High Country Fall (28 page)

I shook my head. “Not anymore. Not if Norman was going to stop being a rainmaker and become a drain on any partnership.” In my mind’s eye I saw again the tears in Sunny’s eyes when they sang together. Love had been there, yes, but also grief and pain.

“He was sick? I thought they both had physicals before the insurance company would write the policies.”

“They did. His trouble wasn’t physical. It was mental.”

“Oh, now, wait a minute. Norman Osborne was one of the sharpest, savviest—”

“
Was
, maybe, but that night at the party, he kept saying things that didn’t compute. He spoke about Ledwig as if they were still close friends, as if Ledwig was still alive. He referred to the senior center Ledwig was
going
to build because he’d forgotten that it was already built. He forgot my name and wrote it down on his notepad so he’d remember.”

George and Dwight were both looking skeptical.

“Carlyle Ledwig was a gerontologist who specialized in the aging process,” I said, carefully loading a nacho with guacamole. “He would have picked up on any symptoms long before anyone else except perhaps Sunny. I think that’s why Osborne started avoiding him and that’s why he rammed through the merger.”

“Okay,” George said, “but even if he was starting to lose it a little, Bobby Ashe wasn’t born yesterday. Why didn’t
he
notice?”

“Because Sunny didn’t give him a chance.” I described to Dwight how Sunny Osborne suddenly—conveniently—became menopausal and had everyone convinced that she was so wigged out that she couldn’t stand to have Norman out of her sight. “She was driving Bobby and Joyce nuts with all her questions and writing things down and making them explain. Those questions weren’t for her own benefit, though, they were for his. She was turning herself into his backup memory. Just last night, Joyce said Bobby was getting fed up with the way Norman couldn’t seem to concentrate because of Sunny’s distractions. It was her distractions that covered up his growing inability to concentrate.”

“So when Ledwig found out about the merger, he would’ve tried to get Osborne to pull out before the Ashes got burned.”

“And they would have been burned bad. If it’s a standard policy, the partnership insurance they had on each other wouldn’t pay out for debilitating conditions, only for death. The Ashes would have had to front the buyout of his share of the partnership from their own pockets or else keep paying him a big part of their annual take as long as he lived. That could’ve been years. Osborne must have figured that this was the best way to protect what he’d acquired and secure his and Sunny’s future at the same time, a future that was nothing but a long and expensive descent into total senility.”

“Alzheimer’s?” asked Dwight.

“Or dementia.”

I spoke from experience, the experience of dealing with distraught adult children who came to me to seek a power of attorney for a parent when I was in private practice. Often, the parent seemed as clearheaded as ever. He could speak cogently about the running of his businesses down to the smallest detail. Then I’d ask him what year was it? Who was president? What did he have for breakfast? And he’d look at me blankly.

“I think that Ledwig threatened to tell the Ashes. I think Sunny went over there that day to try to persuade him to keep quiet for just two more days, and when he refused—”

“And he would refuse,” George said grimly, as if remembering his wife’s uncle.

“—then she smashed him with his own hammer and pushed him over the side.”

“But when did she kill Osborne?” asked George. “Everybody says— Hell! You said it yourself. She was playing her dulcimer right beside you when he went missing.”

Again I shook my head. “She could never have hurt him.”

“But—?”

“What you said before, bo,” said Dwight, who sometimes knows the way my mind works. “This Bobby guy. He wasn’t born yesterday.”

“The last time I noticed Norman Osborne,” I said, “he was standing at the bar talking to Bobby Ashe. He probably said something that gave the game away and all the pieces dropped into place for Bobby, just as they did for me, only in Bobby’s case, he was looking at probably two or three million out of pocket. It was a case of ‘If it were done, ’twere well it were done quickly.’”

“Huh?” George flicked a puzzled look at Dwight, who shrugged.

“Sorry. My former law partner used to quote Shakespeare all the time. Bobby must have realized he couldn’t afford to let Osborne’s condition become general knowledge or he’d be the first suspect in any murder case.”

“So he carpayed the damn diem.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it,” I said.

CHAPTER 32

Although I had been on an adrenaline high, the margarita brought me down to earth with a bang and suddenly all I wanted was to go to sleep.

