by Gwen Hunter
I had acquired a measure of calm by the time the landscaped brick entryway came into view. I didn’t really know how I wanted to approach this first trip to Davenport Hills. I didn’t know who I wanted to be. I hadn’t had much time to think about it. I knew I couldn’t be my mother, and I didn’t know how to be my Nana. I would just have to feel my way through it all and discover myself as I went.
The guard in his little booth did a double take at the sight of the Jeep, and because we had never met, he came to the doorway instead of waving me on through. He had the former-cop look, and though he was past law enforcement retirement age, he was vigorous. About fifty-five, he showed a little gray at his temples, and the extra padding at his waist that cops acquire sitting behind the wheel eight hours a day. He ducked his head as I lowered the window. "Ma’am."
"I’m Mrs. Jack Davenport, Officer Reynolds," I said, reading his engraved brass nametag. Putting my right hand through the window, I shook his. "And this is my lawyer, Macon Chadwick." The cop’s eyes traveled to Macon, took him in at a glance and raised his evaluation from black street kid to black ACLU. It was a common failing among law enforcement to view the world and all its inhabitants from the aspect of street crime. To them, people fit into categories rather than existing as individuals. The narrow-minded thinking that kept them alive on the streets was difficult to shed after twenty-five years as a survival mechanism.
I continued, "You’ll be seeing us both a good bit in the next few months. You may want to issue Mr. Chadwick a sticker for his truck window, but you can handle that later. For now, if you’ll just put us both in your logbook, I’d be grateful."
"Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Davenport. I have you on listing already. But your lawyer will have to register when I can record his vehicle description and tag number. You can set it up anytime, Mr. Chadwick."
"Thanks, Officer," Macon said.
"Can you tell us where Peter Howell is, please?" I asked, feeling very in control and very insecure all at once, my head swirling with facts, figures, possibilities, and my growing fear.
"He’s down at the new golf course, ma’am, with the architects."
"And is RailRoad the Third and his little group with him?" I asked, calling Rolland Randall by my daughter’s mildly disparaging title.
The name amused Officer Reynolds. A glitter of something not-quite-nice sparkled in the depths of his eyes. "Yes, ma’am. Mr. Howell was giving them a tour of The Swamp in his four-by-four when the thing got stuck and they all had to walk out. Ruined that fancy lawyer’s expensive shoes, I’m afraid."
My lips twitched. "Has Mr. Howell’s vehicle ever gotten stuck before?"
"No ma’am. It was the damnedest thing. I had to call a wrecker to pull it out." Officer Reynolds’ grin was positively evil. But then, RailRoad the Third had that effect on people. After only a short acquaintance, they often wanted to see him suffer.
"Thank you, Officer Reynolds."
"Call me Joe, ma’am.
"Thank you, Joe. And I go by Ashlee, or Mrs. D., if you prefer," I said, using the new name for my new persona, whoever she might become.
"Have a nice visit, Miz. D., Mr. Chadwick."
I raised the window as we pulled past the guard booth. That hadn’t gone badly. Joe had seemed nice enough, and his eyes hadn’t bugged out of his head to see me in Jack’s Jeep at Jack’s work place. He seemed to accept me out here in no-woman’s-land. Of course, the real test would come with the workforce and the subcontractors. They would be the real judges and arbiters of my presence on the job site. And of course, I would have to deal with the investors.
I drove straight down the four-lane boulevard of Davenport Hills, and still Macon droned on about prices and specs and linear foot costs of road surfaces. The center island and both sides of the road were heavily landscaped with azaleas, dogwoods, Bradford Pear trees, monkey grass and flowers. Groupings of beech, poplar, oak, and maple marked the entrance to the side streets or cul-de-sacs, bearing names like Cavendale Drive, Mosstree Court, and Crow’s Nest Circle. Interspersed were green areas, tennis courts, and the open acres of golf course that peeked out at the road. Natural and artificial hillocks added balance and privacy to the houses closest to the boulevard. Huge rocks dug from foundation space or blasted from roadways made rock gardens. Acres of grass were watered by underground sprinkler systems fed by the runoff below Willow Lake, a state watershed project that just happened to be in Davenport Hills. Even in the drought months of July and August, Davenport Hills would look green and fresh.
Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, Volvos, and high-ticket American-made cars of the development’s early customers passed us on the wide sweep of road. Some were driven by Realtors, others by well-coiffed housewives on their way to the day-spa or the book club. Most looked bored and out of sorts as their faces flashed by. It could be such a drag being rich.
Part of Jack’s dream for Davenport Hills was the business sector, which we passed early on. In one area, just off the entrance, was a series of quaint-looking shops for the hairdressers, maid services, laundries, and pizza parlors that were necessary to maintain a modern, upscale residential area. A progressive child care center and elementary school was part of the county’s plans for next year. The biggest draws of the entire project, however, were the golf courses.
Designed by Cavenaugh and Wright—an up and coming architectural firm specializing in golf courses—they were championship quality, Jack’s pride and joy. The first course had opened two years ago, attracting nationwide attention in Golf Magazine. The second eighteen-hole course was due to open next spring, but underground springs, standing-water, and constant rain threatened delay. The problem with standing-water was so severe that subs and employees had named the course The Swamp. Jack had been working through the problems the night he died.
I followed the boulevard beyond Phase Three of the development, leaving behind the landscaping, upscale housing, parks, and the paving. Bumping over gravel packed red mud, I trailed tracks of heavy equipment and trucks through dense trees, along ponds edged with water grasses and cattails, and over man-made dams. A red-tailed hawk holding a field mouse watched my progress from the dead branches of a lightning-struck oak. A small doe and spotted fawn bounded across the rutted car path behind us. Wildlife, driven out by man’s pursuit of a nature he could control and exploit. The ground became increasingly muddy, the tires slipping until I shifted into four-wheel drive. Macon was no longer studying his papers. Instead, he was staring out over the liquid ground around us.
"Your husband thought he could make a golf course out of this?"
I shrugged, concentrating on the road—what there was of it. "Jack always kept a pair of work boots behind the seat. They may be a little large for you, he wore a size eleven, but you’re welcome to try them."
"Yeah. Thanks." Macon’s voice was tinged with distaste. I wondered if it was the thought of wearing someone else’s old shoes, or if he was just fastidious about mud. Vehicles appeared through the trees as Macon struggled to put on the boots. Three cars, two trucks and a wrecker were parked in a small clearing. Several men stood to the side.
"I don’t suppose he kept a pair of waders? These are new jeans," Macon muttered.
"That’s the beauty of denim. It washes well."
"That’s the kind of thing your Nana would say," he grumbled.
"Thank you. We’re here. And it looks like we interrupted a meeting of minds great and small." I pulled the Jeep beside Peter’s gray company truck, parked, and got out. Macon was still tying the laces on waterproof boots that dwarfed his feet. Spotting Peter, I moved away from the trucks. There was a makeshift table constructed from saw horses overlaid with a battered exterior door, the surface covered with plans, some rolled, some held flat with calculators and briefcases. Peter stood with his back to the table, surrounded. Except for the one or two in the trees to the side, the men circled him, looking for all the world like a pack of dogs holding wounded quarry at bay. I didn’t like the look of the group. T
hey were hostile and combative, body language straining for a fight. My eyes narrowed in the glare as the sun came from behind the clouds.
I recognized Bret McDermott, his arms crossed, legs planted in the mire. Though dressed in a suit, Bret had sensible boots on. Another man, his suit muddy to the knees, was shouting, my husband’s lawyer, the ringleader. There were at least six men in work clothes and boots, and two more in suits, none of whom I recognized. Peter saw me coming, but I waved him to silence as I walked up, unnoticed by RailRoad the Third and his little coterie.
