Corpse on the Cob
Page 28
“I heard Sybil Johnson went with him.”
“What can I say, it was love at first sight.” I gave Clark a small smile. “They do seem suited to each other.”
Clark sidled up to me at the railing. “You know, Odelia, I Googled William Carter, and nothing came up on Greg’s cousin. A lot of other William Carters came up, but none of them matched him. Seems odd for a man of his obvious means and talents.”
“He keeps a low profile, doesn’t like publicity.”
“Uh-huh. So it seems.” He took a sip of coffee. “Out of curiosity, I ran my gun for fingerprints. I found yours, mine, Joan’s, and those that matched one William Proctor. Now that name rang a bell.”
“I guess the next time you see Willie, you’ll have to arrest him.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows if I’ll be a cop the next time I see him—if I see him.”
I turned to face Clark. “You retiring?”
“Might not have a choice after this. And even if the people want me to stay, I’m not sure I have the stomach for it anymore.”
We heard from Clark last week. He wasn’t canned, but he decided to take a leave of absence to sort things out. He said he was going to travel a bit and visit his daughters. Said he might even find his way out to California.
After Grady’s death, my mother faded considerably, though she’s still as cantankerous as ever. Greg and I call her every week. She’s moving to a retirement home soon. It was her choice, and she picked a lovely one not too far away in New Hampshire. She told us she didn’t want to stay in Holmsbury after what had happened. She also rounded up more of Leland’s money, and Clark set up a trust for her with it.
I still have mixed feelings about my mother. I finally have the answer as to why she left me all those years ago, but there’s still a hunger in my belly—an emptiness that can’t be filled with ice cream and cookies, or even by the love of a wonderful mate. It’s the hollowness of growing up a motherless daughter. But I can’t change the past, and Grace isn’t emotionally capable of making amends. It’s something I will have to live with. Like a badly patched pothole in the middle of the street, it jars the car, but it’s no longer a threat to the alignment.
Several weeks after returning from Massachusetts, Greg and I were at our kitchen table having a lazy Sunday morning breakfast when our doorbell rang. Wainwright and I answered it to find a somber Enrique on our doorstep. He was a grown man now and looked prosperous, reminding me of a young Jimmy Smits.
After telling Wainwright to settle down, I asked with some worry, “Is Willie all right?”
His serious countenance changed to a wide smile, showing off the crooked teeth I’d remembered so well. “Hola, mamacita.” His voice was cheery. He handed me an envelope.
“Come in, Enrique, I want you to meet my husband. And, by the way, congratulations on your own marriage.” I reached out and gave him a big hug.
“Who’s there, sweetheart?” Greg came rolling to the front door.
“This is Enrique, honey.”
“Willie’s Enrique?”
I introduced the two, and they shook hands.
“I’ve heard much about you, Greg,” Enrique said, smiling. He turned to me. “I apologize, mamacita, but I cannot stay. I just came to deliver this.” After kissing me on both cheeks, he headed down our walk and hopped into a waiting car.
Even before closing the door, Greg and I opened the envelope. Inside were a couple sheets of paper and a photo of Willie and Sybil dressed in island garb. She held a bouquet. Behind them was a beach at sunset—not just a backdrop but the real thing.
“That looks like a wedding photo, sweetheart.”
“It sure does. That was quick, wasn’t it?”
“He knew what he wanted, why wait?”
The letter was short and to the point. They had gotten married and sent their love. He referenced an enclosed letter and told us to watch the news.
The other letter, a copy of one dated the day before and addressed to Anderson Cooper at CNN, said that William Proctor, former CEO of Investanet, was returning all of the millions he’d stolen while at the helm of the Internet investment company. He apologized for any hardship he’d caused and asked that the funds be distributed to the attached list of investors. He’d even enclosed a cashier’s check made out to a trust set up to handle the disposition of the monies.
“This is unbelievable, Greg.”
“Shows what a good woman can do to a guy.” Greg pointed to something on the list of investors. “Looks like something’s highlighted.”
On one of the pages of the investors list, one entry had been highlighted: Steven and Cynthia Rielley.
“Oh my gawd, Greg. The Rielleys were among the people who had money in Investanet. Willie stole from them.”
“Wow, talk about a small world.”
“That explains why he was so solicitous of Mrs. Rielley after he met her. Probably the first time he’d come face to face with the hardship he’d caused everyday folks.”
Greg checked out the CNN letter and the list while I continued with Willie’s letter. He ended by saying this didn’t change his fugitive status, so he didn’t know when we’d meet again. And not to worry, he still had plenty of money. The last line made me laugh out loud.
“You never know, little mama, when your conscience will bite you in the ass.”
The End
Table of Contents
Cover
Splash Page
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four