“Oh sorry, did I wake you?”
Michael dropped back down and threw his arm over his eyes. “You’re evil.”
“Time to get up. It’s after eight.”
“Go away and leave me here to die in peace.”
Elizabeth’s ringing cell phone cut off her reply. She looked at the caller ID before answering. “Hi, Amy, what’s up?”
“You better get down here. The clinic has been broken into.”
“Did you call the police?”
“They’re on their way.”
“What’s missing?”
“Nothing that I can tell so far, but it’s a mess.”
“All right, I’ll be there soon.”
Elizabeth’s earlier mission to torture Michael all but forgotten, she gave him a quick rundown of the conversation, while gathering her things to head out the door.
She made it to work in forty minutes and pushed open the front door of the clinic to find it just as Amy described—a mess. The chairs were tipped over, drawers opened and the contents pulled out and sprawled across the floor, and supply cabinets were stripped completely bare. Rosa, Danny, and others were up-righting the furniture and making piles of the paperwork and files that were thrown about. Amy stood in the corner with two police officers who were diligently taking notes, and Elizabeth approached them.
“Hi, I’m Elizabeth Campbell, the supervising—” Before she could finish, Elizabeth’s mother made her entrance with her usual flair, and all heads turned in her direction.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, and everyone stood still hoping to avoid her wrath. She paid them no attention, her sights set on the police officers.
“Uh, never mind, you can talk to her,” Elizabeth said sympathetically as she and Amy backed up to give her wide berth. “So what’s happening?” she asked Amy.
“Someone pried open the front door and basically trashed the place.”
“Anything missing?”
“I don’t think so. The police think it was someone looking for money or drugs.”
SILC was located in the seedier part of town, so the assessment seemed logical. “They sure were thorough. No drawer or cabinet left unturned.”
From what Elizabeth could garner from the conversation between her mother and the police, which wasn’t difficult to overhear given her mother’s state, SILC’s alarm system was only a few days away from being installed, waiting on the rewiring of the new kitchen, which proved fortuitous for the burglar. Unfortunately for the police officers, her mother found their patrolling of the neighborhood lacking, and if Elizabeth heard correctly, they were grounded.
She felt pity for the officers, but not enough to intervene as self-preservation kicked in, and she moved into her own office to assess the damage. Her office looked like a snow globe that had been turned upside down and shaken, and she moved to BD, which was resting on its side, and up-righted the chair, soothing apologies for its mistreatment. She had to give her mom credit though; the new seat cushion remained firmly in place.
She spent the next hour cleaning and reorganizing her office, as the rest of the staff and construction workers did the same under her mother’s command. She had no doubt that SILC would be back in business by lunch. She was placing her files in alphabetical order in her filing cabinet when a knock on her partially opened door drew her attention.
“Come in,” she said without turning.
After placing the last file in the cabinet, Elizabeth finally turned to acknowledge her guest. Rich stuck his head through, followed by the rest of his body, and assessed the state of her office.
“Oh hi, Rich, sorry. I thought you were one of the workers.”
“What happened?” he asked as he started picking up loose pens and pencils that were strewn on the floor near the door.
She offered what little information she knew and relieved him of the writing utensils in his hands and redeposited them into the cup on her desk. “Have a seat.” She wasn’t expecting him, but his visit was a welcome reprieve.
Rich dropped a thick manila folder on her desk as he sat. “This is the information I pulled on the Lawton Plantation, also known as the White Horse Plantation because of the stables it kept in its heyday. It’s basically been maintained by the same family since it was built in 1840 by Frederick Lawton.”
Elizabeth nodded at the information she already knew and reached for the folder, which appeared to contain a series of property transfer deeds and tax records. She thought it best not to ask how he obtained some of the documents.
“There isn’t a lot there about the early years. But what I pieced together, the property survived after the Civil War through sharecropping and continued in that existence until the 1950s, when it fell into arrears with its property taxes, and the government sought to seize it.”
“So the government took over the property?”
“No, just as the property was going on the auction block, the recently widowed Josiah Webb paid the back taxes and interest and moved to the plantation.”
“So, why did he wait and let it fall into arrears?”
“Looks like he was broke. He didn’t seem to have any type of profession, at least nothing I could see in the records, but his wife had some family money, which he inherited when she passed away.” Rich took the folder from her hands and flipped through the documents. “Here’s her death certificate.”
After reading the typewritten page, she looked at him. “She died of unknown causes. How does she die of an unknown cause?”
“Now look at the date that the property taxes were paid on the plantation.”
“About a month after her death. So we think there might be some foul play in his wife’s death? Why did he care so much about the property? It would seem like such a burden.”
“I asked myself the same question, so I did some more digging.”
Elizabeth could only smile. Rich was worth his weight in gold.
“It seems Mr. Josiah Webb had a history of skirmishes with the law when he was younger. He was a vocal segregationist and many of his arrests related to his cause.” He emphasized the last word by making quotation marks with his fingers. “There seemed to be concern about possible activities that were taking place on the property.”
