Fruit of All Evil (24 page)

Sarah Nelson wasn't anywhere to be seen. Either she wasn't
working or she was on a break. Unfortunately, no one else could offer much help.

Our first stop was the teller line. Ian remembered that Bud's bank contact was named Addison Stinson, but two youngish male tellers said they were new to the bank and they had no idea who that was.

And there seemed to be no manager on duty. The tellers told us all the managers had been called to a meeting out of the building. They admitted it was strange, but considering the bank president had recently been murdered, everything at the bank had seemed strange lately.

We sat in the lobby for ten minutes, hoping someone, even Sarah Nelson, might show up to give us more substantial answers. Every second seemed too precious to wait, though, so I came up with another plan.

“Come on.” I got up and led the way outside. I said, “Ian, I'd love to meet Bud Morris.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Something tells me that Bud's issue is tied to Clarissa's. Something really odd is going on. You said he received a foreclosure letter from Central. Did you see it?” I was also adding Jeanine's issue into the mix, but I continued to keep my promise not to tell, which was becoming very tedious. I almost wished Allison hadn't shared.

“Yes, I did. It was just a letter notifying him that he was going to be foreclosed on within the month if he didn't pay some seemingly random amount. But . . . Becca, that's a pretty big leap—tying Bud's and Clarissa's issues together. Bud is a residential property owner, and Clarissa is a business owner. Whatever their issues are, real or not, they're worlds apart.”

“Probably, but it's all very coincidental, don't you think?”

“Yes. Coincidental, but that's probably all.”

“Maybe. But what would it hurt? Do you think he'd show me the letter?”

Ian squinted. “You feel pretty strongly about this, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you should meet Bud anyway. Let's go.” Ian maneuvered the truck back to the world of my childhood, but this time I was so focused on getting to the shack that I didn't even glance at my old house as we passed it.

Bud Morris was exactly as Ian had described him: old and unable to move well.

His shack was as clean as could be expected under the circumstances. It consisted of two rooms: the main room and the bathroom. He didn't have a kitchen, but there was one burner on a counter next to a small refrigerator. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a small table, three chairs, and a bed. He didn't have any family left. In fact, he didn't have much of anything at all. His circumstances broke my heart, but he seemed content and happy.

“Ian, how wonderful to see you,” he said as he opened the front door. He was a smallish man, his bent-over stance making him seem even smaller than he really was. He had a few strands of gray hair left on his head, and his eyes were as bright a blue as I'd seen on anyone, young or old. He used a cane, but every movement seemed a challenge. “Did we have an appointment today?”

“No, this is a surprise visit,” Ian said.

“Well, come in, come in. And who's your friend?”

Ian introduced me as we occupied the chairs. The space was crowded but not unpleasantly so. It wasn't really clean, but it wasn't really dirty. Ian had explained to me that Bud's wife had died twenty-some years ago. When his unmarried son died ten years later in a tragic car accident, Bud had left his home in Monson and moved out to the shack. He'd owned the land for decades but hadn't ever tried to grow anything on it. It had always been his plan to sell it when he needed the money. His career as a farm equipment salesperson had been successful enough that he'd never needed anything extra. According to Ian, Bud didn't look at his living circumstances as dire. When he lost his family, he moved away from other people because he wanted to. According to Bud, his retirement income had been enough. Until recently.

Though he owned the land outright, yearly property taxes were still due, and he was finally beginning to run out of money. He wanted to sell the land to Ian, but shortly after they began talking, Bud received the foreclosure notice.

“Can I get the two of you some tea?” he asked. He turned over a notebook that had curled edges and small torn pieces in the spiral binding.

“No, thanks, Bud. I drove Becca by here the other night, but I wanted her to see what it looks like in the daytime. Plus, I wanted her to meet you.”

“He's something, isn't he?” Bud mused as his bushy eyebrows rose. “He's brilliant. Lavender! Makes sense, and I think he'll do well when we can get those bas . . . oh, sorry, those bank people . . . to stop their shenanigans.”

“I think it's a good plan,” I said. “Sorry about the bank, though. I bet it'll get worked out.”

“Yes, I think so. I had my cab driver stop by there Saturday morning.” Bud looked at Ian, who nodded that he was listening.

“They talked to you then?” Ian asked.

Saturday had been the day after Madeline's murder. The bank was normally open for a couple of hours Saturday morning, so they must have stuck to their schedule.

“Yes, sir. They said to give them just a little longer to figure things out. The gentleman I met with said there might be some sort of mistake. Some—oh, what was the word he used?—some sort of
glitch
in the system.”

“Did you meet with Addison?” Ian asked.

“Nope, he wasn't in when I got there. Let's see . . . who did I talk to? Darn it, I can't remember. Some new fella, but . . . oh, give me a minute, maybe I'll remember it. He was in a tizzy, I'll tell you. He seemed nervous and upset, but calmed down enough to look at my letter. He took it from me and told me not to worry for the time being. I think we're going to be fine, Ian.”

My stomach fell. “Did you keep a copy of the letter, Bud?”

“No ma'am, didn't think I needed that nasty thing hanging around.”

The person at the bank probably didn't think so either. I would have put money on Bud's letter disappearing into thin air. Yes, there was most definitely something going on at the bank.

