Hour Game skamm-2

by David Baldacci

“Come on, you can see for yourself.”

  She led them out of her room and down the hall, where she opened another door. They found themselves in a room that reeked of cigar and pipe smoke. It was an intensively masculine room, Michelle noted. A shotgun rack hung over the fireplace, although there was no weapon on it. A pair of antique swords hung on another wall. They were crossed one over the other, forming a large X. There were several oil paintings of splendid horses. A pipe rack stood against one corner with a number of well-chewed pipes hanging from it. In another corner was a campaign desk and chair. The bed was small, and the nightstand next to it was stacked with magazines on fishing, hunting and science. One entire wall was devoted to photos of Bobby Battle. He was a tall, thick-chested man with dark, wavy hair and features seemingly cast in iron. In most of the photos he was either fishing or hunting, but there was one of him jumping out of a plane and another where he was piloting a chopper.

  Remmy waved her hand in front of her nose. “I’m sorry for the smell. We’ve aired it out for days, and the smell’s still there. It must be in the carpet and furniture by now. Bobby loves his pipes and cigars.”

  As Michelle looked around at Robert E. Lee Battle’s lair, images of the man seemed to flow to her apart from the photos: a bear of a man who lived life hard and took no prisoners. That such a man was lying now in a coma with bleak prospects of ever coming back made her very depressed, even though she’d never met him and was disgusted by his womanizing reputation.

  Michelle pointed to several photos of Battle with large groups of people. “What are those of?”

  “Some of Bobby’s employees. He was an engineer-turned-businessman. Holds over a hundred patents. Looking at this room, you might think my husband was all play and no work, but Bobby is, above all else, a hard worker. The things he invented, they all made money.”

  “When did you two meet?” asked Michelle. She added quickly, “I know it’s a personal question, but he seems such a fascinating man.”

  Remmy actually smiled at this. “He walked into my daddy’s clothing store in Birmingham, Alabama, forty-five years ago and announced that he’d seen me at several events and I was the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on and he was going to marry me. And he just wanted my daddy to know, although he said he wasn’t seeking permission, which was and in many ways still is the custom down there. He said the only person he had to convince of his intentions was me. Well, he did. I was only eighteen then and hadn’t seen anything of life, but I was no pushover. Yet he eventually won me.”

  “Quite the whirlwind,” said King.

  “He was ten years older than me. When we got married, he hadn’t made much money, but he had the brains to and the drive. He was special. And yet he wanted me.” This last part was said with surprising humility.

  “Well, it’s not like you weren’t quite a catch,” said King sincerely.

  “I suppose I was one of the very few to stand up to him. Oh, we had our peaks and our valleys like most folks,” she added quietly.

  Remmy opened a door and motioned them in. “Bobby’s closet.”

  The space was far smaller than his wife’s closet but was still elaborately built out.

  Remmy pushed back some pants hanging on rods and pointed to the side of one of the cabinets where a panel of wood had been broken out.

  “There’s a secret cupboard there, about the same size as the one in my room. One of the drawers in this large cabinet doesn’t go all the way back, you see. It’s pretty clever, because from the front it’s almost impossible to judge how deep the drawers are. And you can’t see the little keyhole on the side unless you’re looking for it. I’ve been in here a million times, and I never noticed it.”

  King shot her a glance. “So you didn’t know Bobby had a secret drawer?”

  Remmy looked like a woman who’d realized far too late that she’d said far too much.

  “No, I didn’t,” she said.

  “What was stolen?”

  “What does it matter?” she snapped. “I know what was stolen out of mine.”

  “Remmy, you mean you don’t know what Bobby kept in there?” asked King.

  She didn’t answer for a long moment. When she did, her tone was far more subdued.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Chapter 17

  “Okay,” said Michelle once they’d left the house. “A psychiatrist could write an entire textbook on just Savannah and Remmy’s relationship.”

