The Gold Coin

by Eddy Rogers

  •••

  I figured I should go to Johnson’s funeral in Houston despite the latest revelations. With him deceased, his share of Betty’s estate would go to his brothers unless I got the court to declare his estate ineligible for arranging Betty’s murder. Proving his involvement would be based on circumstantial evidence, and his brothers might contest Betty’s will distribution if I cut Carroll out of the will, especially if Pena didn’t tie him to the murder. At least I’d meet the people I’d have to deal with.

  The funeral beat all I’d ever been to, at St. John’s Episcopal Church, near the heart of River Oaks where the very wealthy, and Carroll Johnson, lived. The congregation represented a small slice of the upper-crust citizenry. All professionals and their spouses. Couldn’t tell the lawyers from the investment bankers. All very presentable, looking grim. I bet that there wasn’t a calloused hand in the church that day. A reception followed, and I made a point of looking up Johnson’s two brothers, Caleb and Sam. A reception line formed and I stepped in line. As anticipated, both looked different than Carroll, but both were as handsome and important-looking as Carroll had been. Given where we were, I just told them who I was and said I’d be in touch with them later, getting their contact information as I walked awkwardly through the reception line. To Sam’s right a beautiful woman stood, looking at me. She had light brown hair, tall at five nine, and a figure most women would die for. She had on a grey pin-stripe suit. Another investment banker.

  “Hello, Mr. Mariner. I’m Cynthia Carter. Carroll told me about you and your efforts to solve the Betty thing.” She couldn’t get up the nerve to say murder. “I worked with Carroll, and he may have mentioned me when you were quizzing him where he was that night.”

  “Yes, he did. I know you two were close, and I need to talk to you to finish up Betty’s estate. Could I get your contact information?”

  “Sure.” She turned around, dug in her purse and gave me her card.

  “Thanks.”

  I’d done my duty. Besides, I hate funerals, especially this one, a funeral for the prime suspect in killing my client. I left the reception as soon as I could, leaving the very proper crowd, hearing them talking loudly. . . many laughing off and on. Plenty of beer and wine too. Not my cup of tea.

  On my way back to Blanco, I pondered next steps. Johnson’s autopsy wouldn’t change anything unless he’d been killed by a bullet before he hit the concrete, a doubtful assumption. We still needed to get to the bottom of things. A plea deal with Pena wasn’t out of the question. As I’d told Bob, to me life without parole is greater punishment than a death sentence. Lengthy life terms cost society an extraordinary amount of money. Geriatric medicine has become a specialty in most prison clinics. I didn’t care whether Pena got life without parole or a death sentence, and none of Betty’s relatives would care either. I had to wrap this up and get it over with. I had other things to do, such as getting ready to father again. My mind meandered and then I had a thought. Would Cynthia Carter know the real truth about Carroll and his possible entanglement in Betty’s murder? I thought she needed time to grieve over Carroll’s death, even if I was anxious to find out what she knew. Meeting with her, I decided, was the next step, regardless of her grief.

  Carla and Larry greeted me with a steak dinner when I got home. I felt good luxuriating in familiar surroundings. How odd, I thought, that I had no longer harbored warm feelings toward Houston and didn’t miss living around pin-striped suits, as I had for years.

  Bob called the next morning. “Peterson called. The autopsy came in on Johnson. No alcohol, but he had a shit load of cocaine in his blood. Could be an accident, nothing more. He must have felt the noose tightening and committed suicide, taking the coke to stiffen himself to do the deed.”

  “Messy.” I brought him up to date on the funeral and the Johnson family, and I suggested that I find a way to interview Cynthia Carter informally.

  “Good idea. Bet she knows more than you think.”

  •••

  Much as I wanted to wrap up the Longstreet estate right away, subconsciously I knew that wouldn’t happen. Betty had named me alternate executor of her estate, so with Johnson dead, I became the executor and got that authenticated at the court house in Johnson City. Beyond that, I had to patiently wait for time to pass. After two weeks, I called Cynthia Carter. I’d decided that if I could interview her, I’d do it face-to-face. Too easy to avoid tough questions on a phone call.

  She answered my call. “I’ve had a hard time lately, as you can understand. It’ll take me a while to get over this. I understand you need to talk to me, but I’m not sure what I can contribute to figuring out Betty’s murder and Carroll’s possible involvement. Nonetheless, come on to Houston. I can meet with you tomorrow at two if that works for you.”

  “I’ll make it work. I’ll be in your office at two. Thanks.”

  The next twenty-four hours passed too slowly. As I drove to Houston, a number of questions rolled around in my mind, but I knew that anything I’d be saying to her would feel awkward. Her offices, the same ones Carroll had inhabited, were lush. Dark wood panels, expensive looking pictures of hunters shooting ducks and deer on the wall. Expensive leather chairs. Quite impressive. A world away from mine.

  “Hello, Mr. Mariner,” Carter said as she entered the foyer and greeted me.

  “Call me John. I appreciate your seeing me.”

