Can’t Never Tell

by Unknown

  “As it turned out, the guy I knew isn’t involved with the firm. I had always heard good things about him, associated him with this firm. Even so, like I said, it had been nothing but good news about this firm. Our earnings grew even during that little market blip not quite a year ago.”

  “But things changed,” Melvin said. Pratchett was wandering around the edges of his story, avoiding the embarrassing central issue.

  “Yes.” Pratchett stared, without seeing, at a photo on the wall behind Melvin’s head. It showed Pratchett in a tuxedo shaking hands with someone who looked like a bored but politely smiling Pat Conroy.

  “Everything changed. The account even stopped paying dividends. I’m afraid it’s turning into a train wreck.”

  “Do you have copies of the last few months’ statements?” Melvin asked.

  Pratchett’s eyes reddened as he turned to Melvin, his hands clasped as if in desperate prayer or appeal. “We haven’t gotten a statement for the last two months. Our financial officer even went to the offices on Monday, trying to talk to someone in person when she couldn’t get anybody on the phone. A sign on the door said they were closed all week for the holiday.”

  “What’s the name of the firm?” I asked, hesitating to interrupt.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He slipped into his well-practiced role as host. “Manna Advisers.”

  I tried to maintain my cross-examination face and not reveal that this was the second time in two days I’d heard the name Manna Advisers, the first being the mention of Todd David’s position as secretary of the board.

  “What were they investing in?” asked Melvin. “Where did they put your money?”

  Pratchett shook his head as he answered. “I’m afraid I don’t have all the details. Greta, our financial officer, she can tell you more. She’s off today, but I can call her to come in, if you’d like. I wanted to make sure this was something you could help us with, before I brought anyone else in.” He didn’t sound as though he wanted her—or anyone else—in on the sworn-secret meeting. He just wanted everything to be okay.

  “We can talk to her later.”

  “She’s been warning me for some weeks now.” He knotted his fingers tight. That explained why he hadn’t wanted to include her. “I have to confess, I just brushed it off. You know how those finance types can be, always full of doom and gloom and disaster. I just thought it was another of her Chicken Little moments and it would pass when the sky didn’t fall.”

  He didn’t acknowledge that Melvin was also one of those conservative, cautious “finance types.” And Chicken Little was looking downright prescient.

  “From what I was told,” he said, “Manna Advisers mostly puts money into home loans. That was one of their attractions for us, home folks helping home folks live the American dream. Because they don’t have a lot of overhead, it being a local operation, they could afford to pay better returns.”

  I noticed a crinkle in Melvin’s brow, almost imperceptible but telling.

  “You want us to look into it, find out what’s happening?” Melvin asked.

  “I want you to get our money back.” Some of Pratchett’s animation and volume returned.

  “How much are we talking about? Ball park.”

  “Greta can tell you. To the penny, I’m sure. But it’s millions.”

  Melvin did a better job of hiding his surprise than I did, but not much better.

  “Where would you like it transferred?”

  Dr. Pratchett looked at Melvin like a drowning man offered a life preserver. “Um—back to the banks, one or both. Greta can tell you. You think . . .” He didn’t dare finish his thought, no matter how hope-filled.

  “Just wanted to know your preference so we can move quickly.”

  “I’ll have my secretary call Greta, tell her to contact you.”

  “Thank you.” Melvin stood to leave.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Pratchett.” I offered him my hand but didn’t accompany it with any of my usual reassurances that I’d take care of things. As it turned out, I didn’t have much I could offer, but the worry wrinkle between Melvin’s eyes told me he and I had read the same reality in Dr. Pratchett’s fears.

  As the two of us descended the broad staircase to the first-floor hallway, Melvin said, “Sorry I roped you in on this. I thought he suspected some kind of embezzlement. What he said on the phone was that he was afraid somebody was stealing their money. I thought the college might need some legal advice.”

  “What do you think? Has he just got cold feet because of a bad patch in the market? Or is somebody stealing their money?”

