Hidden Riches (24 page)

“Thank you,” she said. “This will be helpful, I'm sure.”

Eddie folded his arms. “Waste of a few trees, if you ask me. But I held onto it, and now you need it, so I guess it was a good use of their money. 'Course, the truth is that's just a bunch of propaganda. We're all struggling here, just like everybody else in the country. The whole of Hertford County is about twenty-four thousand people or so. I'll bet one of them big hotels in Vegas has that many people in it on any given night.”

JoJo nodded. “You're probably right, counting all of the employees, guests, and people in the casino, restaurants, bars, and shops.”

“We don't have a lot of crime, and that's a good thing,” Eddie said. “Every now and then somebody will up and go crazy and do something stupid that brings down all the TV reporters from Norfolk. But mostly folks around here still go about their business just like they did back when y'all all lived here. Not much in the way of jobs, either. And if you're looking for a big-city paycheck like you're probably used to out there in Las Vegas, you're gonna have to go to Raleigh or Charlotte, 'cause we ain't got nothing much here.”

JoJo almost laughed out loud at that.

People tended to think that everybody who lived and worked in Las Vegas raked in the cash like a slot machine paying off a big jackpot. The reality was that working-class folks were the backbone of the city and worked hard just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

The slower pace and lower cost of living in this part of North Carolina appealed to JoJo on a lot of levels.

Surprising her with his knowledge, Eddie gave her some more statistical information about Drapersville, Ahoskie, and Hertford County. He may not have realized it, but he was actually a good pitchman for the area.

What JoJo didn't realize when she left, about ten minutes later, was that as soon as she drove off in Ana Mae's car, Eddie Spencer pulled out his mobile phone and called over to Junior Cantrell's place.

He had some inside information now. He wanted to make a long-shot bet and to put his money on JoJo.

E
mily Daniels missed Ana Mae Futrell's funeral, but she wanted to pay her respects to the family. Because Emily took her mission very seriously, she kept meticulous records about all activities at The Haven.

Miss Futrell, one of The Haven's biggest supporters, played a key role in its expansion and was to receive the Volunteer of the Year award. Now that Ana Mae had died, though, Emily wanted to make sure that Miss Futrell's family received the posthumous honor and knew all that she had done for the defenseless residents who found shelter at The Haven.

She put the finishing touches on the package. Then, remembering a photo the family might like, she went to her computer and found the file. A quick glance at the clock told her she'd have enough time to make a nice print and find a frame.

“Melinda, I'm going to run out for a bit. Will you be okay by yourself until Sam gets in?”

The college student who worked at the no-kill animal shelter in the summer and during school breaks planned to be a veterinarian, and Emily knew she was more than capable but wanted to check just in case. Emily tended to worry.

“Oh, sure, Ms. Daniels. I have a few more kittens to see to, but I should be all right.”

Max, a long-haired Persian found abandoned after a hurricane and named by shelter volunteers after the storm, brushed against Emily's leg. She knelt and gave the cat a bit of love, then picked up the materials for the Futrell family. “I shouldn't be too long. You have my number if you need anything else.”

“We'll be fine, Ms. Daniels.”

Emily, already rehearsing what she would say to the bereaved, waved as she left The Haven.

“I don't want to impose,” she said a while later.

Emily caught Clayton just as he was leaving Miss Futrell's house. He was about to get into a car in the driveway when she pressed on her horn at the curb and got his attention.

It had taken much longer than she anticipated to select a frame that went with the photograph. And then, it seemed only natural to have the entire presentation gift wrapped. Choosing the right paper and ribbon had taken an inordinate amount of time.

“It is no imposition,” he said. “Come on in.”

Emily's heart beat a little faster. He was a handsome man. Not quite as handsome as her Howard, but still . . .

He opened the door and held it for her. When she walked by, Emily caught a hint of a manly fragrance that brought back so many memories. It had been a long time since she had known the comfort of a man, felt the yearning stir within her core and lost herself to the magic of unbridled passion.

Her breathing grew deeper.

“Miss Daniels?”

It took Emily a moment to remember where she was, with whom and why. Then, embarrassed, she blinked and cleared her throat.

“You, you remind me of someone I used to know,” she told him. “I, I was thinking of him.”

“Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”

“Oh, yes,” Emily said as she entered the small mudroom and then through it to the kitchen. “Very pleasant memories.”

“We need to go out to the cemetery.”

“The one where Ana Mae is buried?” Archer asked.

“Yes. I think we'll find our mysterious Howard there.”

Archer closed his laptop and grabbed the keys. “If you say so.”

On the drive to Antioch Cemetery, Clayton shared what he had learned from the odd Emily Daniels. “She is a cat lady in every sense of the word,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“Mid-fifties, obviously single, and she was wearing one of those long peasant skirts. Cat hair was all over it.”

“I wondered why you peeled out of your clothes the moment you hit the door. I thought maybe you just couldn't resist me.”

“There is that,” Clayton said with a grin. “But before she left, she grabbed me in this extreme hug. She was cuddling me, Arch.”

“You're cute. But remember, dude, you're gay and you're mine.”

Clayton thrilled at the declaration, but couldn't resist adding. “She wanted me.”

Archer rolled his eyes. “So why are we going to the cemetery?”

“Howard.”

“Howard is at the cemetery?”

