Hidden Riches (9 page)

“Three point eight mil,” JoJo said. “That's a lot of money.”

“It's not ours yet,” Clayton reminded them. “First we have to find that quilt you tossed out.”

Even under the heavy makeup, JoJo's face turned red. “I'm sorry, all right. How many times do I have to say that?”

“Well, just be glad we cut you back in,” Marguerite reminded her.

JoJo bit back a comment. Marguerite had always been the uppity one, the one they all figured would make it out of Drapersville and on to something grand. She'd even married well. To that fancy Winslow with the big government job. For a while, it seemed like every time JoJo went to her mailbox there was a postcard with Marguerite's schoolteacher-perfect handwriting coming from some exotic locale or a country that only people on the TV news seemed to know how to find or pronounce.

If JoJo hadn't gotten knocked up, and later been stupid enough to marry Lester, maybe she would be the one with the fancy house, the fancy car, and the fancy, but kind of dull, clothes.

She should have been the one to marry a good man who provided well for his family. Instead she'd picked Lester.

But not for long.

Lester didn't know how much she wanted to leave Las Vegas and move somewhere . . . maybe even back home. And if there was nothing else, she knew how much Lester thrived in a place like Vegas and would wither in a small place like Ahoskie or Drapersville, which was all the more reason to move to North Carolina. On a whine, he'd already asked, “What do people do here?”

A broad smile transformed JoJo's face. The image of Lester black and withered up like a dead vine on an otherwise thriving houseplant filled her with . . . joy.

“What are you over there grinning about?” Clayton asked.

“Just imagining a different life.”

The three fell silent. And just for a moment, it was like it was when they were kids—young at heart, but old of spirit, and all dreaming about the day when they could escape the confines of small-town life, small-time attitudes, and small-minded thinking.

Life had a funny way of turning itself around and biting you on the ass, though, JoJo thought, because all three of the Futrells, though they had successfully escaped once, now found themselves right back where they'd started from—in Drapersville, North Carolina, with the future looking dismally like last call would be hollered in this place, and when the lights came up, they'd find themselves alone in a dingy bar wondering what had happened to the evening's luster.

“Let me think a minute,” JoJo said, as if she hadn't been wracking her brain from the moment they left Rollings's office. “There were four boxes of giveaway stuff. Some clothes, shoes, household goods.”

“And?” Delcine prompted.

Nervous and getting even more anxious about her transgression, JoJo bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, concentrating hard.

Then, suddenly, she smiled.

“What?”

“I remember what box it was in,” she said.

Seeing the Futrell sibling's men outside, a neighbor strolled over to get a better look at them all. She couldn't get off work and had missed Ana Mae's funeral, but she'd heard plenty about it. It was time to get a good look-see at the folks who were the topic of such juicy speculations over at Junior Cantrell's place. Junior's side-by-side businesses specialized not just in haircuts and the best barbecue in town, but in the latest gossip; served hot and juicy, like his ribs.

“Afternoon everybody,” she said, with a wave toward the three men. “Thought I'd come over and give my respects.”

“Good afternoon,” Winslow said.

She lifted a brow, wondering if this one was supposed to be the homosexual. He sure was proper. “I'm Thelma Whitherspoon. I live right over there across the street. Saw y'all out here and thought I'd come on over. Couldn't make Ana Mae's funeral, and I hadn't stopped over yet. I sent a card, though,” she added, defending her negligent neighborliness.

Archer offered a hand to the woman. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Whitherspoon. Thank you for your regards.”

She smiled up at this one. With those luscious blue eyes and that I want to lick-you-all-over stare, he was one fine man.

“Marguerite, JoJo, and Clayton are inside.”

Lost in Archer's gaze, it took Thelma a moment to register what he'd said. “Marguerite? Who is Marguerite?”

“That'd be the one you people call Delcine,” Lester added.

At the “you people,” Thelma's gaze left the sexy one and slid over to the big man with the cigarette. This had to be JoJo's husband, Lester. The talk about him wasn't all that good. Now she saw why.

He was one of them light-skinned Negroes who thought they could pass for white but wasn't fooling anybody, not even white folks, who sometimes couldn't tell. She sniffed, dismissing him, as she turned her back to him.

“I've been keeping an eye out on the house while y'all was away,” she said. “Some folks just leave stuff on the porch if nobody's home. But only the junk man went around back like he always do.”

As one, Archer and Winslow said, “The junk man?”

Lester tossed his cigarette into the grass and watched it burn, then, frowning, went to stub it out.