  We walked into a conference room and sat at the end of a big conference table seated for a dozen or more.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “You already must know that Carroll told the sheriff that he was with you the night before and the night of Betty’s death. I assume that’s correct.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “The way he described it, your relationship with him was more than just professional.”

  Then the bombshell. Tears flowed freely. “A lot more. Carroll and I were going to get married.”

  “Really! Did he tell you he would divorce Betty?”

  “Yes. We were together for almost two years. Living together for all practical purposes, I mean. The truth is that we were together all through both nights.

  “I’d been urging him to get the situation with Betty resolved for a long time. Mind you, I had nothing against Betty, in fact I liked her the few times I met her. A real, genuine woman. Strong. Her lifestyle differed from most people, if you know what I mean, but I saw no reason for Carroll to put up with it. He couldn’t make up his mind. He didn’t want to deal with the fallout from a divorce, and he knew Byron Longstreet wouldn’t approve of the divorce even though he didn’t approve of Betty’s lifestyle. I could never get him off the dime. To tell you the truth, I told Carroll that the status quo couldn’t go on. I told him that if he didn’t go forward with the divorce by the end of the year, I’d have to move on.”

  “Did he tell you when he was traveling up to the ranch? Did you ever go with him?”

  “No reason for me to go with him, except that I knew that he and Betty were continuing their physical relationship, almost surely. I didn’t ask, but, you know, if she was sleeping around with anyone who came along, Carroll and I could catch something. I needed it stopped. But he didn’t go there to visit with Betty. He went there to look after business, often going early in the morning and coming home late at night. Taking care of the ranch took a lot of time.”

  “I have to ask, but did Carroll ever criticize Betty’s conduct with other men?” I asked gently. Her stern pose as a tough investment banker melted away as we talked.

  “Sure. He tired of being married to a wife who he thought was sleeping around with other men and worried that word would get around that he was a cuckolded husband. He knew Betty spent a lot of time with that minister and his cousin. And he knew of Betty’s needs because she strayed when they lived together in Houston. Our relationship was monogamous, exclusive. He just couldn�
�t bring himself to resolving things.”

  “Do you have a record of his trips, or does he have them in his records?”

  “No. I haven’t looked in his records, but since our firm’s calendars are accessible to everyone in the office, most of us don’t log in our personal meetings.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. I’m so sorry for your grief and your loss. Let me know if I can do anything for you. I’ll keep you up to date once we put the pieces together on Betty’s death.” I felt sorry for her somehow. I wasn’t sure others would feel the same way.

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  The trip home gave me time to think through our mystery. I called Larry to bring him up to date. He had news.

  “I began thinking about Johnson’s supposed accident and the coke he had in him,” Larry said. “HPD arrested Pena on Sunday night, three weeks ago. I went back to the cell records after locating the cell tower nearest Pena’s house. Johnson was there three times the previous twenty days, including the Saturday night before they arrested Orlando.”

  “Too bad the cash they seized can’t be traced. Part of it might have come from Johnson for the hit on Betty.”

  “We need to get the gang together and see whether we can put this puzzle together finally. I’ll call Bob and Jane and see whether we can meet tomorrow afternoon at headquarters. Carla’ll want to come just to listen since I’ve been so involved in this.”

  Everyone agreed to meet at eleven at Bob’s office, including Carla.

  We met in the large conference room at headquarters, as always five minutes before the appointed hour, as the hill country tradition dictated. I’d prepared for the meeting as if I was in court, presenting a case.

  I wanted to put on a bit of a show. “Ladies and gentlemen. I’ve gotten our little group together today to make an announcement. I’ve made a decision regarding Betty’s estate. I am disqualifying Carroll Johnson as a beneficiary on the grounds that he arranged the murder of Betty. The missing link to the murder got filled in yesterday. Motive. Cause. The motive seems obvious. Johnson got tired of Betty’s sleeping around, and his significant other, Cynthia, put pressure on Carroll to divorce Betty and marry her.

  I paused, then continued. “Why kill her? Carroll didn’t want a messy divorce. Betty liked things the way they were and would have gotten one of those high profile Houston divorce lawyers. He’d get a troublesome lawyer and the battle would be on. She might even claim a part of his ownership in his investment firm. Worse yet, Cynthia would have gotten dragged into the mess.

  “Then he has an idea. He knows Betty hoards gold and plans the perfect crime. A killer goes into Betty’s bedroom, takes the gold, kills her to eliminate any witnesses and takes off. Nothing to tie the crime to Johnson with one exception. The killers got in through the gate and not through the hole they’d cut in the fence. They knew where the bedroom was and where the gold was. The killer had to have inside information. Who gave them that information would remain a mystery had it not been for Bruto giving us his DNA.

  “Carroll knew he was a beneficiary of a quarter of her estate. Upon her death, everyone in Houston sympathized with poor Carroll. They didn’t know that the two of them had long been separated and lived different lives. After a couple of months, Johnson figures he’s free to marry Cynthia. As a bonus, he’s heir to five million. He’s resolved his female relationships and added to his wealth. End of story.”