I didn't want to point out that Bud might have given away evidence, so I said, “It might not have been valid—that's what he said?”

Bud shook his head. “The gentleman wouldn't commit to anything, but it'll be fine, I know. I can prove I own the land. I'd just like to move things along.”

I hoped Sam was looking at the bank employees along with its customers. Something fishy was going on there. A
glitch
in the system? False foreclosure notices were lots bigger than glitches. The word “fraud” came to my mind, and though I knew little about the details of the law, I knew that fraud, when combined with banking, was a big deal.

“I do have a bit of good news,” Bud said. “I've found exactly where I want to live if we get this deal done. There's an old person's—well, that's what I call it—apartment complex right in Monson. I can have my own apartment with two bedrooms, of which I'll only need one, but two is as small as they come: a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Part of the deal is that they take care of the whole shebang. They come in and clean, help with cooking if I need it. I'm not a fancy eater or anything, so I won't need that. But they help with medications if I ever need them.” He looked at me. “I haven't taken so much as an aspirin in over thirty years. What do you think of that?”

I smiled. “I think you must be very healthy, and I wish I could say the same for myself.” I'd been known to pop an aspirin or two after a long day in my fields. The older I got, the more frequently it happened.

“Weeeell, I guess I'm healthy except for not being able to straighten up, but it only hurts when I try.” Bud smiled, more with his eyes than his dentures.

“You know what they say don't you?” I asked.

“Then don't stand up straight!” Bud laughed.

We chatted a little longer before Bud seemed to get tired. He gave us his blessing to walk over his land whenever we wanted. He promised he'd neither call the police nor shoot at us for trespassing.

“Darn,” I said after Ian and I left the shack and ventured up a small slope of the rocky land. “I can't believe the bank took back the letter.”

“Yeah. I wish I'd insisted that he make a copy of it, but I had no idea he'd go in on Saturday. I do think you're right, Becca, there's something going on at that bank, and I wouldn't be surprised if figuring it out will lead to Madeline's killer.”

“I'll call Sam this afternoon and tell him about Bud. But what else about him? Does he need groceries or something? Does he need rides, or does he use cabs all the time?” I asked.

“I've offered, but he won't take me up on it. A cab stops by three mornings a week and takes him into town. He buys groceries and runs other errands. I think he was offended when I offered to help, so I haven't brought it up again.”

“What else does he do with his time?” I looked back at his old shack. I didn't want to feel sorry for him, because he didn't want people's pity, that was clear. But I couldn't help it.

“He writes poetry.”

“What?”

“Well, that's what he told me. That notebook he turned over when we went in—he says he spends most of his free time writing poetry.”

“Is it any good?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't let me read it.”

“He doesn't seem lonely.”

Ian shrugged. “I hope not. He's been through a lot. He strikes me as someone who likes his alone time. Life just doesn't always turn out the way we plan.”

“That's for sure.”

We made it to the top slope of the property. There was a patch of trees bordering Bud's land, but the land itself was true to my earlier impression of being—what had Ian called it—gritty? It also seemed more fertile than I'd originally thought. I didn't understand my connection with such things—more instinct, I guessed. But there was something about the feel and smell of the earth that spoke to me. Again, it was probably a feeling that was courtesy of having hippie parents, but I couldn't deny that it existed, and that my sense of these sorts of things was usually on target.

It was another perfect South Carolina spring day. The sun was warm, but the air was cool enough that the sun didn't feel too hot. There wasn't much humidity, and I wished we'd packed a picnic lunch.

“What do you think? Really, Becca, I want to know what you think about all this.” Ian gestured at the land.

“I think it sounds like lots of hard work. I think it's a beautiful place. And I think you'll be successful.”

“No reservations?”

“Not really. You can afford it?”

“Yes, more easily by the day. My business is growing steadily.”

“Then I hope you and Bud can do business. Besides, I think he likes the apartment idea.”

Ian laughed. “Me, too.”

We walked around the rest of the property, dug our fingers into the soil, tentatively planned where Ian would put his warehouse, and discussed layouts for the lavender plants. It was the most relaxing couple of hours I'd had since the moment before Linda had asked me to be her Number One. It was about the land, the soil, the air, and working to create something that not only would, hopefully, give Ian a great living, but also would be something beautiful.

That was the best part, the real payoff; the cycle of life, the beauty of that cycle, through the earth. I loved the time we spent on the property, and by the time we drove away, I felt rejuvenated. Enjoying the brief respite, I hadn't intended to put my thoughts back to who killed Madeline Forsyth so quickly, but something occurred to me as we drove again down the old road in front of my childhood home.

And then it passed right through my mind, too quickly to be stopped.

“Ian, stop the truck,” I said urgently.

“'K.” He pulled to the side of the road and followed my glance. “What's up?”

“I thought . . . I'm not sure. It was something from my childhood that I think may have had something to do with Madeline's murder.”

“Really? What's that?”

I thought a minute more, then decided I was probably searching for something that wasn't there. I so desperately wanted Madeline's killer found that I was finding answers where there couldn't possibly be any.

“I don't know. Sorry about that. We can go.”

I craned my neck to look at the house as we drove away, but whatever spark might have been there a few minutes before was now completely gone.