Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  Jack’s voice answered. The voice of a powerful man, secure in himself, strong, confident, forceful. Sounding so alive. I clenched my jaw. And then that voice, that hateful angry voice that had woken me so early. "Jack, damn you!"

  Macon’s eyes moved from the machine to my face and back, yet he made no move to pick up and halt the fierce attack. How could he? He had no more idea what the man was ranting about than I. Less in fact. I sat down quickly and re-gripped my hands. As before, Bill grew increasingly angry, his language coarse and foul. And threatening.

  "And I’ll see to it you never do business anywhere else again. I’ll destroy you and everything you have. Everything you love—" The final tone sounded, cutting off the barrage. A measure of calm descended on the dusty office.

  Macon’s brows were raised, waiting. I opened my mouth and said the words I had planned ever since Jas and I collided in the hall. "I don’t want my husband’s reputation ruined, Macon. If he was guilty of something unethical or even illegal, I want it kept quiet. For Jasmine. I have assets both real and liquid, and if you discover that Jack was involved in something criminal, then I want to buy off the man. Settle with him." I stared at my hands, my grip painful. "You need to read that letter." I jutted my chin to the envelope in his hands. He opened the flap and pulled out the single sheet. "It looks like a portion of a handwritten first draft. I don’t know who the recipient was. I don’t even know if Bill, the man on the phone just now, and this letter are related, or if there was more than one problem."

  My hands were no longer trembling or white. Just turning this problem over to Macon was easing the strain, diluting the fear. I was breathing almost normally. I could do this. I could make the necessary decisions to protect my daughter from her father’s misdeeds and infidelity. I have come a long way from the grieving widow who thought her husband was a saint. I put that thought aside along with all the others I wasn’t ready to face. "If I read the letter right, Jack’s improprieties went way beyond simple financial transgressions," I said.

  Macon unfolded the single page. He scanned the note, looking older and wiser than his young years. He had passed the bar only recently, yet, standing in the unused office, Macon looked like the Rock of Gibraltar to me. As if he could handle anything. I hoped he could.

  I had always detested the kind of person who could read a passage once and recall it word for word years later. It wasn’t a talent I shared. In school, I made good grades by hard study, not by natural ability. But this one time was different. This one time, I could remember each word of the letter. Each error scratched out with neat little x’s. And that damning last word. Murder.

  Macon folded the single page, reinserting it into the envelope. "This isn’t good, Ashlee. It hints of blackmail and somebody being killed. If Jack was involved in a murder, there isn’t much I can do to prevent the truth from coming out."

  I didn’t want Jas to suffer. If her father was involved in something illegal, I didn’t want Jas to discover it. I didn’t want her relationship with Jack to be tarnished when he wasn’t here to defend himself. I shook my head and turned away.

  "On the other hand," Macon said gently, "you and Jasmine are free from culpability. You shouldn’t have to worry about the law coming to look for you. And Chadwick connections can protect you from the worst of any fallout. I’ll be here to help you handle anything that comes from this Ashlee. You won’t be alone."

  "I know," I said around the pain in my throat. "A copy of the will is in the stack of papers and the rundown of insurance benefits we received. Macon, I don’t care how you handle this problem, whatever it is," I took a deep breath and finished fiercely, "but protect my daughter."

  Macon smiled. "I’ll do my best, Ashlee, but even with Esther I’ll need help. From others in the company, from the CPA firm who handles the general business, from the firm retained to handle the legal business of the corporations. And from you."

  My heart sank.

  "And we aren’t talking about uncomplicated results here. No quick solutions or easy answers. With an estate the size of Jack’s, we’re talking months. At least."

  "Just don’t bankrupt me," I said. "I saw the new truck."

  Macon laughed, exposing more teeth on the left than on the right in that lopsided smile. More than anything, it was an indicator of Chadwick genes. Many of my cousins had that bent and charming smile. "I bought the truck last Thursday, long before you called me."

  "Good."

  "I bill only for the hours worked, which is one reason why I’m not in some fancy New York law firm making two hundred thou a year. And I give a family discount. Once I get a good grip on the situation here, and on your personal finances, I should be able to offer you a general idea of the length of time you’ll need me. I promise to leave your finances intact. Mama Moses would skin me alive if I took advantage of a Chadwick."