  “Why the fires?” Carla asked.

  “Johnson did both of them. Now that we know he travelled from Houston just prior to each fire, I guess he lit the fires to put the blame for the killings on Blaise. Betty must have told him about Blaise and the church, but Johnson only met him once. The girls at the house could have mentioned to him how frequently Blaise came to the ranch. Who knows. So he burned the church down either in retribution or to create suspicion or both. The fire at our house he set too, to scare me away from asking questions and to create more suspicion of Blaise.”

  Jane had a big grin on her face and said, “John you’ve just nailed it. The cell records and Johnson’s connection with Pena I can prove up in court. Pena’s trial will need to establish motive, and we’ve got that now. I wonder where the gold went. Do you have any interest in working a plea deal with Pena?”

  “That’s up to you,” I said. If you do work a deal, getting the gold back would be a bargaining chip. Could be fifty thousand worth. I keep thinking that a plea deal would give us a sense of closure. The State could spend a bundle convicting him, then he’d go on death row and spend the next twenty years fighting his conviction, then get executed. On the other hand, if a higher court found a flaw in your trial, you might have to start over. Groom might even deliberately mess up his defense to create a reason for a later lawyer to appeal, claiming that Pena had poor legal representation. From a pure economic point of view, a plea deal makes sense.”

  Larry spoke up. “Hell, this means I’m out of a job here. Let’s celebrate. We can go to Ken’s Barbeque. At least they have beer there. I’ll pay and charge Cassidy and Crowley.”

  Lunch lasted two hours, with the entire gang in a festive mood. All of us felt a tremendous sense of relief that our journey was over. We were done with the murder. Life could return to normal. After we got back home, Larry packed up and went on his way. Peace and quiet had returned.

  Epilogue

  The day after our all-hands meeting clearing up who did what, I realized that although Betty’s killing had been solved, my involvement in the estate had just begun. As both the executor and lawyer for the estate, I had to sort out the assets, make distributions and close the estate.

  As mentioned before, the other beneficiaries besides Johnson were not the people I would have chosen to fall heir to a lot of money. My hands were tied, however. The one thing I did decide to do was sell the ranch, even at a discount. I listed the property with an Austin firm that specialized in ranch sales, figuring a rich Californian or a high tech Austin entrepreneur would take the bait, and three months after I listed it, a company bought the ranch. I looked them up, and they were a Houston firm that specialized in buying and breaking up large ranches, buying acreage low and selling smaller plots in twenty- to fifty- acre sizes, doubling their investment. So be it. I’d had enough of the old Lucky Strike ranch.

  Once I got rid of the ranch and had collected the liquid assets, I got my bill for my services together. I figured I should get a premium since I was key to solving the murder of my client, but then I wondered what I’d do with extra money. I’d learned my lesson. Avoid great wealth. Money in large quantities almost always creates a burden, not a benefit. Sure, I had another child on the way, and statistics show that parents spend a quarter of a million or more on each child, not counting college. I’d get that fixed over time.

  Paul Scranton had to leave his cushy dwellings on the ranch, but he inherited a third of the eighteen million left after my fee and court costs. I cleared over two hundred grand, which would pay for the new kid and then some. I made sure Larry got paid handsomely. I even gave a new service revolver to Bob. Pena had worked a plea deal, a life sentence with a minimum of thirty years in exchange for his describing Johnson’s involvement, so I never had any trouble with Cynthia or Johnson’s heirs over my cutting him out of the will.

  I thought Gus was the only actor in this scenario who deserved a payout. His bequest of two hundred grand didn’t change his life, but he said he planned to put the money away to build a retirement fund. Or, he said, he could buy a place of his own. For the time being, however, the new owner of the ranch hired Gus and Jake to keep things up as they worked on turning the ranch into a hill country subdivision. The new owner certainly didn’t want to lose the ag exemption.

  Blaise was another story. He did rebuild the church with the insurance money and then invested the church’s distribution with a blue chip investment adviser. He hired a new pastor, turned over everything
to him, and took off for places unknown with his six million. I can’t say I missed the guy. Glad to have him gone.

  John Marshall Mariner, Junior, came right on time, and three months later Amy’s baby arrived, named Brett after her brother. I’ve gotta confess that all babies are ugly, even my own son and grandson. That problem would clear up quickly. The best part of the birth of Marshall turned out to be Carla’s decision to nurse him herself, so I was treated to being able to sleep through the night without being enlisted to feed him.

  As to the nursing home litigation, I escaped that too. The lawyer for the family understood that the amount of money anyone could get for the death of a feeble eighty-nine year old was low, so after I explained the insurance and the delicate financial position of the home, the children took the hundred grand. At least the case settled. I never could convince myself that the nursing home had done anything wrong.

  With the birth of our son Marshall, Carla made me promise that I’d stop getting involved with the police, with druggies, and with low lifes. I had to agree with her. I needed a well-deserved, long rest from stress. That’s why I’d come to Blanco in the first place.