by Mims, Lee
It read, “Having a ball. Wish you were here. Sister.” I put the card back in the pile and the pile back in the box. I felt totally frustrated. Time to retrieve my hound and go home.
At three thirty I picked up a much improved but still weak Tulip, carefully loaded her in the Jeep and we were on our way. Since it was Tuesday, not Sunday, I didn’t have to fight returning beach traffic and was home by six.
First order of business: ditch the field boots and nasty clothes and slide into my idea of a lounge set, namely, a tank top and drawstring workout shorts. Second, toss some spaghetti sauce in the microwave to thaw, pour a glass of nice Chianti, and look through my mail.
That got me to thinking about the postcard I’d seen in Irene’s mailbox.
Over the past year I’d had many conversations with Gladys, often with Irene present. Whenever Gladys talked of using the money from the sale of her land to move into a retirement community near her sister in Venice, she always included Irene. But it always seemed to me that Irene was noncommittal about the prospect.
The microwave beeped to remind me to stir the container of sauce. Just as I did, I heard a car door close. I padded across the old heart pine floors, moving from the back of my remodeled 1940s bungalow to the front. On tiptoes at the door, I peeked through one of the arched windows of glue chip glass.
Damn. How did Bud know I was home?
Henri, of course.
I opened the front door before he could ring the bell. Whipping flowers from behind his back, he inquired, “Dinner ready?”
Ignoring the flowers, I turned on my heel and said, “Almost.” Back in the kitchen, I started making a salad with whatever produce was left in the crisper drawer.
Bud followed me and found a vase for the bouquet. After poking noisily around in the fridge, he found what he was looking for, a lonely bottle of Bud Light way in the back.
After slugging a gulp, he topped off my Chianti for me.
“How’s Tulip? Henri told me what happened. You’re lucky you didn’t get your head blown off.”
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s outside. I’ll call her in, in a little while.” I paused, stirring the sauce again. “Turns out yesterday’s events pale in comparison to what happened to me today.”
I had to admit it, I was glad to have someone to talk to about finding the body in the well. Not an everyday occurrence, and I was pretty sure the full impact hadn’t hit me yet.
“I’m all ears,” Bud said.
I didn’t get very far into relaying the weird events of my day before Bud grabbed the paring knife from my hand and took over slicing the cucumbers and heirloom tomatoes. Maybe he was worried I was getting overexcited as I told my tale.
As we ate, I finally put voice to the suspicion that had been nagging me since I’d found myself at the bottom of the well.
“You know, I think someone might have snuck up on me, lifted my feet out from under me. Made me flip over and fall into the well.”
Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he tucked it under the edge of his plate. “Now, Cleo … ” He paused, as if to gather his thoughts enough so he wouldn’t come right out and call me crazy. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“Not kill me. Just scare me away, keep me from testing the property.”
“Scare you away? Keep you from testing? Who? Why?”
I shrugged. “Maybe someone doesn’t want the land sold. Maybe they don’t like the idea of me ‘raping’ the land with a quarrying operation. Maybe someone doesn’t want a quarry next door or in the same town or even in the same county. Or maybe someone thinks a quarry nearby will lower the water table and dry up their well. Et cetera, et cetera.”
People get all kinds of crazy misconceptions from misinformation, but I can tell you this: I’ve spent the majority of my career as a geologist working for large mining concerns and no one immediately falls in love with the idea of a quarry or an oil well or anything else of that nature being in their Zip Code. Never mind that those things make the lives they lead possible. It’s the NIMBY philosophy: Not In My Back Yard.
“Cleo, I thought you said no one knew about this project, that you were keeping it top secret. Who would know about your plans?”
“Well, people close to Gladys might know. Her children, of course, and her cousin, Irene—who’s also her housekeeper. Which is another thing, Bud. I can’t find Irene either.”
“Maybe she’s with Gladys. But let’s get back to her kids. You’d think they’d welcome the idea of their mom working a deal with you if it meant big bucks. Then, after she’s gone, they’d inherit a larger estate, right?”
“Right. That’s what I’m worried about. I mean, what if that’s Gladys’s body? Wouldn’t the kids be the most likely suspects … the ones with the most to gain?”
“Okay, okay. I realize a body in a well’s a serious thing, but it could be anyone—a migrant worker, a hobo. Don’t let your imagination turn this into a made-for-TV movie. Thinking Gladys’s children might do her harm, or you, for that matter, is … well, it’s just too much of a stretch. It makes way more sense that they’d be thrilled you were going to make them some money.”
“Well, they sure don’t act like it,” I muttered, remembering Robert Earle’s threat to pitch me off the porch.
“Are you going to put off your testing until you find Gladys or until you learn the identity of the body?”
“No. In fact, I’m going to move up my start-up date to Monday if I can. Those boys at Statewide Testing do a lot of work for me. They’re pretty amenable to conforming to my schedule.”
“You’ll see,” Bud said. “The sheriff will find Gladys, probably with her sister—”
“Cousin,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” he said. “Tell me again what you’re prospecting for. What you’ve told me so far is fascinating.”
