Charlie took a slow drive to Sadie's house while he filled her in on all the information Lance had dug up on Jaycee. “His legal name was Johnny Cantor.”
“Cantor?”
“Yeah, remember? Henry said that was the name on the car registration of the car that woman crashed at your house.”
“Cantor?”
“He had used the initials J. C. all his life, and I guess he worked it until it finally evolved into ‘Jaycee.’”
“Where did ‘Jones’ come from, then?”
“Jones was his mother's maiden name.”
“So?”
“He had started the wheels in motion to legally change his name to Jones in an effort to distance himself from his daddy, who is sitting on death row for murdering two women in Texas. Time's running out and he's scheduled to be executed early next year.”
“You're kidding.”
“And besides that, two names probably came in pretty handy for someone who liked to string along more than one woman at a time.”
Sadie felt disgusted, realizing she was one of those women. “How could he be the same person, Charlie?” she asked. “How could he have fooled me like that?”
“I think I told you one time, Sadie. He was a con. I could tell he was a player the day I met him at the hospital. How do you think his daddy ended up on death row? Maybe it runs in the family,” Charlie laughed.
Sadie didn't appreciate Charlie's humor. “But, his voice. The robber had such a cold, distinctive voice. Jaycee had such a kind voice…so gentle. It just can't be.”
“Evidently, he was pretty good at the game. He'd never been caught. His fingerprints are not in any of the state or federal data systems. But—I guess you should know—Jules identified him as the man he saw throwing the bag in the trash bin containing the sweatsuit and dye pack from your robbery. I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't responsible for several unsolved robbery cases where the robber had the same M.O. Whether we'll ever be able to tie him to any of them may be another matter. It wouldn't surprise me if he was the one who killed your ex-husband.”
Sadie shook her head. “Why would he do that?”
“Maybe they were in cahoots.”
“Jaycee and Michael?” Sadie thought for a moment. “He was in town that evening. But that doesn't make any sense. Why would he kill Michael?” she asked again.
“Hard to say. Maybe he didn't like the competition.”
“Maybe he thought he was protecting me.”
“Where did you say you met Jones?”
In a quiet voice, Sadie answered, “At Gordy's funeral. Can you believe that? He was at Gordy's funeral.”
The two rode in silence for a while and then Charlie continued to talk. “The strange part is, Lance said he found out the guy was a pretty good investor. On the surface it looks like he had more than enough legitimate money. Which leaves me to believe…he was in it for the thrill. Either that or he was extremely obsessed with money.”
“Probably both.” Sadie leaned her head against the car window. “Nothing is ever what it seems.”
Chapter 25
Donnie Tenkiller pushed the accounting-room door open and pointed with his head at a stranger standing near the front of the store sipping on a bottle of water. “There's a white guy out here asking for Miss Waylay,” he said, imitating the mispronunciation of her name.
Sadie raised an eyebrow and peered around Donnie's shoulder. A young man in a three-piece suit appeared to be completely out of place in the surroundings of the Eucha General Store.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“White guy.”
“What does he want?”
“You.”
“Thanks a lot, Donnie.” Sadie flipped her hair behind her shoulder and walked around the counter to the cash register. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Miss Wa—?”
“I'm Sadie Walela.”
“Hello, I'm Gary Peterson.” He handed her a business card that identified him as an attorney with the Crown and Bailey law firm in Piano, Texas. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Sadie thought for a moment while she sized up the young man. His brassy flattop, freckled face, and gold wire-rimmed glasses made him look like he couldn't be far past puberty. His suit and briefcase reminded her of a struggling salesman.
“Am I supposed to know you?”
“No, ma'am. But I have some information you're going to want to hear.”
Her curiosity overrode her caution. “Are you selling something?”
“Oh, no, ma'am. Nothing like that.” He looked even younger when he smiled.
“I guess we could go next door to the drugstore. They have some booths we can sit in there.” She turned her attention to Donnie. “I'll be next door if you need me.”
Donnie, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation, nodded an understanding of her unspoken words. She knew he would check on her in a few minutes.
As the young man opened the door for Sadie, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. Sadie wondered if the sheen of perspiration on the young man's forehead resulted from the combination of mid-July heat and humidity in northeastern Oklahoma or something else.
The drugstore, fairly empty of customers, offered a welcome blast of cool air. They slid into the booth nearest the back wall and ordered soft drinks from the young Indian girl working behind the soda fountain.
Wasting no time, the young man balanced his briefcase on the corner of the table and brought out a manila folder. When Sadie saw the name “Jones” written in large black letters across the front of the folder, her adrenaline surged and she became defensive. “What is this about?” she asked. She didn't want to have anything to do with the name of Jones.
Sensing her discomfort, Gary Peterson placed the briefcase on the floor and laid the folder on the seat next to him. “My firm has been handling the estate of Mr. John Cantor of Piano, Texas,” he explained. “I understand he also used the name Jaycee Jones, which I believe is how you are familiar with him.”
