Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 (16 page)

The movers swept past him without even pretending to heed his warning. “That goes in the room to the right!” he called after them. He got up and peered into the trunk to see how much furniture they had left to unload. The truck was still at least half full. They wouldn't finish until after five o'clock. He was glad he wasn't paying them by the hour.

The movers had just unloaded an antique
walnut desk and were stumbling precariously up the steps with it when Huff's attention was deflected by the arrival of a white sedan pulling into the winding driveway. Huff did not recognize the dark-haired young man behind the wheel; for a moment he had thought that it was the sellers' attorney Bill MacPherson, coming to welcome him to town, and perhaps to hustle a little future legal business. But while this young man looked like a lawyer, in his Southern prep's uniform of spotted tie and khaki slacks, he certainly didn't look like a welcoming committee. He was staring open-mouthed at the moving van and flipping through a sheaf of papers on a clipboard as he approached the house.
Local tax assessor,
thought John Huff, bracing himself for the confrontation. These yokels would soon learn that they couldn't push him around. Huff sat where he was and waited for Mr. Power Tie's opening salvo.

He didn't have long to wait. The young man looked at the moving van, jotted down its license plate, and said, “Well, my goodness, we're busy this afternoon.” He waved his hand at the truck, the house, and John Huff. “And just what are we up to here?”

“Well, I'm moving into my new house, and you're trespassing,” said Huff. He believed in asserting himself at the earliest possible moment.

The reply was an unconvincing imitation of a
smile. “I beg your pardon? I am trespassing? Do you know who I am?”

“No, I can't help you there. Are you lost?”

The young man drew himself up to his full height—about five seven—and announced, “Sir, I am Randolph Custis Byrd, and I have the honor to be the assistant director of art and antiquities for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Now please tell me what is transpiring here. I thought the elderly ladies were going to wait for
us
to assist them in vacating the premises.”

“They didn't wait. I guess with a million dollars they didn't need any help with moving expenses from the state.”

R. Custis Byrd stared in disbelief. “A million dollars? Are you serious? But where would they …” He peered into the back of the moving van. “They didn't sell you the furniture, did they?”

“No,” said Huff. “I didn't want it. I'd rather furnish the house to my own taste.”

“Furnish the house?” echoed Byrd. “What are you talking about?” Two movers in gray coveralls clumped past them up the ramp and into the truck, and emerged balancing a recliner between them. Byrd watched them go with an expression of horror that the recliner's upholstery did not quite merit. “Why are you moving a lounge chair into the state art museum?”

Now it was John Huff's turn to look stricken. “Art museum? You must have come to the
wrong house. Why, I paid a fortune for this house not two weeks ago!”

“I hope not. This was the Home for Confederate Women. The state has decided to claim it for the people of Virginia because of its historic value. I have the paperwork right here if you'd like to see it. In return for the house, we were planning to move the eight current residents to a nursing home outside Danville, and to pay for their care for the rest of their lives. The poor old dears ought to be on their way to Bingo Heaven right now. Where are they, by the way?”

John Huff set his jaw. “I tell you I bought this house.”

“Well, you've been taken in by a fraud, sir,” said Custis Byrd in tones bordering on sympathy. “Who sold it to you?”

“A Danville attorney named Bill MacPherson.”

   A. P. Hill had returned to the twentieth century, exchanging her gray infantry uniform for the navy-blue coat and skirt that was her legal uniform. Reenacting was an enjoyable hobby, and a way for her to feel closer to her great-great-grandfather the general, but the present-day A. P. Hill had no desire to live permanently in the past. The Springfield rifle, the brogans, and the rimless spectacles had all been put away until next weekend's reenactment, a
scripted skirmish to take place at a battlefield that was now a national park. Now she had to return to a more crucial battle: the trial of Tug Mosier.

Because of the local sentiment about the case and the fact that the victim came from a prominent family, Powell had succeeded in getting a change of venue. Now the trial was scheduled for the end of the month in Stuart, a small town in Patrick County, some fifty miles west of Danville. She hoped that the new location would filter some of the emotion out of the case. At least she would have jurors who weren't former classmates of Misti Hale or friends of the victim's parents.

