Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

  “Do you remember her name?”

  Mavis shook her head. “Only heard it once’t. Woman had an odd name. Maybe it’ll come to me later.”

  “If it does, please call me.” She handed Mavis her card.

  “I’ll do that for sure. And y’all be sure to tell old Mavis what y’all find out!”

  “SHUT UP MAVIS!” Spike squawked.

  “Blow it out yer ass Spike!”

  Spike ruffled his feathers as though highly insulted.

  Ellie and Carrie Ann smiled, thanked her and left.

  Heading back toward Harlan, Ellie saw a red Ford pickup four cars behind them. It looked like it might be the pickup that followed Quinn and her from the courthouse. As the pickup pulled within three cars, Ellie glimpsed the driver, a round-faced man.

  Is that Ronnie Sneller? she wondered. Ronnie, a creepy high school classmate, had hounded her for years for a date almost to the stalking level.

  Then sunlight lit the driver’s face.

  Not Ronnie. Older guy. Thirties. Wraparound sunglasses, baseball hat, a phone device on his ear, lips moving.

  “That red pickup behind us looks like the pickup that followed Quinn and me earlier today.”

  Carrie Ann checked the mirror. “I’ll drive straight home!”

  “Thanks.”

  Once again, Ellie thought, I’m escaping to Carrie Ann’s home.

  She would never forget her first time, six years ago. Late at night, her foster parent, Hoyt Rickter, drunk as usual, came into her room, dropped his pants and started to fondle her. She fought to get away, but he grabbed her ponytail, threw her down on her bed and tried to rape her. She managed to pull a big blue lava lamp off the table and broke it over his head, sending hot wax onto his crotch. As Hoyt fell to the floor screaming and holding his burning genitals, she ran over to Carrie’s home six blocks away. Mrs. Norris immediately phoned Hoyt and told him Ellie would not be returning to his house that night, or ever again, and that if he had a problem with that, she would report him to the Sheriff Lonnie Norris, her brother-in-law, who would then report Hoyt to social services as a pedophile and attempted rapist and make sure he was locked up in the Kentucky State Penitentiary.

  Hoyt Rickter was never heard from again.

  Ellie would always owe Mrs. Norris for that night and for accepting her into her family. And some day, she would find a way to repay her. She just hoped Mrs. Norris lived long enough.

  Ellie checked the red pickup again.

  It was only two cars behind them and moving up.

  She saw the NASCAR sticker.

  It was the same pickup.

  THIRTEEN

  MANCHESTER

  Quinn drove toward the small town of Manchester, nestled in rolling hills north of Harlan.

  He enjoyed the sweet scent of freshly mown hay as he passed a chestnut mare and her colt grazing in lush grass behind a white picket fence. Kentucky horse country. As a kid, he visited world famous Calumet Farms with its picturesque acres of white fences, green fields, magnificent thoroughbreds, and immaculate barns.

  Quinn drove into Manchester and passed a white-steeple church and rows of tiny shops and folks chatting, smiling, and waving at people driving by. Another small town big on neighborliness.

  He hoped Fletcher Falcone, the probate attorney executor of Leland Radford’s estate, was also friendly … and gave him a comprehensive overview of the Radford estate and the upcoming probate process.

  Quinn parked and walked toward the attractive law office of Falcone & Partners, housed in a large, perfectly preserved Queen Anne style mansion with a steep gabled roof and a large porch that wrapped around three sides. A big bay window jutted out into a garden filled with purple tulips dripping water from the sprinkler.

  He entered the lobby. Lots of modern chrome and glass décor that blended nicely with antique chairs and tables.

  “May I help you?” asked the young, very blonde, very buxom receptionist smiling at him over the top of True Confessions. Her nameplate read, ‘Ramada.’

  “Yes, I’m Quinn Parker, a law student. Mr. Falcone offered to spend some time with me around now.”

  Ramada smiled as though she’d like to spend some time with Quinn around now.

  “Mr. Falcone is expecting you. He’s just dedicated a school playground. He’ll be here any second.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like some coffee … Quinn?”

