Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  Wright finally nodded, a curt jut of his head, but his lips stayed tight. I hoped he wasn’t one of those old-fashioned, controlling types who believed a woman’s place was in the home and who would be happy to see one fall flat on her face in the business world. He glanced at his watch, a clear signal that I was taking up too much of his valuable masculine time. Fixing on my sweetest smile, I said, "If you have another appointment and have to leave, I’m sure we all understand. Don’t let us keep you, Mr. Wright."

  Wright didn’t like being dismissed but he took the hint, folding up his plans with a flourish. He was muttering beneath his breath as he walked to his car, but I didn’t try to understand what he was saying. I had the feeling it wasn’t flattering.

  Macon followed RailRoad past me to his car. The muddy lawyer was stiff with outrage, but containing it, at least for now. A moment later, Macon brought me the business cell phone and Jack’s old briefcase. I accepted both and he drove away. I kept my eyes on the men remaining. I met the eyes of each. They were oddly quiet, standing in a semi-circle watching me, as if they were waiting for a signal to eviscerate me. I hoped it would be only figuratively and not literally.

  Bret McDermott, while characteristically solemn, tilted his head, acknowledging my assumed authority. A secret ally? One of Vance Waldrop’s pals? A young man I didn’t recognize stood stunned and silent. I didn’t know who had sent him, but when I met his eyes, he scurried off, moving in the wake of RailRoad and Wright with unseemly speed. He climbed into a state government car, and I assumed he was one of Waldrop’s aides. I wondered if the taxpayers had financed his trip from Washington. I figured I could expect to hear from the senator. Joy, oh, joy.

  Mr. Wright looked up as he was climbing into his car. "The office, two P.M.," he said, apparently having made up his mind about me. I nodded. I really would have to learn the man’s first name. Peter’s beeper went off, an urgent voice calling him to another hotspot. He gave me a little half-salute and said, "I’ll come by the office or call first thing in the morning," as he jumped into his mud-caked truck and spun off down the twisting path. Not once did he get stuck. Two other men trailed to the trucks, decreasing the numbers left in the attack circle.

  My gaze met clear gray eyes, twinkling with amusement. Fine skin crinkled at the outer corners; his lips, delicately chiseled, turned up in a faint smile. Alan Mathison.

  Without turning my head from Alan’s gaze, I set the briefcase on the makeshift table, holding the phone in my injured hand, against the brace.

  Bret walked to his car, patting my arm on the way past. Silent as usual, he drove away, trailed by the last of the assault team. and suddenly the little group of men was gone, and I had time to wonder what significance the appearance of Senator Waldrop’s aide and Bret might hold in light of my suspicion that an investor had been involved in the killing of an inspector and the threats to my daughter and me. I watched the last of the vehicles drive out, slipping in the mud.

  The last of my anger evaporated. I was alone with Alan Mathison. "Jerel Taylor sent you." It could have sounded rude, but the words came out almost as a question. His smile faded.

  "Actually, I’ve been put in charge of all Taylor, Inc.’s South Carolina projects and interests. Including the apartment complex that will adjoin Davenport Hills," he said. "I asked for the position this morning." He spoke his words carefully, as if they were imbued with something more than just the surface meaning.

  After meeting me at the symphony, spending the evening with me. A faint blush lit my cheeks. I looked down, focusing on the cane at his side, dark wood splattered with mud, different from the one he had used with the tux. Because I didn’t know how to respond, I said, "I understand there has been some legal maneuvering between our two companies about that apartment complex. Something about a restraining order against Taylor, Inc?" I let my words trail off. Jack had talked to me often about his work, his plans, and problems. I had retained a lot of the one-sided conversations. "The dual role of Taylor, Inc. as both investor in Davenport Hills, and competitor, was part of the problem."

  Alan nodded. The small pink scar hidden in his brow was all but grown over with fresh blond hair. "I was hoping the, ah, new management would come to terms with Taylor, Inc and avoid any legal unpleasantness."