Now she had to decide how best to proceed with the defense. She was consulting a possible expert witness, Dr. Arthur Timmons, a Richmond psychiatrist who had some experience in criminal cases. As Powell Hill sat in his waiting room, leafing through old copies of
Smithsonian,
she wondered which would prove the more difficult task: coming up with a way to help her client or persuading a prominent physician to consult for nothing.

He had been cordial enough, though. Ushering her into his oak and green leather consulting room, he had listened carefully to her description of the Mosier case and the quandary over whether or not Tug was guilty of murder.

“And what do you want me to do, Miss Hill?” he asked when Powell's explanation finally wound down.

“Well, I was wondering if you could examine my client and try to determine whether or not he did it. Give him some tests, perhaps.”

Arthur Timmons considered the matter for a few moments. “Tests,” he mused. “There are some measures that we could take to try to restore his memory of the night in question. Hypnosis. Using a drug to put him into a semiconscious state so that he can discuss that night without inhibitions. But are you sure you want to do that?”

“Why wouldn't I?” asked A. P. Hill.

“Because he might remember. Right now you can plead your client innocent with perfect sincerity, since you have no conclusive evidence that he did it. But what are you going to do if I regress him, and he promptly confesses to the murder?”

A. P. Hill looked thoughtful. “I suppose I would have to concentrate on mitigating circumstances,” she said. “Diminished capacity. Accident. I'd have to know the circumstances before I could make any decision about how to proceed. I think, though, that Tug Mosier would like to go through with the tests, if possible. He's grief-stricken over Misti Hale's death, and he genuinely seems to want to know if he did it.”

Dr. Timmons scribbled a few notes and then looked up with a sad smile. “I think you're taking a great risk by doing this,” he said. “It has been my experience that most trial lawyers aren't interested in the truth. They're interested in a game plan. But talk to your client, Miss Hill. If he truly wants to resolve the question of his guilt, I will do what I can to assist you.”

“There's one other thing,” said Powell. “I'm court-appointed, you see, and we don't have any money to spend on medical experts.”

“I assumed that,” said Timmons, still smiling. “Poor and honest seem to go together, don't they?”

   Edith came into the office, closed the door behind her, and stood with her back against it. Her expression brought to mind the expendable blonde in reel one of a horror movie.

“What is it?” chuckled Bill. “Mr. Trowbridge in person?”

Edith shook her head. “It's that ornery man who bought the Home for Confederate Women, and if you thought he was bad before, you ought to see him now. He's about ready to spit nails.”

“Oh, boy! I hope it isn't termites. Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but judging from his expression, I'd say he wants to use your scalp for pom-poms.”

“Hmm,” said Bill. “That doesn't sound good.
Is Powell here? No, of course not. She's in Richmond, isn't she? Well, let them in, and I'll try to straighten this out.”

“Okay,” said Edith. “I just thought I'd warn you.” She mustered a wan smile and went out to face the visitors. Seconds later, Bill's door burst open again, and John Huff stormed in, followed by an officious-looking young man with a clipboard.

“Hello, Mr. Huff,” said Bill, coming out from behind his desk with an outstretched hand. “What can I do for you?”

Huff ignored the friendly greeting and turned to his companion. “That's him.”

Randolph Custis Byrd bustled forward and introduced himself in condescending tones. “Am I to understand that you sold the Home for Confederate Women to this gentleman last month for more than one million dollars?”

“I represented the sellers,” said Bill. “Why? What's the matter?”

“You represented the sellers,” echoed Byrd with a tight little smile. “And who
were
the sellers, may one ask?”

“Well …  the Confederate widows. Daughters, actually, I think. There were eight of them. Miss Dabney, Miss Pendleton …  I could look up the names.”

“I never saw them,” said John Huff.
“You
ran the ad in the newspaper.”

“Well, yes,” Bill admitted. “They instructed
me to. They're very elderly, and they didn't want to be bothered with telephone calls.”

