liked him on sight. His eyes were kindly, but shrewd. He’d be a formidable opponent in the courtroom and probably the board room as well.
Geoff accepted a Stella Artois from a small fridge in the room that obviously doubled as office and male retreat. The walls were lined with bookcases that held matched sets of law books, except for a fifty-inch flat screen TV mounted across from the desk. The oriental on the floor was fine but threadbare, and the big desk was a tad battered. This was a room that a man kept for himself and refused to allow even the most house-proud wife to change.
Geoff told him what he wanted. He expected to have to dance around his questions, but Robertson answered straight away.
“We did have a few bobbles in the title search on Hiram’s land,” Robertson said. “But we got it squared away.”
“Why was the land sold in two parcels?”
Robertson leaned back in the black leather chair that looked as though it had been made for a much bigger man. He rested his head against the back, steepled his fingers, and settled in.
Geoff recognized a raconteur when he saw one. He might be in for a long story, but he doubted it would be a pointless one.
“After the Josephsons died within six months of one another . . . ”
“Suspicious?” Geoff asked.
Robertson frowned at him. “Natural old age. They were in the same nursing home, had been for five years or so.”
He swung his chair gently from side to side as he talked. “That land was originally titled in two parcels and taxed that way for fifty years. Nobody bothered to change it. The kids all went their separate ways. None of them went to farming. They didn’t care about the place. Didn’t even care when the house burned down a year or so after the parents died.”
“Arson?”
“Lightning. It was empty. Nothing suspicious, Agent Wheeler. Merely stupid.”
“In what way?”
Robertson offered one hand, then the other. “Daddy’s will left everything to Momma.” Left hand up. “Momma’s will left everything to the kids equally.” Right hand up. “Her will said they all had to agree before any of the land could be sold, and if any one of them died, their children had to agree. Stupid! I guess she thought the land would bring them together. Instead, it made them hate each other worse.”
“They couldn’t agree?”
“Nosirree.” Robertson leaned farther back and crossed his ankles on the corner of the desk. He was wearing aged Topsiders with no socks. Like many tubby men, he had extremely small, neat feet. “Got offer after offer. This piece, that piece, half and half. Good offers, although not as good as lately when land prices skyrocketed out there. Then the eldest sister died childless. Apparently, she’d been the hold-up. The others had kids that needed college tuition and such like. They got together and agreed to sell the smaller piece, the forty acres Hiram bought. They didn’t tell a living soul except Julie Honeycutt from Mossy Creek Mountain Realty, the best Realtor in Mossy Creek. She’d been working long distance with Hiram Lackland for over a year. She called him, he drove over from Aiken, wrote up a contract for cash, and before nightfall the deal was signed, sealed, and the next day when the money was transferred, it was delivered and the deed filed.”
“I thought he had mortgage insurance,” Geoff said. “Merry Abbott says the land is free and clear now, but not that it’s been that way all along.”
“That’s where the title work came in. He quietly borrowed part of the original cash from his boss in Aiken to add to what he had to make a down payment. Then, he went through all the to-do with health check, mortgage insurance, folding in extra money for the improvements he planned to make, got the mortgage and returned the original cash to the man he borrowed it from. Left him with a manageable mortgage payment and nice equity. Very, very slick. Wish I had friends that rich and that trusting.”
“What kind of money are we talking?”
“For the land? A hundred and forty thousand. Thirty-five hundred an acre for forty acres with no improvements and no domicile. Real bargain. It’s a matter of record. So’s the mortgage.”
“Who was the rich friend?”
“Man by the name of Richard Fitzgibbons in Aiken, South Carolina. Hiram worked for him for years.”
“How did the other parcel get sold?”
Robertson laughed. He sounded as though he were gloating. Not a fan of Governor Bigelow, obviously. “When the governor’s bunch saw the notice of transfer in the Mossy Creek Gazette, they had a cat fit. Tried to keep Hiram from getting a mortgage, to screw up the zoning, which is agricultural and always has been. Offered Hiram a bunch of money and said they’d make his life hell if he didn’t sell.”
“Really. Would that be a man named Whitehead?”
“Ah, you’ve met him. When I was growing up and you got acne, you either got blackheads or whiteheads. Both were filled with pus.”
“Did they keep up the pressure?”
“They calmed down once they convinced the family to sell them the other parcel. Much bigger. Over a hundred acres and prettier too, for a resort and a golf course. Not so good for horses. They paid more per acre than Hiram did, which made Whitehead even madder.” He chortled. “I enjoyed that. Always thought it was kind of strange Whitehead backed off on harassing Hiram about his property. He doesn’t usually fail. He’ll do just about anything to impress the Governor and make sure he’s indispensible. His master has a short temper and has been known to whack him on his tail when he doesn’t deliver. He knows the Governor has plans for the future. Thinks he can go to Washington, God help us.”