“How do you know?”
“There were three more property liens filed by the government during the five-year period prior to Webb’s death, but each time Webb managed to catch up on his taxes.”
“What’s unusual about that? You said the government nearly auctioned the property off at one point. I’m guessing he ran out of his wife’s money, so he was struggling to keep up with the taxes.”
“Yeah, but that was after years of nonpayment of taxes. The other three times occurred in a short period of time immediately after Webb defaulted on the taxes, like they were just waiting for the opportunity to seize the property.”
“And if the government gained control of the property, no search warrant was needed,” Elizabeth finished. She wasn’t surprised at the government’s interest in the home given the Confederate flag and weapons she found, but guessed law enforcement was dealing in suppositions on Webb’s activities, which wouldn’t be enough to gain a warrant, and they were trying to find creative ways to access the property.
“From there, it seems Webb came into another source of money because thereafter he kept up with the property taxes.”
“What was the source of income?”
“Nothing he was willing to report because there is nothing documented.”
“So what became of these suspicious activities?”
“Nothing, from what I can tell. In September 1963, Josiah Webb died in a horseback riding accident on the plantation. The last page in the folder is his death certificate.”
She turned to the document and studied it. “This doesn’t make sense. Josiah Webb didn’t keep any horses on that property. According to Samuel, he was allergic and hated them.”
He stared at her for a moment
. “Oh right, the caretaker.”
“With Webb’s death, who owns the property now?”
“Bounty Ministries,” he answered. “It’s a religious nonprofit founded by Webb about six months before he died. He transferred the title of the property to this foundation. Claimed it was a religious retreat.”
“He was looking for the tax breaks to keep the government off his back.”
“That would be my guess.”
“What do we know about this foundation?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Rich was in his element. “After Webb’s death, control of Bounty Ministries passed to Jefferson Webb.”
“Webb’s son?”
“Exactly, and it continued to exist as a religious organization with a small but consistent following, nothing notable, until about five years ago, when Jefferson died and Reverend Rick Peterson took the helm. He turned the fledgling organization into a televangelical church that broadcasts on some off-brand cable channel, and it’s following has grown.”
“I know of him.” Elizabeth remembered the debate she heard on the radio. “He’s an ass. What’s his relationship to Webb?”
“He’s Webb’s grandson. Appears he not only gave the church a new look, but also changed his name from Webb to Peterson, his mother’s maiden name, probably for better ratings. And according to their website, they’re looking to break ground for construction on a new site for its flagship mega church.”
“Where’s the money coming from?”
“Donations. It’s one of those pay to pray churches.”
Before Elizabeth could offer a response, Rosa rapped on the open door and walked in with a small stack of papers in her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you, but this came in over the fax, and it looked important.”
Elizabeth accepted the papers and thumbed through them. “Oh, this is timely. It’s from the DA’s office. It’s the police report and investigative notes on the 1963 murder.” She looked up to further elaborate, when she realized that her words were falling on deaf ears. Rich’s eyes were locked onto Rosa and his mouth hung slightly ajar, which she would have found inappropriate if Rosa wasn’t returning the gaze. She stared between them for a moment before realizing that they were probably waiting for a proper introduction. “Oh sorry, uh, Rich Porter, this is Rosa Sanchez.”
Rich stood, nearly knocking over his chair, and thrust out his hand. Rosa gingerly accepted with a small giggle. “So, have you been working here long?” Rich asked, flustered, still holding her hand.
Feeling like a voyeur, Elizabeth looked away to give them some semblance of privacy and realized that the best course of action was to vacate the room. She excused herself, but it didn’t matter because she no longer existed. She closed the door behind her, then nearly ran into Danny who was carrying a small table with a stack of books precariously balanced on top. “Uh, that’s not going to end well.”
“What?” He turned, and as if on cue, stumbled over a box resting on the floor and the books were sent flying across the room.
“Never mind.” She walked on in search of a bit of peace to review the faxed documents. She ducked her head into a few rooms but found every space bustling, and finally settled in a supply closet. She strategically left the door partially open to allow for enough reading light, but still provide privacy.
Engrossed in her reading, she didn’t notice Camille poking her head through the open slot and jumped at the sound of her voice. “If you’re going to play hide-and-seek, you might let others know; otherwise you’ll be sitting here all day.”
“Damn, I knew I was doing something wrong.”
“So why are you in here?” Camille asked. “What’s wrong with your office?”
“It’s was occupied,” she said as she stood.
Camille followed her to her office, and Elizabeth handed over the faxed documents. “This is the police and investigation reports from the 1963 murder. There isn’t much there.”
Camille nearly snatched it from her hands and read the pages. When she reached the end, her shoulders sank. “This is it?”
“Seems so.”
“So now what?”