“And when I flew down to Danville, you drove me out to the house and showed me around, but there was no one else there.”

“They went out to tea,” stammered Bill. “They were a little upset about …  uh …  selling their home.”

“But you didn't see them at all, Mr. Huff?” asked Byrd.

“I did not.”

“And then you decided to purchase the house,” Byrd continued, staring at Bill as he spoke. “You signed the papers here, I believe?”

“That's right,” said Huff grimly. “And
he
signed on behalf of the sellers. Said he had their power of attorney. We transferred the money from my bank to an account in
his
name.”

Bill's head was reeling, and for a moment he thought he was back in one of his bar exam nightmares. “I can explain all that,” he stammered. “The old ladies didn't want to come down to the office because one of them had a doctor's appointment. It was short notice, you remember.”

“What doctor?” said Byrd quickly.

“How should I know?” snapped Bill. “I can't even remember which old lady. We could ask them, I suppose. Now, will one of you tell me what this is all about?”

Huff ignored the question. “What did you do with the money, MacPherson?”

Bill blushed. “It's going to sound crazy,” he said with a little laugh. “But the old ladies claimed they didn't trust American banks. They asked me to deposit the money in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Can you imagine?”

Nobody laughed with him.

John Huff looked like a thundercloud. “A numbered account in the Cayman Islands! I'm surprised you had enough savvy to come up with that.”

“I didn't do it,” said Bill. “The old ladies did. I don't know how they came up with the notion.”

“Banks in the Cayman Islands won't give out any information about their accounts,” said Huff. “They won't say how much money the account holds, and they won't tell you whose account it is, either. Of course you knew that.”

Bill looked from Huff to Byrd and back again in disbelief. “You don't think I did it?” he gasped. “You think I opened that account and kept the money?”

“It seems obvious to me,” said Huff, stone-faced.

“But the fraud goes well beyond that,” Byrd pointed out. “That house is state property. We had filed a writ of eminent domain, claiming the property for use as an art museum for
southwest Virginia. No one had any authority to sell it.”

“We did a title search,” Bill protested. “We got a clear title! Mr. Huff's lawyer must have double-checked that.”

“I intend to find out,” said Huff grimly. “And if he didn't, I'll have his job at Fremont, Shields & Banks!”

“If the acquisition notice is not on file in the courthouse, that adds to the seriousness of the fraud,” said Byrd. “Tampering with legal documents for the purpose of fraud.”

“But I didn't!” wailed Bill. “At least I didn't do the title search. But Edith wouldn't do a thing like that.”

“Get her in here,” said Huff.

Edith Creech appeared in the doorway. Huff, his eyes glittering like a snake's, waved the title in front of her, and said, “MacPherson claims that you did this title search. Is that correct?”

“I went to the courthouse and found it,” said Edith warily. “Why?”

“Did you leave out anything? A document with a state seal on it, for example?” asked Custis Byrd.

“I don't think so.”

“And you witnessed this power of attorney, signed by the eight residents of the Home for Confederate Women.”

Edith looked at the paper. Then she looked at Bill. And back at the paper. “Uh …  well …”

“Did you or did you not witness these signatures?”

“What did he say?” Edith hedged.

“It's all right, Edith,” sighed Bill. “I'll tell them. I forgot to take Edith with me when I went out to have the paper signed. We had only about twelve hours' notice about the closing, and she was very busy typing up all the documents we needed. By the time I realized that it wasn't notarized, one of the women had gone for the evening, and we had a ton of work to do, so she took my word for it.”

“Of course we will be reporting this to the state bar association, as well as to the proper legal authorities,” said Byrd in a self-righteous pout.

“Wait,” said Bill. “Flora Dabney can clear this up. Just call her and ask her about the bank account and the newspaper ad—and all the rest of it.” He reached for the telephone book. “They said they were going to be moving to the Oakmont Nursing Home. They even invited me to come and have tea with them. Ah, here's the number. We'll soon straighten this out.”