The Gold Coin

by Eddy Rogers

  “The ranch equation’s tough,” Johnson said, putting on his investment banker hat. “We could list it for sale now at a low market price and see what happens, but if the property sits there for very long, the listing’ll go stale and people will stop looking. Keeping the property going for a year or two may be the best alternative. That’ll let people forget the killings that happened there. We’d list it later, hoping for a buyer who doesn’t care that murders took place in the main house years ago. A simple equation of balancing the costs of keeping the ranch up against the hoped-for increased price we can sell it for in a few years.”

  Johnson paused to gobble down the tacos he’d ordered. After taking a long drink of tea, he continued. “If I keep it, I don’t think I’d keep coming up here. Not my thing — I like the tempo of the big city. Since the probate’ll take a while anyway, I’ll hang on to the ranch for now. Besides, I have to figure out what to do with Paul. I can’t kick him off the ranch before he gets his share. I hate to let him continue with his drug problem, but he’s not family. We could give him an advance or even his full share early. No reason to think that he committed matricide. He’s had an easy life and wouldn’t do anything to end that. I just don’t want to deal with him long term.”

  “Well, let me get back to the probate process. The mundane part of probating an estate is all the detailed stuff. Each asset, except small value items, needs to be valued. Expenses have to be summed up, including funeral expenses and probate costs. Within a year of Betty’s death we have to file an inventory of the assets and liabilities. I figure you’ll want me to ask the judge to seal the inventory so it’s not public,” I said. Johnson was smart, but I didn’t know how much he’d ever had to deal with probate matters.

  “Yeah, I’d want the inventory sealed,” Carroll said matter-of-factly. “As to the detail on the records, I can make speedy resolution of most of this. My secretary is smart and detailed. I’ll take the bank statements and the other records you got from Gus and get her to put everything on spreadsheets, along with an index of documents. We can digitize the documents, as we do in a public offering. We can then search for anything we want in the database.”

  I had to remember that the murder investigation was in high gear. “That’s great, but I’ll have to check with Bob if you want to take anything out of the house right now. He may want a deputy to look over the records for clues. Given the size of her estate, there’ll be an IRS audit of her estate tax return. The more they see that we’ve dotted the i’s and crossed our t’s, the quicker that audit will go. One more thing. We need to go to the Blanco National Bank and see whether the diamonds are still in in the safety deposit box. If they are, we need to get them appraised.”

  “Agreed.” Johnson replied. “We can run down to the bank after we meet with Hauffler.” Then he furrowed his brow and talked in a low voice. “I need to tell you about Betty and me and our arrangement on the front end here. This has got to be confidential, okay?”

  “Sure. I need to know.”

  “Betty and I loved each other but in an odd way. When we married, we were lovers and were close. As time passed, I realized that Betty was unique in many ways. She got a lot of wealth from her family, so she didn’t need any financial support from me. Or emotional support either, for that matter,” he said sadly. I felt sorry for him. He continued. “That made her quite independent. Being a wild extrovert, she loved to be in the company of others, particularly other men. Mind you, I’m no angel. I appreciate other women, and I’m exposed to temptation from women almost every day in my business. As time passed, I discovered that Betty had an intimate affair with one of our Houston friends. She also found out that I’d been having my own affair at the office with one of our junior analysts. Believe it or not, she found out through one of her girlfriends whose husband is a client of the firm. Amazing how people talk!”

  Johnson finished his plate and pushed it aside. “That happened more than two years ago. Both Betty and I had had enough of the sneaking around. That led to several long discussions about our future. We both realized that a divorce would be the worst outcome since we both cared for each other, perhaps in an unconventional way, so we agreed to live together but lead separate lives. We had already kept our assets separate, so we didn’t need a separation agreement. Not one of those “open marriage” sort of arrangements, but both of us realized that the other was going to have significant others. I hate to say it, but the relationships I’ve had since then have been enjoyable, discreet and easy to break off, since each of my woman friends knew I was married. We just enjoyed being with each other.