“Yeah,” Thelma said. “He always stops over here the day before trash day. Ana Mae would leave him stuff he could take to sell. You know, stuff she'd been given from some of her people but couldn't find a use for or somebody to give it to.”

“And he took things from the back porch?”

Thelma looked Winslow up and down. “That's what I just said.”

Sensing her dislike of his brother-in-law, Archer smiled at Thelma, pulling her attention away from the man who was supposed to have had some sort of experience in the diplomacy field before taking his current and vaguely unspecified position in the Federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. So far he had proved to be anything but diplomatic in his dealings with the people of this small town.

“Miss Witherspoon . . .”

Coyly she tapped his arm. “Shoot, honey. You just call me Thelma.”

“Thank you, Thelma. Do you know where we might be able to locate this junk man's store or yard?”

“Shoot, yeah. Everybody knows where Eddie Spencer's place is.”

The three men leaned forward. Winslow pulled a slim leather notebook and fountain pen from his inside suit jacket and asked, “Would you mind giving us directions to his place of business?”

It didn't take long to track down the box. Long being relative, of course.

And it didn't take long for word to get out about what Ana Mae left behind.

Next door to the barbershop at Junior's Bar and Grille—where the “E” on “grille” fancied up the place, at least in Junior's mind—the talk swirled in so many different directions that it was hard to keep up with all the tracks.

Junior was doing his best, though, based on what his honey pot told him. Seeing Rosalee on the side benefited Junior in more ways than one. If Rosalee got some of that money, she'd share some with him. Junior's broad smile widened even more, making him appear more than a little slow. Despite his looks, Junior Cantrell was a sharp tack. He could do numbers faster than a calculator and didn't ever need to write down an order, even if there were several going at once. Since his back room hosted a small-time numbers operation, the skill came in handy.

“I'm putting my money on JoJo,” somebody said. “She always knew how to smell out a buck.”

“Yeah,” Luther, another regular, agreed. “Too bad she hooked up with that beer-belly good ole boy.”

“He ain't white.”

“Damn sure look like it.”

“So does your mama. And she ain't white.”

That shut him up for a moment 'cause it was true. “He the palest brother I ever seen then.”

“You just mad cause JoJo Futrell wouldn't go to the senior dance with you.”

Luther snorted. “Shoot, ain't thinking about that. That was nigh on twenty-some years ago.”

“And you still ain't got over it.”

Though ostensibly watching the baseball game on the TV above the bar, Junior had taken note of the conversation. The business opportunity mentioned therein didn't slip his notice.

Leaning toward the two patrons, he refilled their drinks, adding, “On the house. If you want a little action on that.”

Two brows furrowed. Then Luther grinned, getting it.

He reached in his back pocket for his wallet. “Junior, I think I'd like to order a full rack to go.” He slipped a bill onto the bar top and nudged his friend. “You in?”

The man nodded. He eyed Junior for a bit, trying to guess how he might handicap the outcome of the race for Ana Mae's millions. “I'll take a full too,” he eventually said. “But I want mine for here.”

Junior pocketed the money, smiled at the men. “I'll have your orders delivered when they're done. One to go, one for here.”

He knew word would get around to the right folks. Those who wanted to bet on the relatives would place their money on the house—for “here”—getting the cash. Those who thought the relatives would lose, would place their orders “to go.”

Whether Rosalee came out ahead or not, Junior Cantrell knew he would. He took a thirty percent commission on any and all action at his place. In return, his payoffs and his percentages were the highest among those who dealt in The Business.

At the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer, the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste stood at the altar in the sanctuary. He'd been trying to pray, but his mind kept wandering back to the lawyer's office. Seeing Ana Mae on that video had been hard. Harder than he'd expected. Their relationship went back a ways, a long ways. She had been there for him when no one else believed in him. She'd had enough faith for the two of them and then some.

It was because of Ana Mae Futrell that the man formerly known as Too Sweet—and not because he liked the ladies back then—today was a devout man of God.

And it was because of Ana Mae that this church, this house of God, would continue to rise up as a beacon in the community.

If he closed his eyes, Toussaint could imagine the new sanctuary, with plush and cushioned pews for several hundred more parishioners. The choir loft would be to the right, instead of behind the pulpit, with a brand-new Hammond and a top-of-the-line drum set.

And his robe. A grin split his face when he envisioned the robe he'd always wanted. He'd described it to Ana Mae once, and she'd called it Toussaint's Robe of Many Colors. She'd offered to make it for him, but Toussaint had demurred, saying that was something he wanted to get for himself.