Clayton nodded. “At least I think so. Emily Daniels came by to tell me all about Ana Mae's work at an animal shelter called The Haven. Apparently, Ana Mae gave them a lot of money and volunteered there. That's where she got Baby Sue.”

“Baby Sue?”

“The cat. It and the other one are over at Rosalee's.”

Archer nodded. “Ah, yes. The cats. They would be the ones that dear Lester believed had jewel-encrusted collars.”

“I do not see what JoJo sees in that horrid man.”

“It's probably the sex,” Archer said. “Never underestimate the power of what goes on between the sheets.”

“Archer.”

“What? You know, Clay, this place is turning you into a little Puritan.”

Clayton snorted. “Not likely.”

“Back to the cemetery,” Archer said, prompting Clayton again.

“The cat lady said Howard disappeared. He was apparently her boyfriend. And, according to Miss Daniels, I resemble him . . . a lot.”

“I thought you said she was in her mid-fifties. Isn't that a little old for any son of Ana Mae's?” He paused. “Ah, the cat lady is a cougar.”

“Bingo,” Clayton said.

“So what makes you think her guy is, first, our guy and, second, dead?”

“She said Howard disappeared about six or seven years ago. Left town without a trace.”

“She probably wore him out and he needed to escape.”

Clayton laughed. “That could be likely. But it was the photograph that made me think of the cemetery.”

“What photo?”

“I left it at the house,” Clayton said. “She had it in a really nice silver frame. But it's of Ana Mae and a lot of cats and kids, and in the background is Antioch Cemetery.”

Archer glanced over at Clayton. “All right, Hercule Poirot. You are going to have to explain it a little better for the unwashed masses here. What does a picture of Ana Mae with some cats have to do with this missing nephew of yours?”

“Well, it might sound a little crazy,” Clayton said.

“Humor me.”

Clayton knew his theory was kind of out there. But the entire situation was out there. This made more sense than digging up the backyard or cats wearing diamond collars.

“Well,” he began tentatively, “you know how in Ana Mae's obituary it says Howard's address is unknown?”

Archer nodded.

“Well, Ana Mae was a serious churchgoer.”

“To quote the good Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste—or, as Lester calls him, Reverend Holy Ghost—‘Sister Ana Mae loved her some God.' ”

The right-on-target impersonation of Toussaint at Ana Mae's wake made Clayton smile. “Yes, she did. And if a son of hers wasn't churched or saved or whatever when he died, Ana Mae wouldn't know if he went to heaven or to hell. Hence, address unknown.”

Archer's mouth dropped open. He did not say a single word.

“Well?” Clayton prompted.

“Well, what?”

“What do you think of my theory? It works, doesn't it?”

Archer just shook his head. “I'll tell you this about that theory of yours, if that's how that medical doctor brain of yours thinks and processes information when you're not at the clinic, I think you entered the wrong profession. We could use that kind of nonlinear thinking in our litigation department at the law firm.”

Clayton knew a long-winded compliment when he heard one. He leaned back and smiled.

They were both surprised to find another visitor at Ana Mae's gravesite. The headstone that Mr. Rollings's people said had been preordered was not yet installed. However, flowers from the funeral—some in their baskets but now dried in the summer sun—still covered the mound at the grave. But a fresh bouquet of wildflowers in bright pinks, yellows, reds, and purples stood sentinel at the top, where the headstone would eventually be.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste extended a hand to greet Clayton and Archer.

After shaking the minister's hand, Archer took a step aside. “I'll start looking over here,” he said.

“All right,” Clayton said. Then, “What brings you here today, Reverend?”

“Probably the same as you,” Reverend Toussaint said. “Paying my respects.”

Clayton nodded toward the new bouquet. “Pretty. Are they from you?”

If he heard the question, the minister ignored it. “This is a nice quiet place to think,” he said. “I come here often, usually to sit by the creek over there and meditate on the goodness of the Lord.”

“I don't know much about that,” Clayton said. “I generally leave religion alone.”

The two men—both tall, but one slim and in a dark suit and the other athletically lean and in casual clothes, even though they were pressed jeans and a polo shirt—stood at the foot of Ana Mae's final resting place.

“Why is that?” Reverend Toussaint asked.

Clayton thought of all the hypocrisy he'd encountered in the church while growing up. In the pulpit the preacher would condemn homosexuality but didn't seem to care if everybody knew the choir director was a flaming queen on Friday and Saturday nights and holier than thou on Sunday mornings. He thought about Deacon Reginald Crispin, who'd been sitting up all righteous with the deacons at Ana Mae's funeral. That one was still in the closet, living a lie and calling himself a Christian. Clayton and Archer belonged to an open congregation back home, a congregation that didn't put labels on its members. He'd leave that kind of religion to Reverend Toussaint and folks like Ana Mae.

“Religion, organized religion, is a solace for those who need it and a crutch for those who are trying to hide or absolve themselves of their hypocrisy,” Clayton said. “People who need to believe that there's a great magician in the sky controlling the universe, making decisions for us, laughing as we fail.”

“You think the Lord is like the Wizard of Oz?”

Clayton smiled. “I did not quite mean it that way,” he said, “but now that you mention it.”

“Faith isn't like that,” the preacher said.

“There is no God,” Clayton said.

“How do you know?”

Clayton laughed, but little if any humor went with the sound. “If there's a God, he surely has a sick sense of humor. Making me gay. Making me come back here to this godforsaken town.”

“For someone who doesn't believe in God, you . . .”