  “Her not knowing what was in Bobby’s secret drawer is bugging the hell out of the woman,” said King as he glanced back at the mansion.

  “And while her closet was all broken up, Bobby’s wasn’t. That’s significant.”

  “Right. The person knew where Bobby’s secret cache was but didn’t have the key to open it.”

  Before leaving the house they’d spoken with Mason and the other household help. Their answers were incredibly consistent: they’d all been in the house in the rear grounds and had seen and heard nothing when the burglary occurred.

  King and Michelle got in the car, but instead of leaving, King steered his Lexus down the asphalt road leading to the rear of the property.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I met Sally Wainwright, the woman who handles the stables, at a horse event last year. Let’s see if she saw and heard nothing that night too.”

  Sally was in her mid-twenties, cute, petite but wiry with long brown hair that she kept in a ponytail. She was mucking a stall when King and Michelle drove up. She wiped the sweat from her face with a cloth and came over to the car.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” began King. “I spent the day with you at the charity dressage event in Charlottesville last year.”

  Sally smiled broadly. “Of course, I remember you, Sean.” She glanced at Michelle. “You and Ms. Maxwell here are pretty famous now.”

  “Or infamous,” replied King. He looked around at the stables and horses. “So do many of the Battles still ride?” he asked.

  “Dorothea never has. Eddie does quite a bit. He’s into Civil War reenactments and has to saddle up sometimes in those.”

  “Are you into that?” asked Michelle.

  Sally laughed. “I’m from Arizona. I could care less about the Civil War.”

  “I see Savannah’s home. She used to ride in competition, didn’t she?” asked King.

  A slight look of annoyance crossed Sally’s face. “She used to.” King waited expectantly to see if Sally would put a defining exclamation point on that comment.

  “She’s a great rider. Not so handy with mucking, grooming and dealing with people who didn’t grow up with silver spoons in their mouths.” Sally suddenly looked scared as though she’d spoken out of turn.

  “Not to worry, Sally,” said King supportively. “I know just what you mean.” He paused and added, “Does Mrs. Battle ride?”

  “I’ve been here five years, and she hasn’t saddled up once in that time.” Sally leaned on her muck rake. “I saw you drive in earlier. You just visiting?”

  King told her why they were there, and Sally’s brow clouded as she anxiously glanced in the direction of the main house.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

  “So you were in your house with Mason and the rest the whole time, I suppose.”

  “Right,” she said. “I go to sleep early. Have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “I’m sure. Well, if anything occurs to you, let me know.” He handed her one of his business cards. She didn’t even look at it.

  “I don’t know anything, Sean, I really don’t.”

  “Okay. You ever see Junior Deaver around here?”

  Sally hesitated and then said, “Couple times. When he was working here.”

  “You ever speak to him?”

  “Maybe once,” she said evasively.

  “Well, you have a good day, Sally.”

  They drove off. King looked in the rearview mirror at a very nervous Sally.<
br />
  “She’s not telling us something,” said Michelle.

  “That’s right,” answered King.

  “Where to now?”

  King pointed to a large house on the other side of the board-on-board fencing. “Two more Battles to go, and then we can call it a day,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  “So this is a carriage house,” said Michelle as she climbed out of King’s car and stared at the approximately five-thousand-square-foot red brick structure. “I always imagined them to be bigger,” she added sarcastically.

  “I guess it depends on the size of your carriage.” King glanced at the late-model silver Volvo station wagon parked in the motor court. “That’s Eddie’s car.”

  “Let me guess, you’re clairvoyant?”

  “No, but I see a Confederate soldier’s uniform and a painting easel in the back.”

  Eddie Battle answered the door and ushered them in. He was a big man, at least six-two and packing over 220 very muscular pounds. He had unruly thick dark hair and striking blue eyes, and his features were strong and weathered by the elements. The hair came from his father; his mouth and eyes came straight from his mother, Michelle observed. However, there was nothing of her sternness and cold reserve about him; indeed, his boyish manner was ingratiating. He reminded her of a handsome, albeit older, California surfer dude.