  Macon wasn’t bragging about the New York law firm. I had heard the glowing reports of the Chadwick’s newest success story. He had been courted by some of the nation’s best and most prestigious, but he had come home to practice law and eventually go into politics, a far easier goal to reach in the backwoods of Dawkins County than in New York. Macon Chadwick’s dreams weren’t limited by the apparent step back he took by coming home. I wondered how he would feel when he discovered that Senator Waldrop was involved in Jack’s business problems.

  And as far as his Mama Moses was concerned, she would just as likely take a hickory stick to me as to Macon if there was trouble. Aunt Mosetta and Mama Moses were one and the same. Together she and my Nana ruled the Chadwick clan, overseeing the physical, emotional, and financial health of the multigenerational, multiracial family. Although I had seldom seen Aunt Mosetta resort to violence, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her sharp tongue. I had seen her deliver a metaphorical flaying more than once, and it wasn’t pretty.

  A knock at the door alerted us to Esther’s arrival, and the tone of the conversation changed to introductions and business. Esther was short, slender, and fiftyish—though she didn’t admit to anything over forty. She wore her blond hair ear-length, permed and perfectly coiffed, taking off every other Thursday afternoon to have her roots bleached and her acrylic nails touched up. She tended toward a brightly colored wardrobe and had a strong mill-town accent, her speech liberally laced with country homilies and unexpected mill-town maxims.

  Today, Esther was wearing red. Red lipstick, red nail polish, red dress with shiny brass buttons, and red shoes. On some women, the reds might have looked gaudy; Esther looked perfect. Seeing them together, the young, trendy Chadwick lawyer and Jack’s vivid, astute secretary, the pain I carried lightened. The load I had carried alone was now shared by three.

  I sat in Jack’s chair, pulled my knees up and circled them with my arms while Macon and Esther got acquainted in typical southern fashion with comments like, "That means I went to school with your uncle . . ." and "Your daddy worked with my second cousin in high school . . ." They placed one another in Dawkins County’s pecking order for the last two generations. I realized I had a smile on my face, and that the pressure between my shoulder blades was gone. This seemed to be working out just fine. I should have done it weeks ago.

  Once introductions were over, Esther placed her red leather purse on her desk, her hands on her hips, and surveyed the office with pursed, crimson lips. Speculatively, her eyes turned to me. I grinned, knowing what she was thinking. My reputation as a less than tidy woman was well known. "I didn’t do it, Esther."

  "Well, who did? It wasn’t like this when I left, and you can’t tell me that Jasmine Davenport did this."

  "It looks like the place has been searched, Esther," Macon said.

  "For what?"

  "That’s what Ashlee wants us to discover. Apparently Jack was having some problems with the business before he died. Possibly serious problems," Macon said. Esther cocked her head. "Ash, would you replay the last message on the answering machine?"

  Unwinding myself fr
om Jack’s chair, I crossed the room, hit PLAY, and turned to watch Esther. Bill’s voice shouted into the office, cursing and threatening. Esther’s bleached brows lifted. Her expressions were mobile and eloquent as a monologue. Esther could lie with a poker face when she put her mind to it, but when unguarded she gave everything away, even when she claimed she had nothing to say. When Bill’s message ran out, I hit the STOP button. "You know him? I’ve got a number of messages from him," I said, moving back across the room.

  "Bill McKelvey," Esther said. More of the weight lifted from me. Bill had a last name. I didn’t know why that should seem so important to me, but it did.

  "Jack and Rolland have been tryin’ to work out a settlement plan with the man since Christmas."

  "Rolland?" Macon asked.

  "Rolland Randall the Third. Jack’s and DavInc’s lawyer, and a sleazier character you never laid eyes on, honey. But then, until I set eyes on you, I never met a lawyer I liked," Esther said as she stepped out of her heels and walked to the filing cabinets. "I’ve got a file on McKelvey if I can find it in all this mess." Esther had always worked barefoot except when Jack had someone important in the office, and Esther was the sole arbiter of importance. Meaning she went shoeless except when an investor was present. Jack had always been amused at her habit. She went directly to the cabinet storing old business and, almost immediately, returned with a file. Competent Esther at her best. "McKelvey owned the old Peterson Plantation and the two adjoinin’ farms that became Davenport Hills. Part of the deal that let Jack develop it went bad."