  “No thanks.”

  “If you need anything just let me know.” She fluttered her eyes and raked bejeweled purple fingernails through her thick, blonde hair. Her southern hospitality message was loud and clear.

  He sat down in a plush leather chair and noticed the facing wall was covered with the logos of some of Appalachia’s largest coal mining companies … obviously important clients for Falcone & Partners. In southeastern Kentucky, business was a four-letter word: COAL.

  Ramada answered her desk phone.

  “Mr. Falcone just got in his office. He’ll see you now.”

  Smiling, Ramada escorted him down a narrow hallway, brushing her southern hospitality against his hip a couple of times.

  He entered Fletcher Falcone’s office and saw a heavyset man, some might say obese, with thick, salt and pepper hair, sitting behind a massive desk stacked with several legal folders. He was on the phone, smiled at Quinn and waved him into a chair.

  The man’s bushy brown eyebrows swept upward, reminding Quinn of the late John L. Lewis, the famous United Mine Workers president. Falcone laughed at something, scrunching his eyes into slits. He wore an expensive blue suit. His vest had a gold chain, presumably attached to a pocket watch. On his credenza sat a stack of Racing Post newspapers, a bottle of Jack Daniels and an enormous bowl of cashews.

  Falcone hung up, then stood up. He was about five-foot-eight, maybe three hundred pounds, but whipped round his desk surprisingly fast on small, black tasseled loafers. Smiling, he shook Quinn’s hand.

  “Welcome, Quinn. Professor Bossung told me you’ve been cracking those big fat law books extra hard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Briefing all those cases?”

  “Day and night.”

  “Don’t forget those outlines!”

  “I’d be dead without them, sir.”

  Falcone chuckled.

  “Have a seat, son. Something to drink? Cashews maybe?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  Falcone grabbed a fistful of cashews, tossed them in his mouth and munched away, dribbling crumbs onto his vest and pants. “So, you’re putting together an overview on Leland Radford’s estate for your class, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand you were named executor.”

  “That’s right. You see, I knew Leland for thirty-one years. Been his personal attorney for the last twenty-nine.”

  Quinn nodded. “Obviously, Mr. Radford was a very impressive man.”

  “Yes. And very successful. Born in a dirt floor Kentucky log cabin. In high school, Leland found some valuable Civil War antiques in a field. Swords, rifles, guns, hats, coins. Made enough money selling them to open a tiny antique store by his senior year. Saved every dime. Earned a scholarship to the University of Kentucky. Started investing in the stock market. The man just had the knack. Made a bundle. Then he bought troubled companies, turned them around without shipping jobs overseas, raked in huge profits. Poured his profits into the money markets. Made bigger bundles. Kentucky’s Warren Buffett. Married his high school sweetheart, Dinah Sue. Wonderful woman! Married thirty-one years until she died. Her passing almost killed him.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Zelda happened. Leland’s half-sister. His only living relative. She came to live with him at The Pines, his estate. Zelda was a piece of work, I reckon. Spinster lady with no kids or kin, ran The Pines staff like a marine drill sergeant for years until she died, believe it or not, just one day before Leland died.”

  What are the odds of that? Quinn wondere
d, as he made notes. “What about Leland’s children?”

  Falcone paused for several moments, looked out the window, and tossed more cashews in his mouth. “That’s a right sad story. Just one child. Rick. Nice young man. Second Lieutenant in Iraq. Roadside bomb killed him. Leland was flat out devastated.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “He was never the same after.”

  “Was his son married?”

  “No.”

  Quinn jotted more notes. “So, did Leland’s will leave everything to Zelda?”

  “Off the record, it sure did. Except for some very generous bequests to his household staff.”

  “So no other children?”

  Another pause. “No.”

  “So now, I assume, Zelda’s heirs will inherit?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Why?”

