Money To Burn (15 page)

“Bobby said you wanted the details on the King Buffalo sale?” a pleasant voice asked.

“Sure.” Cancel that last complaint about phones in my face.

“We’re not handling it,” Bobby’s client said. “My firm’s too small. But I heard the scuttlebutt. It’s a small investment banking community around here.” The guy had a nice voice, full and rich. He was probably gorgeous, too. Not that it mattered. I lacked the equipment to play one-on-one with him.

“So what was the story?” I asked. “Isn’t two weeks quick for a sale?”

“Sure,” he admitted. “But in this case, the company was privately owned and there were only two owners, so there’s not as much paperwork. Besides, when a key man dies in a small company like that, it often folds up shop. With Nash being the entire R&D department, there was no question about King Buffalo hitting the block. Cosgrove sent out feelers the day after Nash died, saying King Buffalo was up for sale. We heard about it by late afternoon. One of our clients was interested in a bid, but it was too late. Talbot had jumped on it. I suspect Cosgrove knew Randolph Talbot was waiting for the chance to buy him out.”

“You mean Cosgrove and Talbot may have had talks about selling out even before Nash died?” Maybe that was the motive. Cosgrove told me he’d heard about Nash’s death the next afternoon, when he called in from the road. That meant he had phoned his investment banker immediately after hearing the news. Talk about not wasting time.

Bobby’s client was quiet, thinking over the question. “It’s possible they had talked about it in the past, but if what you’re getting at is a reason to kill Nash,” he said. “I don’t think this is it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Nash was King Buffalo’s future. And he was on to something big. He would have made Cosgrove a multimillionaire many times over within three years if he had lived. The man was a genius and, more than that, he knew what the market wanted. If they had waited another year, even, and then gone public—they could have cashed out big. There’s no way Cosgrove killed Nash for the money. In fact, if I were the guy who’d killed Nash, I’d be worrying about Cosgrove coming after me. He must be furious his money ticket got punched.”

If that was the case, Cosgrove was a good actor. “What about the possibility that Talbot killed Nash so he could buy the company cheap?” I asked.

“Killing Nash destroyed the value of just about everything that company had,” the banker explained. “The only thing left to buy after Nash died was the King Buffalo brand name and market niche. It’s not even worth what Talbot is now paying for the whole company. He’s getting no bargain.”

“So why is he doing it?” I asked.

“To get Cosgrove, I suspect. The guy is a marketing genius.”

“It’s nice to know shallow, image-obsessed, incredibly selfish people have strong career options these days,” I remarked.

“I see you’ve met Cosgrove,” the banker answered with a laugh. “Life is not fair. If life were fair, Cosgrove would be cleaning out toilets and my boyfriend would be in love with me.”

“If it’s any consolation, your boyfriend is obviously nuts,” I told him.

“Thank you. Anything else you need to know?”

“No. Just good luck and thanks again.” I hung up, reluctantly moving Cosgrove and Talbot back down my mental list of suspects. That left me a very short list. I handed the phone back to a smiling Bobby D. He loved it when his connections paid off.

“Do a good job for this guy,” I ordered him. “You’re right. He deserves better.” It isn’t often Bobby and I get a cheating-spouse client we both like.

Bobby rumbled off and I sat glumly at my desk. There wasn’t much I could do until I talked to Nash’s civil lawyer, and Bobby’s earlier advice still rang in my ears. Maybe I ought to widen my net. I could talk to Sanford Hale, the farmer who’d been dropped from Nash’s pilot tobacco-growing program. And I ought to meet Nash’s family as well. They were probably still grieving, but I couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

The Internet is a stalker’s paradise. Within minutes, I not only had addresses for Sanford Hale and Tom Nash’s parents, I had printed out maps that gave directions to their houses down to the block level. Hale lived in Norlina, a small town near Lake Gaston. The Nashes lived in Vance County just outside Kittrell. Both towns were within an hour’s drive north of Raleigh. I could do it.