  Esther opened out the file on Jack’s desk, the cleanest surface in the office. She glanced at me. "The problem was difficult, but not insurmountable. I’m familiar with the particulars." Esther used the word "problem" like the letters from Senator Waldrop. The problem wasn’t some great evil or some private sin. It was a business deal gone wrong, just as I told Jasmine. Hearing the words stripped the mystery and the melodrama from my worries. But what about the letter and the murder? I ignored the small voice. Esther and Macon could solve it, whatever it was. Anxiety was worthless in the face of such quick and easy answers.

  "The payment for the Peterson Plantation was an equal value exchange involving cash payments spread out over the last ten years, and a piece of land in downtown Charlotte. Only, the land was tainted."

  "Tainted how?" Macon asked.

  "Chemical contamination. When McKelvey’s crew started to dig a foundation last fall, they discovered a World War Two era dump about twelve feet down. Brought McKelvey’s commercial development to a halt. And because it looked like an expensive cleanup—we’re talkin’ millions here honey—he lost his financing. His partners tucked tail and ran."

  "Millions?" I asked. Esther nodded. Millions gave immense power back to the word problem. No wonder the senator and investors had tiptoed around it in their letters. Millions? I didn’t have millions.

  "World War Two?" Macon asked. "Like an army dump or something?"

  "No one’s sure. Rolland was still chasing the paper trail of the land owners and tenants when Jack passed on. But first indicators are yes, an armed forces dump. Which is good, because the government would be responsible for the cleanup."

  "And if the government isn’t responsible . . ." Macon prompted.

  Esther shrugged and looked for a place to sit. Her own desk was visible through the open door to the reception area, but the chaos of littered papers was much worse there. She finally pulled a chair up to Jack’s desk and sat, her crimson painted toes rooting around in the darker red of the carpet. "In that case," she said, "McKelvey’s on his own. Unless he can prove intent to defraud on Jack’s part, or prove that Jack knew about the dump before he sold the land, or prove some other wrong doin’ on Jack’s part, there’s little he can do but accept the loss."

  "Could he prove Jack knew about the dump?" Macon asked. A lawyer’s question. Not "Did Jack know?" but "Could he prove it?"

  "I don’t think, so, honey," Esther said. Esther called everyone honey. Even Jack. Even the meanest, toughest, dirtiest, drunkest subcontractor in the business. It had always been, "Take off your dirty workboots, honey, if you come into my office. I ain’t your mother." Or, "Listen here, honey. I said Jack ain’t here, and that means he ain’t here. So mind your manners or I’ll call your wife and tell her how you’re actin’." And as strange as it seemed, the combination of endearment and tough talk from so petite a woman always worked. "Rolland didn’t think so either," she continued. "But a lawsuit would tie up the last phase of Davenport Hills in court, maybe for years, so to avoid that, Jack was willin’ to help out McKelvey. Jack had been talkin’ about putting together some investors to replace the ones McKelvey lost, and he talked to people in the North Carolina state capital and up in Washington about expeditin’ the cleanup."

  "Maybe Bill couldn’t prove Jack knew about the dump before he sold the land. But did Jack know about it?" I asked.

  Esther didn’t respond to my question, and the words hung on the air like a faint, foul scent. Like something rotten in the office, waiting to be discovered and tossed out. Esther pursed her lips again, her eyes on Macon. "Probably," she said finally. I nodded, no longer surprised that my saint-of-a-husband was guilty of dirty dealing. Suppressing my dismay was another matter, but I had a feeling I would get used to that in the next few days. All that I knew of Jack had been a lie. My whole life with him had been a lie. Jack himself had been a lie.

  I looked away for a moment, focusing on an English countryside painting. Beside it was the tiny fireproof room hiding the safe. The ones who trashed the office had left the door cracked. To cover my thoughts, I stood and walked to the room. Like Esther, my toes were bare in the carpet, but mine were unmanicured. I dialed up the random numbers Jack had programmed into the safe when he bought it so long ago. The tumblers clicked softly, and the heavy door swung open.