  “When she moved up to the ranch, according to the help, she started spending a lot of time with several men, particularly a minister and a distant cousin of mine who lives in Stonewall. Matthew Middlecoff. Maybe even Gus and Jake. I didn’t want to know the details. I wanted Betty to be happy. The arrangement worked well, with Betty coming to Houston periodically to show up for a local society bash or non-profit gala. For all that people in Houston know, we were a happy couple with a normal marriage. Believe me, I’m not the only guy in Houston living his life in posh River Oaks the way Betty and I did. Incidentally, I’m not at all unhappy with the way Betty left her money. That was her choice. My will was changed a long time ago leaving my estate to my siblings. But this discussion about our rather unique relationship doesn’t get us any closer to who killed her and why. Hauffler might shed some light on who he suspects.”

  Carroll’s soliloquy made me feel good. He’d make a good witness with Bob and, if need be, the probate judge. Everything he said made sense to me. “I’m glad you told me that up front, Carroll,” I said. “Since you’re not in need of money, we can wait on any distributions until we find out who killed her. The main estate question is going to be what you do with the ranch, but we can wait on that.”

  “Time to go see Bob Hauffler,” I said. I paid for our lunch and we got in my car, the good one, to go up a block to the sheriff’s office. The interview began routinely. Bob started off with the same Miranda warning he had given everyone else. Johnson didn’t react, remaining relaxed and confident. Being smart and world-wise, he didn’t need me to caution him about anything.

  Bob launched right in. “Mr. Johnson, tell me where you were the day that your wife was killed.”

  A bit taken aback by the abruptness of the question, Carroll replied. “I’ve thought back. That day, Wednesday, was like most days. I met with two clients, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Both clients were looking for money to do more drilling in the Permian Basin. I had lunch with the clients at the Coronado Club after the morning meeting. Then after the afternoon meeting, I caught up on my emails, texts and a few letters, prepared a few engagement agreements, and then gave it up and went home. Then I changed into casual clothes and drove to the River Oaks Country Club to meet a friend for drinks and dinner. I got home, alone, at nine, watched the news and went to bed.”

  “How about the next day?”

  “Same old same old. I got to the office a little after nine in my uniform — suit and silk tie, dress shoes, suspenders — you know. That day in the morning I caught up on my reading. A lot’s going on in the oil patch, not only fracking, but cost reductions and automated drilling, this time deeper. Blows my mind. Everything’s becoming digitized and put up in the cloud. Drilling superintendents can direct horizontal drilling from anywhere and don’t need to babysit a well being drilled anymore. Then I had lunch with several of my partners at a nearby restaurant, and in the afternoon at two I played golf with a couple of clients. That evening I went to my friend’s house for dinner. Left her a little after ten. I can give you the names of the people I’ve mentioned if you want them, so long as you keep the information confidential.”

  “Please do so,” said Bob. “It sounds like you have a close relationship with this friend. What’s her name? Tell me more about your relationship with her.”

  �
�Cynthia Carter and I are good friends. She’s an investment banker too and doesn’t want to get into a marriage, children and all that. We just enjoy each other socially . . . and physically.”

  Bob reacted to the physical reference. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Johnson then repeated what he told me of his relationship with Betty, including the implicit agreement that each of them could have extra-marital affairs. Bob seemed skeptical. I knew he was pretty traditional, a church-goer on top of that.

  “Those kinds of outside deals don’t lend stability to a long term relationship as far as I’m concerned,” Bob said. “Did you and Betty ever get into arguments, especially physical ones?”

  “Not really. Our greatest enemies were independence and apathy. Both of us had separate lives, friends and lifestyles, lifestyles that differed from that of most people. Gradually we both grew apart and went our own ways. If we got divorced, there’d be this stigma for both of us, and we both knew that divorces of high net worth, socially prominent people always turn bitter and expensive. Lawyers promote contentiousness in divorces, not focusing on the need for cordial, post-divorce relationships, especially if kids are involved. The bottom line’s that we had no reason to get a divorce, as far as both of us were concerned, so we kept on as good friends.”