  I smiled at the polite little expression. He didn’t smile back this time, just kept his eyes on mine. "Actually, the new management," I said, using his words, "would also like to avoid any unpleasantness. Frankly, Taylor, Inc.’s financial input is necessary to the timely completion of this project." I thought that was pretty good business lingo, and Alan must have thought so too, as he quirked a grin and banged the cane on his leg in a little tattoo. The action dislodged a glob of mud on the tip. I cocked my head. "If Taylor, Inc would supply specs and drawings of the proposed apartments, and agree to keep the designs extremely upscale and in keeping with the original format of Davenport Hills, the new management would remove the restraining order."

  What I asked was only fair in light of the shoddy workmanship that went into most apartment complexes, and the consequent effect on Davenport Hills’ resale values. A poorly constructed apartment complex and low rents could bring in crime and the undesirables that the snooty Davenport Hills residents paid to keep out. Unfortunately, what I asked for was exactly what Jack had asked for originally from Jerel Taylor and been refused. Things had gotten nasty and Jack had gone to court to stop the building.

  "I don’t suppose the new management would simply take my word for it that she would be pleased with the development?" Alan said, the twinkle back in place.

  "No, I’m afraid not."

  "In that case, may I suggest that we retire to Miccah’s for a pitcher of beer and a careful study of the materials in my truck? Man to man, as it were." Amusement was bright in his voice and eyes. I was being challenged, mano a’ mano. It was a new experience for me and I rather liked it. In fact, I rather liked this wheeling and dealing in the business world.

  Perhaps I had a knack for it, a quick way of handling unpleasantness, or at least putting it on the backburner. Of course, my enjoyment might have diminished somewhat had I lost the recent encounter. But I had won, and winning was addictive. I crossed my arms, the movement sending a sharp pain through my shoulder. For a moment, I had forgotten about my injuries. "Are you going to call me little lady?"

  "No ma’am," he said gravely. "I believe the correct form of address is ma’am or Mrs. D."

  I nodded, fighting a grin. "Is Jerel Taylor to join us?"

  "No ma’am. Why spoil a perfectly good business meeting? And besides, I now have complete autonomy in dealing with decisions pertaining to South Carolina. I’m in the midst of setting up a satellite office in Dorsey City to work from."

  "Local competition?"

  "Friendly competition."

  "Good. Dawkins County needs good, ethical developers and investors."

  "Yes, ma’am. I aim to please."

  A drop of rain landed on my nose. The front was moving in fast now, the air warming. I didn’t really need Jack’s jacket in the rising heat of late afternoon.

  "Well, as I seem to be stranded without transportation, and in the spirit of fair play, the new management of DavInc would be delighted to join Taylor, Inc.’s representative at Miccah’s to go over plans. But I warn you." I held up a finger. "I’m not buying. And," I held up a second finger, "two beers and I lose all restraint."

  Alan laughed out loud, the sound frightening a flock of starlings into noisy flight. I hadn’t realized how quiet it had become when the other men drove away. Surrounded by the well-grown poplars and oaks towering over us, the location closed off from the rest of the development, we were quite alone. His laughter died away. "What you’re saying is. . . ."

  A strange tension filled the muddy clearing after his words. My breath came short, and I was certain my cheeks were still flushed. "That one’s my limit," I said. "So you may want to make it a small pitcher."

  Alan smiled a bit
sadly, as if I had answered wrongly. His expression was peculiar, and I wondered what he had hoped I might say, and then I decided it might be better if I didn’t know. "Agreed." Turning his back, Alan walked to his truck and opened the door for me. "Ma’am." He invited me in with a gesture, his face smiling once again.

  "Thank you," I said, as I climbed into his truck.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I created a minor sensation in Miccah’s for the next two hours. Alan and I appropriated a large table on the glassed-in porch, one whose surface was well lit by the western sun, even behind clouds, yet was close enough to the bar and waitress station for quick service.

  Miccah’s was patronized by a varied group of townsfolk, some in business suits, some in work or sports clothes, farmers, shop owners, doctors, lawyers, mill workers, secretaries, and hair dressers all gathered in little groups, like high school kids in the lunch room, each little "clique" watching the other, all hungry for food, gossip, and camaraderie. Even in the rural South, people went home to families and dinner around the table less and less often, opting for other, livelier pursuits, with no dishes to wash. Alan and I gave them something new to talk about. But between introductions, greetings, belated condolences, and downright nosiness on the part of DorCity’s gentry and moneyed professionals—during which I deliberately sniffed our visitors’ breath—we actually covered a great deal of information.