“Would Whitehead go so far as to kill Hiram?”
“Why?” Robertson’s feet came off his desk and he sat up straight. “Place goes to his daughter, and it’s free and clear now.”
“Because she might be more willing to sell? Funny that he’d be killed just before she came to visit.”
Robertson nodded. “Thought about that myself. Doesn’t seem like the kind of lady to back off from a fight, and I get the feeling she might actually stay arou
nd and run the place.”
“But Whitehead may not have known that. He might have thought the death would lead to a quick sale.”
“He didn’t know about the mortgage insurance.” Robertson snickered. “Mad as a wet hen when he found out, not from me, let me tell you.”
“Would you happen to know who inherits if she dies?”
Robertson took a deep breath. “I don’t know for certain, but she has a daughter who is a newly-hatched broker in New York City.”
“And probably would sell.”
“Might well. Want another beer?”
“No thanks.” Geoff waved his empty bottle. Robertson nodded toward a leather-covered wastebasket beside his desk. “Drop it in there.”
On his way out, Geoff said, “If you hear anything you think could be of help, would you call me?”
“Sure thing. Oh, I almost forgot. Some peckerwood named Tom Darnell showed up outside of court yesterday evening ranting and raving about wanting his momma’s carriage back right now. You know anything about that?”
“Indeed I do. He won’t be getting it anytime soon. Thanks for telling me.”
Robertson watched him to his car, then closed his front door and went back to whatever Saturday afternoon football game he’d been watching.
Geoff called Amos from his car and said, “Merry Abbott might be in real danger from Whitehead.” He repeated the salient facts of his interview with Marks. “Time to check his alibi very closely. He looks to have the best motive for killing Lackland.”
“Better warn her not to work alone out at the farm,” Amos said. “Better yet, I’ll tell Peggy Caldwell to go with her when she’s out there. Peggy could use a hobby. Ida says her heart’s never really been in gardening, although she gives it a go every year. We got an email for you from your office, by the way. They’re fast, and on Saturday. Impressive.”
“Hey, old buddy, crime never sleeps and neither does the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Want to take a run over to talk to Imogene Darnell?”
“Sure thing. Pick me up.”
Sandy stopped Geoff in the moment he walked into the hall of the police station and handed him a sheet of paper. “Your office emailed this. I printed it off for you.”
“What’s it say?”
Sandy blushed. “I would never read your emails, Agent Wheeler.”
As they closed the door to the police station behind them, Amos whispered, “Sure she would. You’re just lucky she decided you could have it.”
Geoff shook his head, laughing, and followed Amos out the door. He read as they drove out of Mossy Creek toward Bigelow. “Well, well, well. I think I know why Whitehead backed off.”
“You gonna tell me or keep it a deep, dark secret?” Amos asked as they turned onto the highway. He sped up. Even the sheriff wouldn’t dare stop Amos’s car for speeding.
“Hiram had extensive soil and water tests done after he bought the land. Apparently he didn’t confine his activities to his own land, but had the surveyor move over the border into the governor’s parcel and take samples there. Lackland’s soil and water are fine. The streams run off straight down his side of the hill. The other side, however . . . ”
“The governor’s side?” Amos asked and passed an eighteen-wheeler before swinging back into his own lane.
Geoff nodded. “The other side once hosted some hard-scrabble diamond mining in the early twentieth century. Know what you use to clean diamond dust? Arsenic and Cyanide.”
Amos slammed on his brakes, pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped. “Sweet Mother. The ground water’s contaminated?”
“Not the ground water so much,” Geoff said. “The topsoil itself, down the hill where there were tailings. Acres of it. And not badly contaminated, just enough so you wouldn’t want to drill wells for private homes into it.”
“Could it affect Mossy Creek? Can it be fixed?”
“I don’t have the whole report, just a summary. And a snide note from one of my colleagues about not asking for miracles on the weekend. Mossy Creek is not involved. Any ground water flows the other direction, away from town and away from Lackland’s property. The soil problem can be fixed, but it will cost a bundle to remove the topsoil and replace it, which would entail cutting down trees, and test anywhere they want to drill a well. Bringing water from Mossy Creek or Bigelow would cost an arm and a leg. Have to build the lines and a new water tower.”
“Those reports are a matter of public record,” Amos said.
“Only if the public is looking for them, and they wouldn’t be, would they? Not if Whitehead and his buddies don’t mention them in their real estate prospectus. He’s not above burying them or removing them entirely if he gets the chance.”
“Now that, my friend,” Amos said as he started the car and pulled onto the road, “Is a dandy motive for murder.”