  Inside, nothing was disturbed. The yearly record books for the corporations were still there, neatly stored in their navy binders. The most expensive gun in Jack’s gun collection was there. Land deeds, records of various deals and settlements, legal papers. The two-foot-tall metal soil sample canisters which had been there for as long as I could remember still stood casually against the back wall. Even my wedding license was there. All untouched. Whoever had ransacked the office hadn’t been able to open the safe.

  Jack had chosen this particular safe—used—because it was so secure. An article in the Charlotte Observer had once recounted the tale of determined thieves who had knocked down the wall of a local business with a bulldozer. Lifting the safe with the front-end loader, they had dropped it repeatedly to the parking lot. All they succeeded in cracking was the concrete. In desperation, they had placed the safe on train tracks running behind the business. A train had pushed the safe along the tracks for four miles before the rattled engineer had been able to stop. The safe was still sealed. Jack had bought the same brand, same model, same year.

  My jewelry, most of the expensive collection once belonging to Jack’s mother, was still in their velvet boxes. I opened one and tilted the ruby and diamonds to the light. They gleamed and sparkled, but the settings of the choker and earrings were too heavy for my short stature. On impulse, I pulled off my diamond engagement ring and its matching wedding band. The stone was brilliant, still beautiful even after all these years. I tucked the two rings into the corner of the velvet box with the ruby and diamond set. Propping open the safe door, I walked back to Macon and Esther. They were talking softly, their heads together. Both looked up when I returned.

  "Macon, you better keep Nana and Aunt Mosetta updated on whatever you find. One of the companies that financed Davenport Hills was Hamilton Holdings, Nana’s company. And Aunt Mosetta is a shareholder in Hamilton, isn’t she?" He nodded. "My guess is that Jack hadn’t gotten around to telling them about the problems, so I want them apprised of the situation. And any of the other investors who need to be informed—" I stopped. Was I going to tell them that the man they t
rusted may have been a crook?

  "We’ll need to send out a great deal of paperwork in the next few weeks, Ash. I’ll handle it. And I’ll take special care with Hamilton Holdings. Is there anything else we need to know today, Esther? Any problem Jack was working on that might impact Ashlee and Jasmine?"

  "Honey, this business is nothin’ but problems, day in and day out. And with me bein’ gone so long, there’s no tellin’s what’s took root and bloomed up ugly."

  "I’ve listened to all the messages and made some notes and suggestions. I put the pad on your desk chair, and the full message disc is in the drawer where the spare usually stays."

  "I’ll get right to it, and soon’s I have all that handled, I’ll start in on this mess. See can I find what’s missin’ and what’s not. You leave it to me, honey. Me and this good lookin’ Chadwick kin o’ yours will have this place cleaned up and runnin’ like a well oiled machine by sundown or later, which ever comes last." It was a typically Esther twist on the old saying, and I grinned when, without missing a beat she turned to Macon. "You married, honey? Cause there’s a new librarian down to the DorCity branch, and she’s pretty as a picture. Sexy as hell, but don’t tell Sherman I said so. He hates it when I cuss." With Esther settled in and already working at her second profession—matchmaking—I left to get ready for work. I had a long day ahead.

  It was a wild night in the emergency room, a night full of drunken teenagers, wreck victims, DOAs, cops, and distraught families. It was the kind of night emergency room personnel truly hate, where police clash with both accident victims and disbelieving, abusive families. Parents who claim that their son would never drink and drive, never buy liquor with a fake ID, never, ever try to outrun the cops in the family Ford, and surely never, pray God never, crash and kill his best friend. Never. Not their kid. All protestations delivered with alcohol scented breath and liquor reddened eyes and a gentle sway not induced by grief or rage. The police confrontations routinely took place in the hallway, in front of the nurse’s station, in front of witnesses so no one could claim that local LEOS—law enforcement officials—did or said anything untoward or brutal. Even when a rare parent struck out in rage. It was the kind of night when nothing we do is ever enough. Where the trauma center’s chopper arrives too late, leaving us with damaged bodies and no medical recourse at all.