  Alan had his pitcher of beer—a small one—and I sipped a glass of wine and nibbled on nachos with jalapenos and cheese as we went over the specs for the apartment complex planned by Taylor, Inc. Blueprints, topographical surveys, and aerial photographs were scattered across the table. Advertising layouts, Realtor contracts, Alan even showed me renter’s contracts. It was amazing cooperation from Taylor, Inc, a company notorious for its high-handed operating style.

  It gave me a good overview of the extensive condo, townhouse, and garden apartment complex planned by Taylor, Inc. There were tennis courts, two pools, a fully staffed clubhouse, a bicycle path and jogging track, two playgrounds, and a two-acre lake. It was all tastefully done and would coexist nicely beside Davenport Hills. Jerel Taylor was sparing no expense in his development of the former hay farm that would become his newest South Carolina project. I couldn’t see why he had resisted showing Jack these plans. His stubbornness had resulted in delays for his own project and steep legal fees. But then, according to Jack, Taylor had never let good sense stand in the way of pride. There were still unanswered questions of course, things Alan had left out of his impromptu presentation, but I had offered no information in return; it had been a one-sided conversation. I wondered what I hadn’t been told.

  And then I had an idea. "When Davenport Hills applies for a city charter in five years time, will Jerel resist being incorporated?"

  "Probably."

  I smiled into my wine glass at Alan’s honesty.

  "With few permanent residents and a mostly transitory tenant population, I don’t see the need from our point of view. It would mean higher taxes and regulation, and I know Jerel wouldn’t like that."

  "True. But there would be police and fire protection offered by the new city. Garbage pickup, access to the cheaper electricity and gas rates negotiated with Duke Power by Jack this spring, just for starters."

  "Okay," he conceded, "but those higher taxes are still a problem."

  "Lower liability rates," I finished smugly, proud I had remembered some of the facts Macon had tossed at me on the ride to Davenport Hills.

  Alan laughed, attracting the attention of the waitresses and of Bret McDermott who had just stepped through the entry door of Miccah’s for his usual evening meal. I paused when I saw him enter the door, his banker’s black replaced by jeans and a Polo shirt. This was the first time I had been to Miccah’s at dinnertime since Jack died. I had forgotten Bret ate here every evening. He found us in the smoky shadows, his eyes moving over Alan, the papers between us, and me. Curiously calculating eyes, cool and restrained. Beneath his gaze, I suddenly felt guilty sitting here, in a public place, only weeks after the death of my husband. Making a spectacle of myself, just as my Nana had said. Guilty and afraid.

  But then, that’s exactly what I had wanted, wasn’t it? To draw attention to myself and to Davenport Hills. To seize the attentions of the man who attacked me and those who had sent him. To make him come for me.

  And then what, my girl. The words and tone were Nana’s, the phrase with which she had questioned countless harebrained schemes over the years. The words calculated to make me poke holes in my own thinking. Usually, Nana’s stern voice urging me to think, worked. This time it didn’t. It served only to make me stubborn. After all, how else could I protect my daughter?

  I waved Bret over. "Bret, you remember Alan Mathison from the meeting this afternoon." If my husband’s old friend heard the subtle scorn in my voice, he gave no indication. Alan stood, the two men shook hands, and Alan asked Bret to join us. He settled on the booth seat beside me. A few moments of manly chitchat later, I was finally allowed into the conversation. I really hated being the little lady in a group of men.

  "So. Mrs. D.," Bret said, a faint smile playing on his mouth. It was the first time I had ever seen him display humor, or even any awareness of the concept. He was a distinctly serious man. "I hope you’ll accept my heartfelt apologies. I had no idea Rolland was going to light into Peter Howell that way. I should have put a stop to it. I’m sorry," he said, his words slow and his high Dawkins accent very strong.