Imogene Darnell lived in a big old farmhouse that had once been white and needed to be scraped and repainted. The old paint was peeling like the bark of a birch tree.
A large barn that looked as though it had once been used for cattle stood behind the house. If it had ever been painted, the paint had long since flaked away leaving unpainted gray clapboards. The whole structure canted slightly towards the pastures in back of the house.
“Hard to tell how much acreage she has,” Amos said as they bumped into the rutted circular driveway and stopped at the sagging front porch. “Probably not nearly enough left to support a cattle operation, but it could have been a thriving farm once upon a time.”
The house might be in bad shape, but the foundation plantings of old English boxwood, azaleas and roses were meticulously trimmed. Jonquils were already blooming, and the azaleas were in bud. Interspersed with the jonquils were grape hyacinth and sprouting iris that would bloom in another month. This was a woman who loved her garden.
“Wonder whether son Tom ever helps her,” Amos said. “Nah.”
“She’s no spring chicken,” Geoff said. “But she looks as though she’s worked hard all her life. Probably outlive us all.”
The steps to the porch sagged under their weight, but the porch felt secure enough. When Geoff twisted the old-fashioned doorbell, he heard it snarl inside the house. Even a deaf person should be able to hear that sound.
He thought she might be off with Tom doing her shopping, but after a long minute, he saw her tall, gaunt figure moving toward them through the etched oval of glass in the old front door.
She peered at them, then held the door open wide with a welcoming smile. “Why, if it’s not Amos Royden and Agent Wheeler.” She stepped aside. “Y’all come right on in.” She led them into the front parlor that was probably only used for company. The furniture dated from the fifties, but was immaculately clean, and the room smelled of lemon furniture polish. A dried fan of magnolia leaves stood in a brass vase on the hearth. “Now, y’all sit right down. I’ll just go get us some sweet tea.”
“Please, ma’am,” Amos said, “Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I was about to have a glass myself. It’s all made.” She strode out of the room, and a moment later they heard the clink of ice in glasses.
When she came back in carrying a big wooden tray with glasses, pitcher, and a dish of lemons, Geoff jumped up to take it from her and sit it on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Why, thank you, Agent Wheeler.” She poured and handed round the glasses. “Now, what can I do for y’all on a Saturday afternoon?”
“We wanted to ask you about your carriage,” Amos said. “Your son seems extremely anxious to get it back.”
Her face darkened. “Huh. I am flat tired of making excuses for that boy. What’s he done now?”
The boy in question was probably in his forties. “Nothing illegal,” Amos said. “How’d it wind up in Mr. Lackland’s shop?”
She leaned forward and put her large, arthritic hands on her knees. Unlike most of the women of Geoff’s acquaintance, she was actually wearing what his mother wo
uld call a housedress instead of jeans or slacks. She wasn’t wearing stockings, however, and wore flip-flops on her bony feet. “Hiram was helping me clear out the barn. I’m going to have a big yard sale when we get it all done.” She sighed. “Or I was planning to. Now I don’t have anyone to help. Hiram knew how much things you find in a barn would sell for. He’d been around barns and rich people a long time. I don’t want to be selling any treasures for fifty cents if I can help it.”
“How’d he come to be doing that, ma’am?” Amos asked.
“First pickin’s.” We looked at her blankly and she continued. “My son is bound and determined he’s going to get me out of this house and into a retirement community. I tell him if he’ll just wait a few years, I’ll be dead and gone for good, but he’s anxious.” She looked at the room with its faded cabbage rose wallpaper. “I tell him I intend to die here just like his father and his grandparents before him did. It’s hard to keep the place up on the little money I get, so I put an ad in the Mossy Creek Gazette for a yard sale. Just some junk I didn’t need any longer. Hiram came to see what I had. He was such a nice man, I told him my old barn was packed with things I needed to get rid of but couldn’t find the time or the energy to go through. He offered to help.”
“That’s where the carriage was?”
“Tell the truth, I’d forgotten it was there,” she said and ran her hand down her cheek. “Been in my family forever. We got to talking, and he said he could refurbish it so I could sell it, maybe get as much as two thousand dollars net out of it.” She beamed at them. “With two thousand dollars I could pay part of the back taxes and keep a little bit to fix the porch steps. I never planned to tell Tom about it, but he went looking in the barn for whatever he could run off with, and saw it was missing. He dragged the whole story out of me.” She drew a cavernous sigh.
“He was so mad, but I finally got him to see that having Hiram fix it up was a good thing. He let it go until he saw about Hiram being dead. He thinks he can find somebody else to fix it up cheap enough to sell and keep the money himself to make a down payment on one of those tiny little apartments in that retirement community.” She lifted her head and Geoff could see tears in her eyes. “I won’t let him have it. It’s mine and the money’s mine too.”
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