  He shook their hands and sat them down in the living room. His heavily muscled and thickly veined forearms were spotted with paint, and he was wearing what appeared to be cavalry boots with his faded jeans tucked inside them. His white work shirt had several holes in it and numerous paint stains; he was also unshaven. He seemed the antithesis of a rich man’s son.

  He chuckled when he noted Michelle staring at his footwear. “I was killed last week during an ill-advised charge against a fortified Union position in Maryland. I wanted to die with my boots on, and I can’t seem to muster the energy to take them off. Poor Dorothea is growing very annoyed with me, I’m afraid.”

  Michelle smiled and King said, “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

  “Nope. My mother called a few minutes ago. She filled me in. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. We were gone when the burglary happened. Dorothea was at a Realtor’s convention in Richmond. And I fought in a fierce two-day reenactment in Appomattox and then drove straight over to Tennessee to catch the early morning light over the Smoky Mountains. I was painting a landscape,” he explained.

  “Sounds pretty exhausting,” said Michelle.

  “Not really. I get to ride around on horses and play pretend soldier and cover myself in paint. I’m a little boy who never had to grow up. I think it pains my parents to see what’s become of me, but I’m a good artist, though I’ll never be a great one. And on weekends I play soldier. I’m privileged and lucky and I know that. And because of that, I try to be modest and self-deprecating. Actually, I have a lot to be modest and self-deprecating about.” He smiled again and showed teeth so perfect in shape and color that Michelle concluded they were all capped.

  “You’re certainly frank about yourself,” she said.

  “Look, I’m the son of fabulously wealthy parents, and I’ve never really had to work for a living. I don’t put on airs, and what I do I do as well as I can. However, I know that’s not why you’re here. So go ahead with your questions.”

  “Had you ever seen Junior Deaver around here?” asked King.

  “Sure, he did a lot of work for my parents. Junior’s also done work for me and Dorothea, and we never had a bit of trouble with him. That’s why I can’t understand the burglary. He was making good money off the family, but maybe not good enough. I understand there’s a lot of evidence tying Junior to the crime.”

  “Maybe too much,” answered King.

  Eddie looked at him thoughtfully. “I see what you mean. I guess I haven’t given the matter a lot of attention. We’ve been pretty preoccupied with family issues lately.”

  “Right. We were sorry to hear about your father.”

  “It’s funny. I always thought he’d outlive all of us. Mind you, he still might. The man’s used to getting his way.”

  There was a pause before King said, “This question might seem a little awkward, but I have to ask it.”

  “Well, I guess the whole situation is a little awkward, so fire away.”

  “Apparently, your father had a secret drawer in his closet that things were taken from. Your mother didn’t know about the drawer and thus didn’t know what might have been in it. Did you know about any of that?”

  “No. As far as I knew, my parents didn’t have any secrets from each other.”

  “Yet they kept separate bedrooms?” said Michelle abruptly.

  Eddie’s sunny smile faded. “That’s their business. It didn’t mean they didn’t sleep together or didn’t love each other. Dad smoked cigars and liked his room a certain way. Mom can’t breathe around cigars and she likes her things a certain way. It’s a big house, and they can do anything they damn well please in it.”

  King looked apologetic. “I told you it was awkward.”

  Eddie looked ready to bark at them again but then seemingly mastered this impulse. “I didn’t know about any secret drawer Dad had. But I’m not his confidant.”

  “Does he have a confidant like that? Maybe Savannah?”

  “Savannah? No, I’d cross off my little sister as a potential inside information source.”

  “I guess she’d been away at college,” prompted Michelle.

  “She’s been away all right and it started long before college.”

  “I take it you two aren’t that close,” said Michelle.

  Eddie shrugged. “It’s no one’s fault, really. I’m nearly twice her age and we have nothing in common. I was in college when she was born.”