"I have a problem with the entire layout. I don’t care how much planning went into it, I want it changed," he shouted. "Moved off this wet quicksand to someplace safe for normal human beings. This so called golf course is a disaster!" The skin on the back of his neck was red, his hair was mussed, and there was mud up one arm as if he had fallen and caught himself with his elbow and his knees. Poor RailRoad. His dignity and authority were sorely shaken, and it was clear he was trying to recapture them both by shouting at Peter. It was also apparent the men had discovered the problem Jack had been working on before he died. The golf course could not be built as designed. To avoid the wet ground, it would have to be turned at an angle between the eighth and twelfth holes and completely redesigned.
Golf courses are usually built along the natural contours of the land. Jack had explained to me that when this one was originally drawn, the state had experienced a severe water shortage for eighteen months, and the water table was so low that there was none of the muck visible today. Turning the golf course would mean starting from scratch, a costly proposal that would result in changes to the established lots bordering the course. It was a design flaw that should have been avoided by Cavenaugh and Wright—and proper earth core samples. For the design professionals to have made such a costly mistake, Jack must have been overworked in another part of the development, and Cavenaugh and Wright must have been just plain stupid.
The architects would have to redraw everything, losing housing sites in the process. I couldn’t remember exactly how many, though Jack had explained it to me. A new road would have to be built to make up for the change in layout, and the proposed modifications would be expensive, but in Jack’s briefcase I had his preliminary drawings. I had seen him put the velum overlay sheet away in the fold of the lid less than an hour before he died. And I had seen it again the day I discovered the photographs of him and Robyn. I knew the changes could be made, if I could just remember all the details he had explained. Every other part of the night he died was graven into me like the dates on his tombstone. Surely I could remember this small bit.
RailRoad had gone on with his rampage while I thought. The circle of men had closed in on Peter. ". . . and as head of the legal department and one of the investors, I want you replaced."
Investors? I hadn’t known RailRoad was an investor in Davenport Hills, but then there were several companies I hadn’t recognized on the investor list. RailRoad was bullying my husband’s favorite and most capable employee. My favorite and most capable employee. Peter didn’t have to stand for it and neither did I.
"Your handling of this matter has been inept from the beginning. I don’t know what Jack Davenport was thinking when he hired an incompetent like you—"
"He was thinking that Peter Howell was highly recommended, ethical and capable," I said, a bit too loudly.
The men turned toward me. I hadn’t meant to shout but my words rang out. Peter Howell exhaled with relief. Macon reached my side, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on RailRoad. He had good dental work. I knew because his mouth was open, offering me a clear view of his back teeth. RailRoad had been Jack’s lawyer for over ten years and, as Jasmine said, he was a slimy character. He could easily be behind the attacks I had suffered and the letters I’d received. I took a quick look at Bret. His face gave nothing away. No shock at seeing me here, no anger, no remorse, no fear. I returned my attention to RailRoad who snapped his mouth shut.
"I don’t appreciate you berating DavInc employees, mister, investor or not. If you have a beef with this company, then you have a beef with me, not with Mr. Howell. That’s number one. Number two, is the conflict of interest you just mentioned. I have just decided that it’s not ethical or proper for DavInc’s legal council to also be an investor."
I didn’t know where all the terminology was coming from, perhaps from years of listening to Jack talk about the problems and personalities on the job, perhaps from some place deep inside that had been preparing for this moment for days. But the words were there, as clear and concise as if I had memorized them instead of just thinking them.
"Therefore, as of this moment, I’m canceling your retainer. Neither you nor your firm will have anything further to do with this company." I felt myself redden, a pink heat that started at my toes and flushed its way north. Suddenly I was angry. It was the slow and fear-filled anger spawned by the attacks on me, the protective anger generated by threats to my life and my family. A heated anger like red-hot coals ready to burst into flame. It was a fiery anger, unlike my usual, tepid self. I liked the feeling. It was one of power rather than helplessness.