  “Zelda had no heirs. Not a damn one. No family. No relatives. Plus Zelda hadn’t made her will yet, even though I told that woman a gazillion times to write her will over the years. Stubborn woman. Always said she wanted to think about it more. Well, she waited too damned long!”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, the day Zelda died of a massive heart attack in her flower garden, I was in New York. So I phoned the hospital where Leland was hospitalized to see how he wanted to revise his will. But the doctor told me Leland was slipping in and out of consciousness and that I better hustle back here immediately. So I grabbed a flight and got here four hours later to find Leland had just slipped into a coma. Never came out of it. Eleven hours later, he passed away.”

  “No other relatives, cousins?”

  Falcone shook his head. “Not a dang one.”

  “No other living relatives seems kinda rare.”

  “It is! But it happens, Quinn. Leland’s parents were only children. So was Dinah Sue, his wife. And frankly, Zelda was too damned mean for anyone to marry and have kids with. So bottom line – no kinfolk on either side. Isn’t that something?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “It happens more than people think.” Falcone tossed more cashews in his mouth, then glanced at his pocket watch.

  “So as executor, I assume, you’re responsible for probating the estate, and then selling off the assets, properties, the home, businesses, and paying taxes, and so forth all in accordance with the will and state law.”

  “That’s right, Quinn. And it’s a hell of a lot to sell off and liquidate, I’ll tell ya. You can get the complete list of all estate assets over at the Clay County court, few blocks over. They’re posted there. And call a fella named Heinrich De Groot, Radford’s estate and financial manager and tax guy. De Groot and some other estate managers, handle most of the day-to-day management of the estate business and operations.”

  “Do you have their names and numbers?”

  “Sure, do.” Falcone took a list from a drawer and gave it to him. “Just tell these guys you talked to me.”

  Falcone then gave him a quick summary of Radford’s major businesses and properties and the respective managers.

  “We’re talking big estate,” Quinn said.

  “According to De Groot, we’re talking over nine hundred fifty million dollars big! Closing in on a billion!”

  Quinn was stunned.

  “Yep, a billion.”

  “And with no heirs,” Quinn said, “I think I hear the state of Kentucky licking its chops?”

  “I hear ‘em drooling! The state will get a windfall.”

  Quinn nodded. “What kind of man was Radford?”

  “Hard working, and very generous. Off the record, the will leaves some of his employees at The Pines enough to retire.”

  “Where is The Pines?”

  “Not far. Just up Highway 80 past Pigeonroost. Can’t miss it. Sits up on a big old hill overlooking a lake. Beautiful estate. Shoot, I reckon The Pines mansion, its horse stables and barns, the private aircraft landing strip and surrounding nine hundred acres are worth maybe forty million dollars easy.”

  Amazed, Quinn made more notes.

  Falcone glanced at his watch again.

  “I know you’re busy, Mr. Falcone, but I’d like to get a little better sense of the man. Is there someone at The Pines who knew him well? Someone I might chat with?”

  Falcone seemed a little taken back by the question, as though he’d just relayed everything worth knowing about Radford. He blinked again, then straightened his red polka dot tie. “Well, I reckon you could chat with old Irene, a housekeeper. She worked for Leland for decades. Knew him as well as anyone. Nice woman. Black as the ace of spades.”

  Quinn wondered what her color had to do with anything. “Does Irene still live at The Pines?”

  “Yes. Everyone does until it’s sold after probate.”

  Falcone looked at his watch. “Well, Quinn, I’m scheduled in court. If you have any more questions, just call me.”

  “That’s very kind. And thanks for taking the time, Mr. Falcone. I really appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help, son.

  Quinn left the office, got in his car and wrote more notes. An interesting meeting. The jovial lawyer had been very helpful and forthcoming, but seemed a bit hesitant a couple of times, like when Quinn asked to speak to someone at The Pines about Radford. No, he was more than hesitant. Maybe concerned.

  Quinn wondered why?

  FOURTEEN

  LOUISVILLE

  In his sprawling office, Mason V. Marweg tied the silk laces of his custom-made, three-thousand-dollar elevator shoes. The alligator wingtips, one of sixteen similar pairs of various shades in his closet, raised his height five full inches, up to four-feet eleven and a half. Quite normal.