  Trying to provoke Johnson, Hauffler asked, “You mean you didn’t mind Betty sleeping with multiple other males?”

  Johnson stiffened in his chair and then composed himself. “I’m not sure that’s what was going on. At the beginning I was irritated and angry, but as I said, I’m no angel myself, and as we grew apart, it just didn’t matter. I thought of Betty the same way I would think about a sister or first cousin sleeping around as she did.”

  “Okay. Final question. Please don’t be offended. Do you use drugs? Do you own any pistols? Any criminal history?”

  Carroll chuckled. “No on all counts, unless you classify alcohol as a drug. I’ve never owned any firearms, especially pistols. I have to be registered with the SEC because of what I do, and they keep a record of everything. You can check it out and run a criminal history on me, but you won’t find anything except a couple of speeding tickets. I got stopped once for DUI but the charged was eventually dismissed. I can’t afford to get in trouble, and the people I know who’ve gotten into drugs end up losing everything.”

  Apparently satisfied, Hauffler gathered up his papers on the table. “That’s all I have. Thanks to both of you for meeting with me.”

  We adjourned, and Carroll and I drove to the bank to open the safety deposit box. That’s always a hassle with any bank, especially one known for being particular. I gave the teller the death certificate, a copy of the will, and a certified copy showing that Carroll had been appointed as the executor. We finally got into the box, and sure enough we found probably twenty brooches, necklaces, rings and bracelets. They all looked as if they’d been made during the Art Deco period, and most were marked Van Cleef & Arpels. Carroll asked me to take them to a jewelry appraiser for valuation. I nervously accepted but only after we scrawled out a rough inventory of each of the items.

  Johnson relaxed then. He felt that his meeting with Hauffler had gone well. He must have felt the same way with me and the estate business. I couldn’t think of anything more we needed to talk over.

  “If there’s nothing else, I need to talk to Gus and the help,” Johnson said. “Then I’ll head back to Houston. As you can understand, I’m not comfortable sleeping in the house Betty was murdered in. Boring here too. Thanks for your help. He looked at me straight in the eyes. I hope you don’t judge me too harshly because of the way I live and the way Betty and I got along.”

  “I’m the last one to judge people. I’ve had my ups and downs too.”

  “Goodbye then.” And with that he was gone.

  6

  I rolled up into my driveway twenty minutes later. I’d been thinking all the way home from the bank about my lunch with Johnson and his interview. All very smooth. If he and Betty were good friends, he sure didn’t seem all that upset over her death. Could be that Carroll Johnson was wearing a mask, hiding the real Carroll Johnson. On the other hand, he might just be cold and hard, like most investment bankers. Cocktail time at least for me, but today a front had blown through, pushing temperatures to the low fifties, too cool for hanging out in the gazebo.

  Carla rushed up as I got out of the car, excited and radiant. “What’s up?” I said.

  “I did a pregnancy test a while ago, and it says we’re going to be parents! Congratulations, Dad!”

  “That sure didn’t take long!” I said awkwardly. I didn’t know what else to say, so I hugged her and congratulated her. My mind was reeling. I calculated that I’d be sixty-three when this one got his or her driver’s license. After the excitement abated, Carla put two big potatoes in the oven, and I was deputized to grill steaks. Carla wouldn’t even have a glass of wine, but I feasted on a whole bottle of Becker chardonnay in celebration.

  The next day, I turned to taking care of city business. Being the Blanco city attorney involves two things: municipal court prosecutions and advising on the city’s business stuff. The latter involves contracts, employment issues, municipal law rules, and most importantly taking heat for the mayor and city council on controversial issues. Easy work, but it didn’t pay much. I think of what I do as my civic duty.