  “Lots to worry about here. The mortgage business in particular is struggling. I smell a general fishiness to all this. Smart money people return phone calls and answer questions. Otherwise, clients panic. In this case, there just might be something to panic about.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sounds like Manna Advisers is offering interest-only or variable rate mortgages to people stretching to get into a house.”

  Even I knew that could be a risky business.

  “So Manna would charge higher interest to borrowers and pay higher returns to investors to offset the risk. Problem is, there’s been a bit of squeeze lately. Even a slight downturn in the economy, which we’ve seen locally with that plant closing in Anderson County, can push shaky borrowers over the edge.”

  “That would put a company that operates only in a limited region even more at risk.”

  “Exactly. If I had to guess, in order to offer such high returns, Manna has also been investing in low-rated debentures—unsecured loans which carry high risk.”

  The forecast for Ramble College’s endowment was gloomy.

  We exited into the bright sun and the heat. The lawn mower had done its work, smoothing the emerald carpet of grass stretched out along the broad alley of oak trees.

  I wondered how far Spencer Munn’s office was from the hallowed halls of administration. I couldn’t see Dr. Pratchett consulting a professor about the college’s woes. Spence was probably one of those smart-assed economists who doubted the history-professor president’s business acumen. With good reason.

  Melvin opened the passenger door for me. “Have you had occasion to meet Eliot Easton?”

  His voice was casual, but the question hit me from an unexpected direction. “Why do you ask?”

  He couldn’t miss the surprise in my voice. “He’s the one who bought controlling interest in Manna Advisers from Dr. Pratchett’s friend. I just thought you might have heard of him.”

  Wednesday Morning

  I stood frozen, trying to reorder what I knew and whether it was important.

  “What is it?” Melvin looked worried as he stared down at me, his hand on the car door. He looked as though he feared I was about to throw up on his upholstery.

  “If something has happened to the college’s money, this Eliot Easton’s the one who stole it?”

  “I doubt it was stolen. Mismanaged would be more likely. That’s how these things usually develop.”

  “Then he’d be the one who mismanaged it?”

  “He’s the top dog. The buck-stops-here boss. That doesn’t mean he’s hands-on or he’s the one directly responsible. Remember the young banker stationed in Singapore who brought down the British financial giant Barings Bank? The guys in charge didn’t call the shots, and they certainly weren’t responsible for the Kobe earthquake that sent Asian markets into a spiral, but they were the ones who let a kid run up a couple hundred million in losses with no internal controls to monitor it. So who really bankrupted Barings? The kid or his bosses?”

  I remembered a little about the case. “It shouldn’t amaze me that one person can have that much power over that much money, but it does. The guy at Barings wasn’t even stealing for his own benefit, was he? Imagine what’s possible with bad intentions.”

  Melvin, still holding the car door for me, said, “The intentions are seldom pure. Leeson, the kid banker, got huge bonuses
for his performance at Barings. He would’ve gotten even more if the cards had fallen the way he’d projected instead of tumbling back on top of him. Some do it for the power. A few are simply incompetent. But there’s always some risk they shouldn’t be taking.”

  “Greed is good, as long as the cards stay stacked or fall the right way?”

  Melvin gave a wry smile. “I don’t think of my motivation, for myself or my clients, as greed. I have to admit, though, that I can’t really think of another word to describe it. It’s a question of degree, isn’t it?”

  “Most of life is, isn’t it?” I climbed into the passenger seat.

  He nodded, thoughtful, as he closed the door.

  During the drive back to our offices, I mulled over how Spence Munn would answer the question about whether greed is good or a balance along a continuum. I also wondered how well he knew Eliot Easton. Did he just eat at Easton’s restaurant and enjoy his wine selection? Or did he know anything about Easton’s investment company? Could he help Melvin get some answers?

  I didn’t offer up Spence’s name to Melvin. I didn’t know Spence well enough or enough about his business to volunteer his assistance in unraveling Ramble College’s problems.