Suddenly, the idea of tooling around the Carolina countryside in my old Porsche seemed mighty appealing. I could cleanse my lungs of the rarefied air of the wealthy and replace it with some old-fashioned, down-home oxygen.

I grabbed my keys to hit the road. Bobby D. was busy on the phone when I walked by. He was sweet-talking women in court offices around the state as he tracked down my information, God bless him. He crooked a finger to stop me at the door.

“I need that cigarette pack mini-cam before you go,” he whispered. “For tonight.”

“Going back to the gay bar?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

“A job’s a job,” he answered primly.

It felt good to leave the big city behind. I am, at heart, a country girl. My arteries feel clogged when I’m surrounded by too much concrete and auto exhaust. It was still fairly early, so I headed out to Norlina first, determined to track down the disqualified farmer. It was a great day to be on the road.

Late July can be a blessing or a curse in North Carolina. Some days, it’s so humid that your shirt sticks to your back before you’ve even buttoned it up in the morning. fahe mornOn days like that, crops can look listless and parched beneath the burning sun. But every now and then, a wind sweeps in from the mountains, bringing rain to cool down the Piedmont foothills, making the farmland seem as green as a jungle bursting with lush growth. Thank God for my hangover that it was one of the cool days, with the thermometer in the low seventies.

Speeding cut a good ten minutes off my drive time to Norlina. I bypassed the tiny downtown area and stopped at a crossroads gas station and country store about a mile east of the city limits. My map had failed me. I needed directions.

From the outside, the building looked like it might last another ten days before it crumbled to the ground. From the inside, it was doing a thriving business as a meeting place for locals. Shelves were stacked with the assorted necessities of rural life, ranging from canned goods and dog food to engine oil and coils of nylon rope. An old- fashioned wall clock ticked steadily away behind the counter but time was clearly a low priority. The whole world seemed to slow the second I stepped over the threshold. The lighting was dim, the counters covered with a thin film of dust and the only air stirring was being pushed around by a huge ceiling fan located above the meager video rental section. Straight-back chairs lined one of the walls, and were currently occupied with half a dozen men wearing dirty overalls and T-shirts, who were taking a midday break to enjoy a chaw and a cold Pepsi.

Some of the men were old and well-tanned from decades under the sun. They nodded and yupped, instead of conversing, and managed to give the impression that they seldom, if ever, moved from their seats. Others were younger, well-built with buzzed haircuts and big jaws. What they all had in common was a suspicious nature. They fell silent as I approached the register and eavesdropped when I quietly tried to get directions to where I was going.

“Do you know where Sanford Hale’s farm is?” I asked the ancient geezer behind the counter. He had tobacco juice dribbling down his chin and a straight line across his forehead from where his hat had shielded the sun for umpteen years, creating a permanent boundary between tanned skin and pale skull.

“Sure … don’t,” he muttered.

This drives me crazy. People in the South start every denial with a “sure,” which only gets your hopes up before they’re dashed. Plus, I knew he was lying. The men behind me were being too quiet for the old man to be telling the truth.

“That’s too bad,” I lied back, selecting a handful of Slim Jim beef jerky sticks and a grape soda from the old- fashioned Coca-Cola cooler by the front door. “He might be coming into some money. I work for a lawyer out of Raleigh.”

“Sanford hates lawyers,” one of the good old boys against the wall piped up. “He won’t let you in the door.”

Maybe not,lor”>Maybe but Einstein had just told me that Hale did indeed live nearby.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Why’s that?”

“His boy got hit by a semi about five years ago,” another man explained in an unhurried drawl. “Still in the hospital. He’s what you call a vegetable.” A couple of his cronies nodded in silent sympathy. “Big lawyer promised he’d get millions from the truck driver’s company, but Sanford ain’t seen a dime.”

“That’s true,” the old counter man piped up, unconcerned that his lie had been revealed. “Best not to tell him that you work for a lawyer. He’s likely to get out his shotgun and shoot first, then ask questions later.” He hee-heed behind his crooked teeth and several of the other men shared in his merriment.