“Let’s see if there is anyone who still remembers the case.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I know, I know.” Elizabeth argued with her voice-automated navigation system that urged her to turn around because she passed the address. After completing a U-turn, she pulled into the asphalt driveway and assessed her options for parking, which were to squeeze in between parked cars near the entrance or park in the far corner with multiple open spaces under a tree. Corner it was.
Several elderly people sat on wooden benches that lined the walkway, and she could hear snippets of their conversations as she passed. The group consensus of the women on the first bench was that Mrs. Jensen couldn’t possibly be only seventy-five. Two men on the second bench argued about who cheated during the prior evening’s game of pinochle. However, it was the third bench that caught her attention. Apparently, the woman in room 3B was seen sneaking out of 3F in the middle of the night, all the while having not-so-secret relations with the man in 2A, but 3F was seen two nights ago cozying up to the woman in 1G, who was purportedly sleeping with 2A. She had to slow her pace to catch the last of it because she didn’t want to miss out. Wow, who knew Crestview Assisted Living could be so much fun.
After crossing the comfortable, well-furnished lobby, she was greeted by a perky twenty-something woman behind a counter. The room had the feel of a hotel rather than a retirement home.
“Hi, I’m here to see Jack Rourke. He’s expecting me.” She called the retired detective after finally tracking down the sole surviving member of the investigation team from the 1963 murder case, and she was not only pleased to learn that he remembered the case, but was willing to talk about it.
“Yes, he mentioned that he was expecting a visitor. He’s in the game room. Go down the hallway, and it’s the first door on the right,” the woman said with a great deal of enthusiasm.
“Okey dokey,” Elizabeth responded, which caused her to smile to herself. The woman was rubbing off.
She followed the woman’s directions and stood in the entryway of a large room with multiple tables on one side, a pool table in the middle, and a collection of small couches and stuffed chairs around a widescreen television on the other side. The room was half full with residents dispersed throughout the tables and couches, and in between, there was a raucous game of pool underway between two men. Unsure which of the men was the retired detective, she asked a group of women at the closest table, and without lifting her head from the set of cards in her hand, a woman pointed in the direction of the shouting in the middle of the room.
Elizabeth approached a man holding a pool stick at his side heckling his mate, who was bent over preparing for a shot. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth Campbell. I am looking for Jack Rourke.”
“That would be me,” the man replied, as he used his pool stick to prod his friend in the backside.
“Knock it off, Jack,” the friend grumbled as he turned to face his opponent. “Elizabeth!” Recognition crossed the man’s face as he stared at her with a wide smile.
“Mr. Donovan?”
“It’s George, remember? We’re on a hugging basis.” He tossed the stick on the table and reached out to wrap his arms around her.
She couldn’t help but allow him to engulf her, and she returned the hug. She really liked him and could see much of Grace in him when she wasn’t being Detective Donovan.
“So you live here?”
“Home sweet home. What brings you here?”
“Well, I actually came to speak with Mr. Rourke.”
“Who? Oh, him.” He pointed to his friend. “He’s no mister. He’s just Jack.”
“He’s right. Call me Jack,” he said, inserting himself into the conversation. “So what’s the interest in that old case?”
“Is there someplace else we can talk that’s a bit more private?” Elizabeth asked.
Elizabeth and George followed Jack down the hall to an elevator that took them to the second floor. She wasn’t sure how appropriate it would be for George to be part of the conversation, given that he was Grace’s father, but he seemed so happy to see her that she didn’t have the heart to exclude him. After exiting the elevator, they made a left and abruptly stopped in front of room 2A. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the bench conversation about the love connections, and if she remembered correctly, 2A prominently stood in the middle of it. She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Elizabeth answered.
“Come on in.” He opened the door and gestured for her to walk in front of him. She took in the room, which consisted of a kitchenette in one corner, a small sitting area with a television next to a window, and a double bed in the middle. She couldn’t help but look at the bed and think again of the legend of room 2A.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Jack.”
“Of course. So what can I do you for?” He motioned her to the couch and sat next to her.
She pulled out the file of the first murder investigation and handed it to him. “I’m currently working on a case in which my client is accused of murdering this woman.”
“You mean they finally solved this case fifty-some years later?”
“Nooo, I mean that my client is accused of killing this woman last month.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, which is why I’m here.”
Elizabeth studied the reports and there were several glaring issues that she thought should have raised red flags from the beginning. The police report consisted of two pages and the facts, which were sparse, consisted mainly of noting the victim’s physical appearance and clothing. There was little information about the murder weapon or the injuries sustained. However, what was even stranger was the fact that the police report was dated more than a week after the murder and there were no names anywhere on it. It didn’t specify who the responding officers were, who the coroner was, or even who authored the report. The only two names contained in the entire file were on the subsequent investigation report—Detectives John Stalworth and Jack Rourke. Based on her research, John Stalworth passed away more than ten years ago, and this left her with Jack, the only known remaining member of the investigation team.
Secrets of the Last Castle Page 12