  The phone message light was blinking insistently on Shamanique’s desk when I entered the office. Shamanique wasn’t at her desk, and I hoped she was off somewhere having fun, though not enough fun to get her on the wrong side of her aunt.

  The only message on the machine was from Eden Rand, in a voice so shrill it was difficult to catch every word.

  “Avery! Are you there? Pick up! They’ve arrested Rog! That dumb-ass sheriff came to his house this morning and hauled him away in a patrol car. He was probably handcuffed. Who knows what’s happening to him! They won’t let me in to see him. You’ve got to do something!”

  She hadn’t taken a breath from the time she yelled my name to the time her message clicked off.

  Her visceral anxiety gave me a chill. I pictured her storming the Bastille of the Law Enforcement Center. I thought I’d made myself clear when I last talked to her. Her presence—at the jail or in his life—would not advance Rog’s cause. Having another woman could create in some minds a motive for Rog to want his wife out of the way.

  I looked in the file for Eden’s phone number because she hadn’t bothered to leave one with her message. She didn’t answer, so I gave my orders to her answering machine.

  “Eden. Back off. Leave Rog alone. Do you understand? You aren’t helping. I’ll be back in touch.” I hope she didn’t ignore the anger in my voice. Not that I believed it would do any good.

  Lord, help Rogert Reimann. I’d rather be interrogated by L. J. Peters and face life in prison than spend life in the commanding, desperate, lovelorn clutches of Eden Rand.

  Rudy answered when I dialed his cell number. “You the one talking to Rog Reimann?” I asked.

  “News travels fast.” Rudy said. “What’s it to you?”

  “Has he asked for counsel?”

  “No. But he hasn’t said much of anything else, either, which is really pissing L.J. off. Talking to this guy is like trying to nail goop to the wall.”

  “Are you holding Rog?”

  “Naw. He’s already back home.”

  “Is L.J. going to charge him? For something that’s probably not even a murder?”

  “I know, I know. Statistically speaking, it was an accident.”

  “You ever waded out in that stream?”

  “Hell, no. Got better sense than that.”

  “Every year in the Appalachian Mountains, some hikers don’t have your kind of sense,” I said.

  “Speaking of not having any sense, how did Reimann get hooked up with that crazy Rand woman?”

  So Eden had made her presence known. Rudy didn’t seem to be jumping to any conclusions, though.

  “I think she’s the one that’s got the hooks out,” I said. “I don’t think he’s got a clue.”

  Rudy snorted again.

  “See you later,” I said.

  My phone rang as soon as I hung up. I answered, expecting Rudy’s voice. Instead, I got an earful of Eden Rand.

  “Avery! Have you heard anything else about that life insurance policy? Rog is going to need a criminal lawyer, and he needs one of the best. That costs money but, with the funeral and the moving expenses and the new mortgage, he simply hasn’t got the cash for that.”

  “Where are you, Eden?”

  “At Rog’s. They brought him home a while ago, but the way they acted, they’ll be back. He’s a stranger in this hick county and that makes him vulnerable, an easy solution for a sheriff who’s getting heat about closing a case.”

  She’d been watching too many made-for-TV movies, or she’d bookmarked too many conspiracy Web sites.

  “Nobody’s pressuring the sheriff. She’s just doing her job.”

  “They refused to let him call a lawyer. I kept insisting that they let him, but they refused.”

  “Did Rog ask for a lawyer?” I emphasized Rog’s name. She didn’t answer that question. She wouldn’t listen if I explained that he had to ask for a lawyer, that she couldn’t do it for him.

  “They’ll be back and he needs to be ready. He needs money to defend himself—a lot of money, unless he wants to risk being railroaded.”

  “Eden, there’s plenty of time before that becomes a risk.” I took a deep breath to clear my ire. “Eden, you’ve got to back off. Having someone who isn’t his wife at his house, involved in his personal business, is going to look suspicious. You’re giving them a convenient motive, Eden. Do you understand that?”