Sadie sat silently for a few seconds before answering. “You mean the man who tried to kill me?”
The young man's eyes widened ever so slightly. “No, ma'am, I'm not aware of anything like that. I do know the auditors spent a considerable amount of time on this account before the estate could be settled.”
“Account?”
“Yes, ma'am. There was quite a controversy over whether the manner in which Mr. Cantor died would in any way void this policy. But I can assure you everything is in order. It has been examined with a fine-tooth comb. It is all legitimate.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Peterson,” said Sadie. “Do you want to back up and start from the beginning? Because I don't have the slightest idea what on earth you are talking about.”
“Yes, ma'am, I'd be glad to. And you can call me Gary if you'd like.”
“Okay, Gary. Let's hear it.” Sadie sat back and began to sip on her soda.
“Let's see,” he said. “We'll start with the investment account. Are you familiar with the investment account?”
Sadie shook her head. “Nope.”
“Mr. Cantor, or Mr. Jones—. If you don't mind, I'll refer to him as Jones since that is the name he had been using for quite some time.”
“Fine. Mr. Jones it is.” Sadie chewed on the end of the straw from her drink.
“Mr. Jones opened a joint investment account in his and your name. He opened it with funds from the sale of a stock certificate from a bank—Mercury Bank, I believe.”
“He did what?”
“We looked up the certificate. It showed your notarized signature.”
“I know about that stock, Mr. Peterson. I told him to give it away. I didn't want it.”
“It looks like he gave it to you and him.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Mr. Jones appears to have been a master at manipulating stocks. That small investment turned into a very hefty account in a relatively sh
ort time. It grew from less than a thousand dollars to over fifty thousand in less than a year.”
Sadie lowered her chin and looked at him through wide eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know it is hard to believe. Like I said, the auditors checked every entry on this account. It's as if he had a crystal ball linked directly into Wall Street.”
“He probably did,” murmured Sadie to herself.
“Anyway, once he reached the necessary amount, he bought two paid-up life insurance policies—one on you and one on himself, with each of you as beneficiary for the other.”
“What?”
“Yes, ma'am. And now that he is dead the benefit is payable to you.”
Sadie sat up straight and looked directly at the young attorney. “Now, let me get this straight. You want to give me some kind of blood money from this bank-robbing hoodlum who killed people for fun…and traumatized me for life and then tried to kill me?”
“Oh, no, ma'am. I can tell you quite assuredly, there is no bank-robbery money involved in this transaction. The FBI traced every penny this man had, including this account. No, ma'am. This is the result of the sale of a stock certificate in your name only.”
“And he bought a life insurance policy with it?”
“Simplified, yes. Actually, he bought two. You can do what you want with the one he bought on you that named him as beneficiary.”
“How could he buy an insurance policy on me without my signature?”
“Oh, he couldn't. But we have your signature, ma'am. Right here. Is this not your signature?”
Sadie took the document and stared at her name. No mistake. She recognized her own signature and remembered the day he had her sign documents for the sale of the stock. He had tricked her into signing something to purchase a life insurance policy on herself. Suddenly, it dawned on her that if Jaycee had killed her in the robbery and gotten away with it, he would have been able to cash in on her dead body.
“That son of a bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Sadie squinted and looked past the young man into empty air. “I'll think about it. I'm not sure I want anything, including money from a killer.”
“I can understand that, but you might change your mind when you see the amount of the policy.” He balanced an envelope in his right hand above the table.
Sadie thought for a moment and then snatched the envelope from his sweaty hand. She ran her thumb under the flap, tearing loose the seal. She pulled out the policy and thumbed to the last page. “This can't be right. How much is this for?” she asked. “One, two, three…there are six zeros after this ‘one.’”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“This policy is worth a million dollars?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, ma'am. All you have to do is fill out these forms with wiring instructions and mail them back to us in this special envelope.”
“And he would have gotten a million dollars if something had happened to me?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Geez, quit calling me ‘ma'am.’”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Donnie Tenkiller stuck his head in the front door of the drugstore. “Sadie, there's a call for you from a Mrs. Andover. Do you want me to take a message?”
Sadie looked at the policy in her hand, then at Gary Peterson, then at Donnie. “No, no. I'll be right there.”
An array of eclectic headstones sat in seven rows, theater-style seating on a soft, sloping hillside overlooking the valley below. Near the top of the imaginary theater, Sadie sat at the base of an old, stately oak tree holding an envelope in her hand and staring at the new grave. The fresh flowers left by friends the day before had already begun to wilt, dying from the hot summer sun. The small, temporary marker staked at the top of the grave read “Agatha Gertrude Andover, Age 7.” A ribbon on a nearby wreath elaborated: We love you, Soda Pop.