“Thanks for the tip,” I told them, opening my knapsack and finding a twenty-dollar bill. “Here. Keep the change. Now, where might I find him?” I stared the old man down and he reluctantly took my cash.

“Keep your durn money,” he said gruffly, sliding my change across the counter. “Sanford’s down the road there about two miles,” he said, pointing out the screen door to the main road. “Take a right at the first stop light. Go another half a mile and you’ll see a gravel road to the left. It runs into his farm. You best be bringing him good news or you best not stop here again.”

“I am,” I assured him, scooping up my purchases and heading for the door. “Thanks.” I wiggled my butt a little more than usual on my way out, because I figured the old guy didn’t get much chance to ogle in these parts and I believe in being kind to my elders.

As I left the cool darkness of the old store behind me, their voices floated through an open window.

“You see the muscles on that gal?” one of the men asked his friends.

“Yup,” someone else answered. “Reckon she could wrestle my bull to the ground and still have enough left to whip me and my boy with one hand tied behind her back.”

“You’d like that, now wouldn’t you?” another man retorted.

The men laughed at the thought. I shook my head and smiled. Never, ever, under any circumstances, assume that just because a man wears overalls and hides his eyes under a hat that he is in any way dumb or unobservant.

If you do, those country boys will get you every time.

The gravel road turned ugly a few yards down the lane. Potholes as big as a kiddie swimming “>

Heavenly—in more ways than one. Either I was hearing voices or there was a gospel choir nearby.

I inched forward, windows rolled down, as I strained to hear. Voices blended in the distance, punctuated by clapping and the kind of heartfelt “amens” and “hallelujahs” you only find in places like the Mount Zion Baptist Church. I was flooded with a childhood memory: people standing on pews, eyes rolled to the heavens, an old woman swooning to the floor. Where had that come from?

When I rounded the bend, I was in for another surprise. An immaculate farm was spread before me. Acres of tobacco stretched toward the horizon in tidy rows, the lower leaves already harvested and the flowers carefully nipped from the tops, leaving sturdy palm-like plants with elephant-ear shaped fronds turning yellow beneath the Carolina sun. The lawn was a perfectly mowed expanse of green that surrounded a sparkling manmade pond, a white farmhouse—and a side yard filled with at least two dozen
clapping, singing souls dressed in an assortment of jeans and casual wear. They were so caught up in the music that no one even looked my way as I pulled up behind a parking lot full of compact cars and the occasional old land boat.

The chorus was finishing up “One Of These Days” as I climbed the wooden steps to the porch and knocked firmly on the front door. I saw a few curious faces glance at me before a stout black woman in a purple dress clapped her hands for attention and started them off on a rousing version of “Put Your Hand In The Hand.” I got so lost in the music that I never even noticed when the door opened and an elderly black man joined me on the porch.

“My wife’s choir,” he explained in a deep voice. He ignored my startled jump. “Got a big competition this weekend so they’re rehearsing every day.”

“They’re really good,” I told him. “I hope they win.”

He nodded politely then waited for me to explain who I was and what I was doing on his front porch. He seemed in no hurry, so I took my time groping for the right approach, deciding, finally, that the truth might be the best bet. A man with an entire gospel choir on his side would not appreciate deception.

“I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Thomas Nash,” I said.

The old man’s reactioch an’s ren surprised me. He’d been wearing a tan fishing cap and he quickly removed it. He held it over his heart, bowed his head and murmured, “God rest his soul.” Then he began to mutter words I could not quite make out. Even a born-again pagan like me could figure out he was praying, so I waited until he was done before I started to grill him.

“Did you know Nash was dead?” I asked curiously.

The old man shook his head. “I been waiting for him to come and take soil samples,” he explained. “I was wondering why he never showed up.”

“Soil samples?” I asked. “Then you must be Sanford Hale.”