  The mayor wanted to meet. To get a little privacy, we lunched at the Blanco Bowling Alley Café, sitting in the back next to the lanes where no one could hear us. They don’t make many like Mayor Jim Roberts. Jim’s a great guy, devoted to the city and his family. His day job as athletic director at the Comal County High School gave him time to address city matters. He was pushing fifty-five, and his hair, what was left of it, was still dark brown. He had the physique of a thirty-year-old. Energetic and personable, everyone liked him, but he had a certain toughness of mind that allowed him to get things done without pissing everyone off. A great coach for his football kids. Like most men in their fifties, he carried a bit more weight than he should have, in part because he was devoted to Miller Lite as his main source of fluids and potassium. Not that he drank to excess. I never saw him affected by his beer.

  “I could spend my whole day, every day, handling problems here at the city, but my school job won’t let me,” Jim said. “My biggest city problem? Some fool in the distant past figured we needed a comprehensive building code, so the city council passed the ‘Uniform Development Code’ without thoroughly vetting it. Turns out it was a carbon copy of the code for Katy, Texas, a suburb of Houston, and it has all sorts of things wrong with it. There’s no end of disputes over what types of homes can go on property — trailers the most controversial — and how many homes can go on one piece of property. It’s the Planning and Zoning Commission’s job to take flak for me and the city council. They’re supposed to make recommendations, but lately, facing controversy, they and the council have been tossing the decision-making to me. That’s not making me popular.”

  “Couldn’t we set up a task force to review and revise the UDC to fit our small town?” I asked.

  “That’s the practical and reasonable solution, but the P and Z won’t take it on, and if we set up a task force, it’ll be populated by the town’s busybodies, retired people who’ve moved in here and have big city ideas.”

  I laughed. “Do what our Presidents and governors do then. Duck and delay the issues and leave them for the next poor soul in your office.”

  Jim groaned and looked at me with an air of resignation. “Good advice, but the people who want my job would be terrible for the city.”

  As Jim talked, we heard major siren blasts from the fire engines leaving their building, not a block away. Sounded like every available vehicle in the Blanco Volunteer Fire Department. “I wonder what that’s about,” I said to Jim.

  “I’ll check.” He called city hall. “A fire south of town
. Big building. Outside the city limits.”

  •••

  Blanco is so small that nothing that happens here ever hits the evening news on the Austin TV stations. This one was different. None other than Blaise’s Cowboy Church had burned. I found out later that his church, three thousand square feet, had been built by church members themselves, with the materials costs provided by Betty Longstreet. Bob called me after the fire and related the details of the fire just as Carla and I were getting ready for bed.

  “Doesn’t take a forensics team to tell what happened,” Bob said when he called. “The building was made almost entirely out of wood—two by fours, wood planking exterior, that sort of thing. Pier and beam deal with wood flooring. The fire started in the back of the building near where they put their trash. We found an empty metal gas can at the back, burned up with the rest of the place. Literally everything that wasn’t metal burned up. Blaise arrived not more than ten minutes after the fire trucks came to the scene. He had trouble controlling himself from crying, saying, ‘First Betty and now this. How am I going to get along?’ Seemed sincere. I had a hard time not believing him, but this could be an insurance fire he started himself.”

  “Blaise looks worse as a suspect in Betty’s killing with this happening,” I said. “He counted on Betty funding his church operation. With her arguing with him about God and the church, with her threatening to cut off her funding, it could be that he had to find a way to close out his deal and move on.”

  “My thought exactly. We’ll get Blaise back in for another interview.”

  After the call, I added up all the loose ends and the numerous suspects Bob had to deal with. We hadn’t made any progress. The next morning, however, I had an epiphany. We needed more information on each of these guys, so I called Ed Crowe of Crowe and Cassidy Private Investigations. Ed had been a critical player in Houston helping Larry and me sort out the people I was dealing with after four people died. Thanks to Ed, we discovered that one of the supposed suicide victims we dealt with had a serious criminal history. It changed the whole direction of our investigation.