  If I’d been talking to her in person, I’d have grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her. Not that it would’ve had any more effect than my words. “I left a message on your answering machine at home. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten it.”

  “He needs somebody, Avery. Who’s going to take care of him? He’s in shock.”

  “Eden, for Rog’s sake, you need to back off.”

  “Well, that’s just more evidence that I made the right decision. I told Rog you really didn’t have the experience to represent him. He needs someone with a killer instinct, someone who isn’t part of the good ol’ boy network around here. Rog will be looking elsewhere for representation.”

  “That’s a good idea, Eden. I wish him all the best.” I hung up the receiver. I wished him luck in more ways than she knew.

  Rog had a house and a job with a good salary. He should have money. He’d been behind or late on his payments lately, but Shamanique hadn’t found anywhere he was squandering cash. Maybe his life—and bank account—weren’t the open book to Eden that she thought they were. Something just didn’t make sense.

  The jangle of the front door startled me. Shamanique pushed into the outer office, breathless and glowing with perspiration and excitement.

  “Thank the Lord, you’re here. I found him.”

  She actually hopped like a lanky chocolate bunny on her wooden stilt shoes, her hands up in a praise dance.

  “Who?”

  “Burt Furder. That’s who.” Her polished white teeth glistened in a gotcha grin.

  “A new boyfriend?” I got her back.

  She rolled her eyes. Her gleeful bouncing ended in a shudder. “That’s just gross.”

  “Prune Man? You found out who he is?” I felt like joining her in hopping with glee.

  “Yep. None other. I want you to talk to this lady yourself. She said it was okay if I called her back today. You won’t believe this unless you hear it for yourself.”

  She marched around her desk, punched the speaker phone button, and dialed a number she pulled from a shoulder bag sparkling with all manner of spangles and chains.

  “Hello?” The voice broadcast into the room sounded as though she was glad the phone had rung, a sentiment I’m sure my voice seldom reflects.

  “Miz Strange? This is Shamanique Edwards.”

  “Hey, there! And I told you, call me Dana. Dana
B. Strange. I married him for the last name, but the first one is mine.” Her laugh spread through the office along with the morning sun, filling the cool crevices.

  “I’ve got Avery Andrews here, the lawyer I was telling you about?”

  “Hey, Avery.”

  “Miz—Dana. Thanks so much for taking time to talk to us.”

  “Twice,” said Shamanique.

  “I’m just so thrilled to hear that you found Burt. Not that he was exactly lost, I guess. You know what I mean.”

  “We have been a bit—puzzled—as to how he got—misplaced,” I said. I wasn’t sure of her relationship with the dearly mummified, and I didn’t want to be insensitive.

  “It’s quite a tale, I can tell you. Shamanique and I spent some time last evening piecing together his journey. He’s better traveled than I am, and that’s saying something.”

  I settled into a chair and smiled over the desk at Shamanique. From the expectant grin on Shamanique’s face, I knew I was going to enjoy this story. I also couldn’t wait to hear how she had tracked down all the pieces.

  “How did you know Burt?” I asked.

  “Never did in life. He’d already passed by the time I made his acquaintance—and more particularly, that of his wife, Eufala. I was fifteen at the time, so it was about 1960. I remember it well, because that’s the summer I left home and took off with the carnival when it left town. That’s another story, but that’s how I first met Eufala, and we ended up working the same midways for years afterward.

  “Probably just as well I didn’t know Burt in life. He had something of a reputation—petty theft, bad to drink and cause a ruckus at times. But Eufala had a certain fondness for him. Or a strong sense of duty.

  “He got hisself shot to death in a brawl somewhere in Texas. That was sometime back in the thirties. It was the Depression and his poor wife—Eufala—didn’t have two nickels to rub, much less what the undertaker wanted for fixing him up. Apparently Burt’s family was in bad straits and couldn’t pay for the embalming that the undertaker had done, so Burt just laid there, all dressed up and no place to go.