Oh, please. Fascinating. He was toying with me and I knew why. Never mind that I still kind of wanted to be toyed with by Bud. He was tall, in great physical shape, handsome in his own way and, without a doubt, the best I ever had. Thing was, there was a whole world full of men out there I hadn’t had. One in particular came to mind. Besides, I knew where a relationship with Bud would lead and I didn’t want to go there again. Been there, done that. I checked my watch and said, “Don’t worry about helping me with the dishes. I’ll take care of them. You run along, I know you’re busy and I have lots to do myself.”
“What? No dessert?” Bud said as he plopped down on the couch beside Tulip, who looked up at me and gave several sheepish thumps of her tail. She knew she was breaking the rules. So did Bud. Difference was Tulip was a dumb animal. My ex, on the other hand, well …
I pulled him up and said, “No, sir. No dessert. It’s Tuesday night in Raleigh. Aren’t they having two-for-one drinks at one of your favorite watering holes?”
“Probably. But I’d rather be right here with you … having something sweet.” Bud took a step toward me and traitorous bits of my body flamed.
Knowing I couldn’t trust myself another minute in the same room, I gently steered him toward the front door and said, “Good night, Bud. And consider yourself paid back for the successful snake extraction. You certainly have a way with reptiles.”
SIX
It was after three o’ clock Wednesday afternoon before I’d caught up with my paperwork on other jobs and had time to call Statewide Engineering and Testing, the firm I’d hired to test Gladys’s property. Just as I hoped, they were able to move my job up and start on Monday. Then, because I’d tossed and turned all night reliving the past two days and going over what I’d learned, what I didn’t, what I understood, and so on, I looked up the number for the Onslow County Sheriff’s Department. Waiting to be connected, I searched my tired brain for his name, beyond “Sheriff.” I’d given him my card, but he hadn’t given me his.
I got lucky
when a deep voice said, “Sheriff Evans.”
“Hi, this is Cleo Cooper. I’m the geologist who, er, found the body yesterday.”
“Yes, Miz Cooper. What can I do for you?”
“First, I was wondering if you’ve been able to get in touch with Miss Walton yet, and second, I thought of something I’d like to pass along to you. I don’t know if it will be of any help, but I’d feel better if I shared it.”
“Good. I can use all the help I can get. As to Miz Walton … no, I wasn’t able to speak to her yesterday. I did talk to her son and daughter this morning. Woke them up … at nine o’ clock.” I detected disdain in his voice. “They say they don’t know where she is. According to them, she’s been gone about two weeks. They don’t seem concerned. Said she does this sort of thing often.”
“Huh,” I said. “Well, I’ve known her a little over a year, and during that time, she’s never just taken off. Anyway, I think she’d say something to me if she was leaving town. She knew I was getting ready to start testing.”
“Seems logical.”
“What did her kids say about me finding a body on their property?”
He chuckled. “They sure don’t think much of you. They seemed shocked about the body, but neither one acted like they thought it could be their mother.”
“Did you know that Gladys Walton has a housekeeper? Her cousin … Irene Mizzell.”
“No, I didn’t. You’re the first person to mention her.”
“Well, she’s the other reason I called, to tell you about her. She lives in one of the tenant houses on the farm—down the first path on the left after you pass Gladys’s driveway—and I wasn’t able to find her while I was in town either.”
“Huh,” he said. “That’s kinda hopeful. I mean, could be they’re off together somewhere. I’ll check that out right away, Miz Cooper, ’preciate your call.”
After I hung up, I called my lawyer to ask if I could take her to lunch and run a few questions by her. She said she and Penny, her paralegal, were dieting but that I could meet them in the backyard of her house where they planned to split a grapefruit and get a little sun. I took that to mean they were also taking off early. They probably worked late last night. I told her I’d see her there.
I had hired Sharon Peele for my divorce. She was one of a rare, (indeed, near-extinct) species of lawyers: a non-greedy one. Afterward, both she and Penny turned into good friends, even though, unlike me, they were young, single, and constantly on the prowl.
As I headed over to join them an hour later, I stopped at Jersey Mike’s and snagged a sub-to-go for lunch. On the way to my lunch date, I mulled over once again the timetable and details of what had happened since Gladys Walton had disappeared off the radar.
“Wow. You’ve had some amazing things happen to you while prospecting, but a dead body in a well, jeez, that’s a first,” Sharon said, when I finished my tale.
“Yeah. Good times,” I said dryly. I wasn’t sure if they had paid as close attention as they might have. Penny’s eyes were wide. Was it the story or my roast beef sub?
“I know we’ve got a strong document,” I said, “but what if the body does turn out to be Gladys? Could I run into any problems? Up till now, all I’ve invested is my time, but once I start testing, I’ll be sinking a ton of money into this project.”
“You’re right to be considering all contingencies,” Sharon said. “But I suggest you carry on with your plans until you actually do hit a snag because so far nothing’s really changed. Even if the body does turn out to be the landowner, you’re covered. Someone could try to stop you with an injunction, but since you have an ironclad option to test as part of an ironclad lease agreement prepared by the best in the business, moi, we’d probably come out on top of any legal challenge.”
Probably?