  In Dawkins, there are four distinct accents. Mill-town, farmer, African American, and high. The high accent is a rougher version of the typical Charleston accent, the result of so many Charleston patriarchs vacationing here in the summers before malaria-carrying insects were controlled in the Charleston swamps. Many liked Dawkins and just stayed on. High Dawkins meant money and connections.

  "I dialed Peter and made peace. I hope you will accept my apologies as well."

  I didn’t know what Bret wanted, and I was uneasy, but I tilted my head to show I held no hard feelings. "RailRoad is difficult to halt once he gets started." Bret smiled at that. "And I appreciate that you called Peter. He’s a good man," which seemed a safe enough statement.

  "Yes. He is," Bret agreed. Again, his face showed nothing but the cool expression he had worn at The Swamp and again when he entered Miccah’s.

  I could think of nothing else to say, and it seemed an appropriate moment to excuse myself: the sun was a dull orange ball hanging below the last of the clouds, Miccah’s was filling up with diners who needed the seating space, and I had accomplished my goals. I had taken the reins of DavInc, and either done really well today, or made a complete fool of myself. There was no way for me to know. Either way, I had come out of hiding. Both actions would be bait for my attacker, and had exhausted me simply because of their unfamiliarity. It had been a long and emotionally draining day, so difficult that I couldn’t decide if I was afraid any longer.

  My exhaustion and the fact that Jasmine and Topaz had just entered Miccah’s—quite obviously looking all over the place for me—convinced me my meeting was over. Jas looked like a thunder cloud, her face dark with anger, her eyes flashing as if they might shoot lightning. I assumed some of her friends had spotted me with a strange man and made a surreptitious cell call, alerting Jas that her mother was out with a man. "Well, I have a daughter to feed," I said, falling back on every Southern woman’s finest excuse, family. "So if you gentlemen will excuse me." I stood in my corner of the booth as I spoke, my knee brushing against Bret’s. Both men came to their feet, Bret moving into the aisle as if I had made a shameless and unwelcome pass at him. He was still as shy and gauche as a grade school boy.

  I didn’t look up at him, afraid I might smile if I did and insult the man. His years of business success had taught Bret nothing about women. Bret’s feelings toward me had always been ambivalent: a bit old fashioned and judgmental in viewing me as a working wife. There were other emotions as well, better hidde
n. Jack once teased me that Bret had a crush on me. One of those full-blown, sleep with your picture under my pillow, do you love me, yes, no, or maybe, check one, crushes. I never believed it till now; Bret did have a strange expression in his eyes

  As I stepped into the aisle and picked up Jack’s old briefcase, I looked up at Alan. "DavInc will be happy to drop the restraining order against Taylor, Inc.’s development if you agree to send me a letter outlining the proposal we discussed. Do we have an agreement?"

  Alan hesitated, uncertainty glimmering deep in his eyes. I understood his hesitation. It was one thing to go behind the boss’ back in an informal meeting in a restaurant. It was something else entirely to commit the offense to paper. "Agreed," he said with a sigh. "I had hoped to put off testing Jerel’s promise of a free hand in South Carolina, but it might as well be now as later. I’ve yet to hire a secretary, and my typing skills leave a lot to be desired. I hope a delay of several days won’t slow down the process of having the restraining order lifted."

  "I wouldn’t think a few days would make a difference to the restraining order." I waved to the girls and saw them start over to me. Jas was glaring, looking over the two men. Bret she dismissed as too familiar to be a threat; it was Alan she focused on.

  "I’ll notify Macon and he can begin the paperwork. Of course," I said with a sweet smile, "I’ll have to approve the specs before any legal changes can take place. Just to make certain that I understood everything we’ve discussed, and that there are no substantial differences on paper. I’m quite new at this, you understand."

  "Of course, Mrs. D.," Alan said, matching my smile. "I’ll messenger the specs over to you in a few days."

  "Not likely," Bret said. "DorCity doesn’t have a messenger service. This isn’t Charlotte, you know." Poor Bret. He was always so serious. "In fact, we don’t even have Taxi service. The last one closed down in the seventies when the price of gas went through the roof."