In the distance, Sadie could see Charlie's truck as he parked next to her Chevy near the entrance to the cemetery. He shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand, easily found what he was looking for, and walked up the makeshift road used only by hearses on funeral days. When he reached the oak tree, he sat on the ground beside Sadie without saying a word. They sat in silence.
Finally, Sadie spoke. “The new owners at the bank offered me a job.”
“Really? You going to take it?”
“I don't think so,” she said. “However, Stan's gone…he and Adam both. Got caught with their hands in the till when the new guys took over. Charged with embezzlement. They inflated the amount of the robberies to the insurance company. By quite a bit, I guess.” Sadie turned to Charlie and asked, “Do you think they were in cahoots with Jaycee? He and Adam were pretty tight.”
“I guess anything is possible. When the feds searched Jaycee's place, they found a master key to Mercury's branches.”
“No.” Sadie stared at Charlie.
“There's a lot of speculation about where the key came from,” he said, “but no proof. The bank's records show it had never been issued to anyone.”
“So that's how Melvin Crump got killed,” said Sadie. “The answer to the mysteriously unlocked door that I never could figure out. I still don't know how he got the vault open.” Sadie chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Adam told me he misplaced a set of keys one time,” she said. “But he never said anything about losing a master key. If he had, Stan would have fired him. Then, on the other hand, it's pretty much a moot point, because Adam's secretary was in charge of issuing keys. It would have been no problem for Adam to get another key without anyone finding out.”
They sat in silence until Sadie spoke again. “You know, I always wanted to be a successful banker, but I'm not so sure anymore. I thought it was such a noble, upstanding career—not to mention the illusion that bankers make good money. Nothing ever ends up being what you think it is, does it?” A hummingbird hovered nearby, its wings fluttering invisibly. Sadie smiled and continued. “My grandmother used to tell me the important things in life were the simple things—like helping other people. The more you give, she'd say, the more you get in return. I think I know what she meant by that now. Life is so fragile, so short.” Sadie stopped, looked toward the small grave, and shook her head. “She was just a kid.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And now I have the means to help her.” Sadie turned and looked at Charlie. “But it's too late.”
“Maybe you can help someone else,” he offered.
A car door slammed and they looked down the hill toward the small parking area at the gate of the cemetery. Lance Smith got out of his car and smiled and waved at the duo. He leaned against Charlie's truck as if content to wait for the two to return to their vehicles.
Charlie held his hand in the air for a moment, acknowledging his co-worker's arrival.
“You know, Charlie, I didn't want that money,” continued Sadie. “But I've changed my mind.”
“Really?” asked Charlie. “You know what they say, don't you?”
“No, tell me.”
“Beware of the green frog.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sadie's eyes sparkled. It had been a long time since she had heard money referred to as a green frog.
“An old Indian told me once,” he said, “it's a white man's sickness—chasing money. You can never catch it. It's always jumping away, just out of reach. Chasing it only brings chaos into your life.” Charlie looked off into the distance, grinned, and then added, “And since I'm a white man, I thought I'd pass on that bit of Indian philosophy to you.”
“Yeah, I know, yonega,” Sadie chuckled and then added, “but this Indian isn't chasing the green frog anymore, Charlie. This time it landed in my lap. And I think I can use it to help people like Soda Pop.” Silence filled the air for a moment before she continued. “You know, so little kids can have wigs to wear when the chemicals that are supposed to make them better only rob them of their hair. So they can rid
e a horse if that's what they want to do. And their parents won't have to go to bankers, get down on their knees, and cry and plead for money to pay for medical treatment. So they'll have a chance to be more than just a kid before their life is ripped away.” A tear spilled off her cheek.
“So, you've already decided to take the money?”
Sadie slapped the envelope against her knee. “Yep, I'm going to take the money. I want something good to come from all the misery I've gone through for the last year and a half, for all the suffering this little girl went through her whole life. I'm going to open a foundation and call it the Soda Pop Foundation so the spirit of that little girl can live on forever.”
Charlie stood and offered Sadie his hand. She grabbed it and let him pull her into a standing position. He held on to her hand, and when she looked at him, he kissed her fingers. “You are one of a kind, Sadie. Extraordinary. And by the way,” he pointed toward Lance, “there's the Indian who imparted that bit of wisdom to me.”
She grinned, squeezed his hand, and said, “Let's go mail this envelope.” Then she walked toward Lance, waiting below.
About the Author
Sara Sue Hoklotubbe (Cherokee) was born and raised in northeastern Oklahoma near the banks of Lake Eucha in Rattlesnake Hollow. After graduating from the University of Oklahoma, she spent over two decades in the financial institution business. During that time, she served in various management positions and taught banking classes at the local community college.
In 1996, Sara retired to a life of full-time writing. After living in other parts of Oklahoma, Hawaii, and Alaska, she recently returned to the heart of the Cherokee Nation. There, she lives with her Choctaw husband, reconnecting with the peaceful surroundings of her youth while she continues to write.
Deception on All Accounts Page 23