  What wasn’t normal were his three wolverines. He gazed at the beautiful sleeping animals. He’d raised them since birth with the help of his on-staff veterinarian who’d used growth hormone and gene therapy to nearly triple their normal size. The massive carnivores – Shamar, Goba, and Goliath – weighed nearly one hundred sixty pounds each. And although semi-domesticated, they remained vicious flesh-eating predators, trained to obey only his commands. He loved watching them doze in the sun.

  He clicked his clicker. Instantly, the three muscular bear-like animals sprang to their feet, snarling and baring their two-inch canines, hoping to sink them into whoever was behind his office door.

  Satisfied at their response, Marweg snapped the clicker twice. Immediately, the wolverines sat back in the sun. He opened a small refrigerator and removed three large chunks of raw one-hundred-fifty-dollar-a-pound Kobe beef, and tossed them to the animals. They devoured the meat in seconds.

  Shamar, Goba and Goliath were his protectors, 24x7. They even slept with him in his double-king-sized bed, steel-reinforced to support their additional five hundred pounds.

  Marweg stood in his penthouse office atop his twenty-story Marweg Industries Building in downtown Louisville. He looked down at the Ohio River and watched the nation’s oldest operating steamboat, the Belle of Louisville, paddle-wheeling its way up river. Passengers were smiling.

  Marweg smiled, too. He’d just added two major properties to his mining empire. At the sale closing, the former mine owners refused to speak to him because he’d forced them into bankruptcy. He couldn’t care less. The fools didn’t get it. Business is war! A land war in his case.

  And his next land acquisition – Leland T. Radford’s massive twelve thousand acres chock full of coal – would soon be his.

  For years, he’d tried to buy Radford’s land, but the tree-hugging fanatic repeatedly refused to sell, babbling on about the ecological balance “of my pristine forests.” Well, my pristine coal haulers will soon roll out of those forests with tons of black gold – coal.

  Because Radford was now dead.

  Marweg’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He saw Caller ID and answered.

  “Yeah …?”

  “Something’s come up,” the caller said.

  “Explain.”

  The more the man explained, the le
ss Marweg liked what he heard. He didn’t need this aggravation now.

  “Handle it,” Marweg said, “or I’ll shift my assets elsewhere.”

  “I will.”

  Marweg hung up. If the man didn’t handle it, Marweg would. Just because he was four feet eleven and a half, certain people thought they could take advantage of him. The corridors of business were now stacked with tall ex-CEO bullies who tried to push him around.

  After all, he’d handled every problem since the day his father abandoned him and his cancer-ridden mother, leaving them penniless. Marweg was fifteen. That same day he walked to the nearby Crawford Mine to beg for work. As he neared the office, someone threw a razor-sharp chunk of coal that ripped open his cheek beneath his eye.

  The miner who’d thrown the rock, Cletus Buttes, shouted, “We don’t hire no fuckin’ dwarfs!” Cletus and his four pals howled with laughter and threw more coal at him as he ran home, bleeding.

  Marweg swore revenge.

  Seventeen years later, he got it. After acquiring huge success in the money markets, Marweg bought a network of coalmines, including the Crawford Mine. That same day, he fired Cletus and his four pals. Marweg waved to them as they walked out the gates. Cletus and his boys had lost their appetite for laughing. They’d also lost their pensions. It was one of the happiest days of Marweg’s life.

  Today, nearly thirty years later, Mason Marweg sat atop mining empire valued at 5.3 billion dollars.

  Most of his wealth came from his coalmines the USA, silver mines in Bolivia and two diamond mines in Botswana. The mines gave him an enormous sense of power.

  So would the acquisition of Leland Radford’s 12,000 acres of rich bituminous coal.

  And he would soon acquire those acres … one way or another.

  FIFTEEN

  Driving away from his meeting with Fletcher Falcone,

  Quinn shifted in his seat and felt pain shoot up from his knee. Only one Vicodin left. He needed more painkillers to study for upcoming law exams. If Dr. Swanson wouldn’t write him another prescription, he’d have to go cold turkey … or start shopping doctors.