  “Your mother mentioned to us what happened to you back then,” said King.

  Eddie spoke slowly. “I don’t remember much about it, to tell the truth. I’d never even seen the person who kidnapped me until they showed me his body.” He blew out a long breath. “I was really, really lucky. My mother and father were so happy when I got back they conceived Savannah. At least that’s the official family anecdote.”

  “Your mother said Chip Bailey became a good friend.”

  “He saved my life. How do you ever repay that?”

  King glanced at Michelle. “I know what you mean.”

  They heard a car driving up, and it screeched to a stop near the front door.

  “That would be Dorothea. She doesn’t like to waste time getting places,” said Eddie.

  Michelle glanced out the window and saw the big black Beemer. The woman who got out of the car was dressed in a tight, short black skirt with black shoes and black stockings, and her wavy hair color matched that ensemble. She took off her sunglasses, glanced sharply at King’s car and then headed to the door.

  Dorothea strode into the room in a pale—if jet-black—imitation of Remmy Battle, it seemed to Michelle. And then she wondered if the younger woman had consciously patterned herself after her mother-in-law in that regard. Fashionably thin with curvy hips, a round firm bottom and slender, sexy legs, the woman possessed a disproportionately large bosom that had doubtless seen professional work. Her mouth was a little too wide for her face and the lipstick a little too red for her pale complexion. The eyes were a dull green but shrewd-looking.

  Greetings and introductions were made all around, and then Dorothea drew out a cigarette and lit it while Eddie explained why King and Michelle were there.

  She said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sean.” Dorothea kept her focus on him and seemed to make a point of ignoring Michelle. “I was out of town when it happened.”

  “Right. Either everyone was gone or no one who was here seemed to notice anything,” said Michelle, baiting the woman on purpose.

  The dull green eyes shifted slowly toward her. “I’m sorry if the family and its hired help didn’t work their collective schedules aro
und Junior Deaver’s felonious pursuits,” she said in an icy and condescending tone. If she closed her eyes, Michelle would have sworn it was Remmy Battle speaking. Before Michelle could return fire, Dorothea looked back at King. “I think you’re hunting the wrong fox here.”

  “Just trying to make sure an innocent man isn’t sent to prison.”

  “Again, I think you’re wasting your time,” she shot back.

  King rose. “Well, I certainly won’t waste any more of yours,” he said pleasantly.

  As they left, Michelle and King heard raised voices behind them.

  Michelle looked at her partner. “I bet Battle holiday get-togethers are just a hoot.”

  “I hope I never find out for sure.”

  “So now we call it a day?” asked Michelle.

  “No, I lied. Next up is Lulu Oxley,” replied King.

  Chapter 19

  King and Michelle pulled up in front of a double-wide trailer set on a permanent cinder-block foundation at the end of a gravel drive. Electrical and phone lines running to the trailer were the only signs of a connection to the outside world. Scraggly pines and stunted wild mountain laurel formed a weary backdrop to the very modest home of Junior Deaver and Lulu Oxley. An ancient, rusted Ford LTD with a cracked vinyl top, an ashtray full of butts and an empty quart of Beefeater on the front seat and sporting dirty West Virginia plates sat in front of the trailer like a cheap sentinel.

  As they climbed out of the Lexus, however, Michelle noted that flower boxes lined the windows of the trailer and more pots covered with brilliant spring blooms sat on the wooden steps leading up to the front door. The trailer itself looked old, but the exterior was clean and in good repair.

  King glanced at the sky.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Tornadoes. The only time I got caught in one I was in a trailer in Kansas. There wasn’t a single blade of grass disturbed in the whole area, but that twister picked that trailer up and deposited it somewhere in Missouri. Luckily, I got out before the ride started. The guy I had gone to question about a counterfeiting ring chose to stick it out. They found him in a cornfield ten miles away.”