RailRoad was stuttering. A vein stood out on his temple. "Don’t have a stroke standing here. It would be a real pain getting an ambulance back in these trees," I said. "When you leave, Mr. Macon Chadwick here will follow you back to your offices and prepare to go over all the company’s legal papers to date. He’ll be taking over for your firm."
"You can’t fire my firm, lady. We have a contract." His face twisted as he spoke and a thin white line drew itself around his mouth as the blood was forced from his skin. Clinically, I wondered what blood pressure medication RailRoad was on, and if he’d taken it today. "And there’s nothing illegal in my financial involvement in this project."
"I didn’t say illegal. I said it’s questionable and I don’t like it. And because DavInc is now my company, and because I make the decisions, I’ve decided to terminate our business arrangement. Macon?"
"Yes, Miz. D. His firm’s contract with DavInc was up over two months ago, and Mr. Davenport was in negotiations with Mr. Randall before he died. There’s no problem with changing firms, contrary to advice your former legal council just offered."
RailRoad leaned closer, his face a ghastly red. "Senator Waldrop’s not going to like this. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s – going – to – be – pissed." The widely spaced words hung in the air, reverberating through the clearing.
I should have been terrified at the mention of Waldrop, one of the men who seemed to be pivotal in each of my problems, but I was too angry to care. To use one of Aunt Mosetta’s terms, I was mad enough to spit fire, no matter what the senator felt. I smiled thinly, putting my fists on my hips. I was making an enemy, and I knew it. But I had wanted to draw out my assailant by kicking up a fuss, and this was killing two birds with one stone, getting rid of RailRoad, and being as public as I could get. The man who threatened my daughter would hear about this. The whole county would hear about this.
"Macon, will you kindly follow Mr. Randall back to his office," I said without taking my eyes off the lawyer. "I want you to take immediate possession of all legal papers in Mr. Randall’s possession. I realize you may need further assistance from your firm for this project. Please feel free to call on Chadwick, Gaston, and Chadwick for whatever you need. And consider yourselves under retainer by Davenport, Inc."
"Yes, ma’am." I could hear the grin in Macon’s voice, but I was careful not to look his way. If RailRoad was involved in my problems, Macon would now have means to prove it.
"Listen, little lady. As an investor I have certain rights—"
"Yes, you do. But shouting at an employee and interfering in the performance of his duties isn’t one of them. And you may address me as ma’am or Mrs. D. Not little lady, honey, or dear as you have so often in the past. Is that understood?" Before he could respond, I went on, surprised that I still had control of the situation, ex
cept that I was using my official voice, the one for offensive drunks, the one I felt safe using when cops were in the ER to back me up. Macon and Peter were my backup here, but that didn’t seem to matter to the men I faced or to me. This was my development, damn it, and RailRoad wasn’t going to run me off it. I took a deep breath, feeling my chest muscles pull against the fabric of my T-shirt. My ribs and shoulder felt numb; I was too angry to distinguish the pain in my hand from my pounding pulse. "Now, how ’bout you taking off. And the next time an investor requires a meeting with DavInc, call Esther and schedule one. With me. Understood?" I turned my back on Railroad, facing the other men.
"I realize the quarterly reports are late, due to the death of my husband. However, even the government gives a company reorganization time, and as a courtesy, I’d appreciate the same from the investors. Esther will have a partial report out next week, outlining the changes in the golf course and the projected cost. I believe this is a fair request to make.
"Mr. Wright," I added, finally recognizing the younger of the architectural firm’s partners. He was medium build, wearing a Gortex golf jacket and casual shoes that had probably cost a small fortune. Now they were muddy and ruined. He had a ridge of beard along his chin and a chilly look in his eyes that I didn’t know how to dispel. If his firm pulled out it would cripple development for months. I just hoped we owed them money. If so, then I could count on them hanging around for at least a while. "If you would be so kind as to stop by the office tomorrow, I’ll have Jack’s drawings of the proposed changes to both the golf course and to Phase Four of the development. Peter and I will go over them with you. Say, two P.M.?"