“And,” Sharon added, “soon as you finish testing and exercise your option, I’ve got your Memorandum of Lease all ready to be filed in the Onslow County Courthouse.”
I nodded, rubbing my finger across my bottom lip.
“Stop frowning,” Sharon said. “It causes wrinkles. Just keep moving ahead. Everything will be fine and if it’s not, you have a good lawyer.”
Easy for you to say, I couldn’t help but think. This little venture could cost as much as three million dollars, not to mention a million dollars to exercise the option once the discovery was confirmed. My plan was to acquire a term loan and secure an operating line of credit. The note and deed of trust would be in my name and even though my banker was a long-time friend who believed in me, the bank he worked for was a very conservative one, the kind that requires proof you can repay what you borrow. Therefore the need for additional cash to cover the initial testing that would prove the deposit existed. That would come from my personal retirement account, the entire half million of it.
A small piece of consulting work concerning a fault underlying a proposed industrial site in the Triassic Basin near the town of Merry Oaks kept me busy through the week and into the weekend, but Monday morning I was back at Gladys’s farm.
Heavy gray clouds scudded overhead as I held the gate to the field open and waved the drill crew through. Two tattered Ford pickups, the drill foreman in the first and a crew member in the second, rumbled through. They were followed by a gargantuan drill rig. A soaking overnight rain had made the ground soft. While a good thing for drilling, it was bad for supporting a 25,000-pound drill rig, so I was a bit on edge.
The guys who make up a drill crew are known as doodlebugs, and nicknames are usually the rule. Jimmy Ray Boswell was called Mule, for example, and Pete Willis was Stick, short for Dipstick.
Since Pete was the crew member charged with on-the-road maintenance of the vehicles, I could understand his moniker, but Mule … Either Jimmy Ray was real stubborn or let me just say it, the nickname often made him the subject of some prurient thoughts during long, hot workdays. Though neither of them could expect a casting call from a Hollywood agent looking for a pretty face, both could pass as plausible body models. More important to me, each was a well-seasoned professional.
I’d really lucked out in the experience department with Statewide’s foreman for this job, Lewis Winkler. Wink had been drilling holes all over the world for nearly forty years. But unlike his crew, he actually showed the wear and tear from those four decades. He had a lazy eye and skin like a leather jacket someone had left near a radiator too long.
“Hey Wink,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Ready to go?” He said, unfolding his field map and orienting it to the acres of little orange flags stretching out before us.
“Yup,” I said. “I paced ’em as far apart as I could since you guys charge like you’re using solid-gold drill bits.”
He chuckled. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with the big wheels at the home office. I’m just a little cog.” He turned to the crew and made like a boss. “What are you two knuckleheads doing? Why ain’t you drilling?”
They grinned at him.
“Mr. Boswell. Mr. Willis,” I said, nodding at each one in turn.
“Miss Cleo,” they replied practically in unison.
“Where you want us to start, Wink?” Mule asked.
“How about hole number one? That make sense?” He pointed to the southwest corner.
“Yessir,” Mule said, at which signal he and Stick politely tipped their hard hats toward me. Wink folded his field map and got in his pickup to follow them. I brought up the rear, my heart in my throat.
Simply put, at about thirty dollars a foot for every hole I drilled, depending on the depth to the top of the rock and the number of holes we got in every day, I figured to be going about thirty-five grand a day in order to prove the existence of the vast granite deposit I was sure lay under my feet. And these were just the holes to see how deep the rock lay; we would still have to come back and take core samples to be su
re what kind of rock it was.
I visualized my underground granite mountain as somewhat like Pilot Mountain, North Carolina, only smaller and still covered by millions of years of accumulated dirt, or overburden. Pilot Mountain is an enormous dome of metamorphic quartzite that covers over thirty-five hundred acres. By my estimations, the granite mountain below Gladys’s farm would cover about four hundred acres and extend below ground every bit as far as Pilot Mountain was high: twenty-four hundred feet. That, boys and girls, is a lot of rock.
A similar structure was being mined in Fountain, North Carolina, but that’s about fifty miles back to the west. Up until now, it was the easternmost occurrence of crystalline rock past the fall line—that boundary between the foothills, where water drops abruptly enough to create a fall, and the coastal plain—on the East Coast. But that granite had been exposed in a flat expanse covering about three acres. Easy to see.
In fact, that granite had been part of the recorded geologic history of the state since the 1930s. My rock, on the other hand, wasn’t well exposed anywhere. I was relying on pie-in-the-sky evidence: a few crumbling, weathered boulders I’d found in a creek and differences in vegetation I’d noticed when comparing aerial photos pulled from the Onslow County GIS office with the woods as they actually existed on Gladys’s farm. From a rented plane, I was able to see that although the farm had been allowed to reseed naturally after being clear-cut, the trees were stunted in a large elliptical area covering about three hundred acres in the middle. The surrounding woods were denser and the trees themselves larger and more robust.
Since I often worked with timber cruisers while consulting, I’d learned that during the first twenty-five years of growth, trees rooted in shallow soil on top of granite grow slower than trees with hundreds of feet of soil below them. The field I planned to drill lay at the southwest edge of where I hoped my granite mountain came close to the surface of the earth.