“C’mon, shug,” Dwight said when my head drooped against his shoulder. “Time you got to bed.”

“My laptop,” I said. “My guitar.”

“In my car,” said George.

Dwight paid the bill and we walked out together. Every inch of my body hurt and I was so weary that my brain seemed to be fogging over.

“He won’t confess, you know,” I told George as Dwight took my things and stowed them in his truck. “And there’s no hard evidence.”

“Worry about that tomorrow,” Dwight said. He shook George’s hand with great ceremony. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Anytime,” George said, giving Dwight’s shoulder a pat.

Men are sweet the way they bond.

I managed to direct Dwight back to the condo. The twins weren’t due in for another half-hour and he helped me to the bedroom, where he eased my clothes off my sore body. It felt so good to lie down.

“Thank you for coming,” I said formally and then I was gone.

Sometime later—it could have been five minutes, it could have been an hour—I felt a cool ice pack against my temple, but I couldn’t make my eyes open.

When I awoke in the early dawn hours, Dwight was not there beside me. In fact, he hadn’t been there at all. I sat up and was so stiff and achy that it was a true act of will to get out of bed. The doors to both bedrooms were closed. Out in the living room, there was enough light to see that the couch had been opened into a bed and Dwight was there sound asleep. I watched him for several long minutes, filled with turmoil and feeling strangely unsettled by the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then I turned and went back to bed.

When next I woke, it was to a drizzly gray day. I looked out the window and the horizon was gone, whited out by fog. Only the nearest trees were visible and even they looked like artsy photographs taken through gauze.

Matched my mood.

I smelled bacon and coffee and heard Dwight’s voice mingled with the twins’. The nurse had said ice packs for seventy-two hours, so a hot shower probably wasn’t recommended. Nevertheless, the water seemed to soften and ease my muscles, and by the time I dried off and dressed, I could almost move normally as long as I didn’t push it.

May and June were all over me when I entered the kitchen.

“Omigawd! Your face!”

“I’ve seen it,” I said. “Don’t remind me.”

They touched me gingerly, giving me soft little pats instead of hugs.

“Are you okay?”

“You could have been killed.”

“Should you be up?”

“We were going to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Did you know Jason Barringer?” I asked them.

“Just by reputation,” said June.

“It wasn’t a very good one,” May added quickly.

They seemed to intuit what I was feeling.

“Here, have some coffee,” they said and gave me more reassuring pats.

Dwight eyed the way I was dressed. “You’re not planning on court, are you?”

“Of course I am,” I said firmly. “If someone will drive me, that is. I don’t have a car anymore and I bet there’s no place closer than Asheville to rent one.”

“We’ll work something out,” Dwight told me.

At the courthouse, we both stopped by George Underwood’s office first. I wanted to know what, if anything, was being done about my car. Dwight had promised to retrieve all my personal items from it, including the title and registration. I had already put in a call to my insurance agent back in Colleton County.

“The wrecker’s out there now pulling up the Barringer kid’s truck,” said George. “Soon as I let them know where you want yours hauled, they’ll come back and get it, too.”

When Dwight said he’d take care of it, I didn’t argue.

I left them discussing logistics and went on upstairs, where Mary Kay greeted me with sympathy for my bruised face and coffee for my sore spirits. Everyone knew what had happened and several stopped in chambers to express concern and regret for my ordeal. I thanked them all politely, but it was a relief to get back into the courtroom and have the bailiff call the place to order.

Friday is usually cleanup day for the odds and ends that were delayed earlier in the week, the emergency orders, the documents that need a judge’s signature before they could be put into play. Today was no different. With William Deeck prosecuting, cases moved along at a brisk clip.

I took only a minimum break in midmorning, and Mary Kay came back bringing the freshest gossip. Sunny Osborne had been questioned and had sent for her lawyer. Rumors were starting to circulate about Bobby Ashe, and about Simon Proffitt as well. Deputies had been looking for him for three days now, but he seemed to have vanished.

“They’d be out with search parties except that his truck’s still parked by the Trading Post and his shotgun’s there in his office.”

It all felt very anticlimactic.

Unfortunately for my plans to be finished by lunchtime, we hit a few snags, and when it became clear that there were at least another three hours to go, I adjourned for lunch at twelve-thirty.

There was no sign of Dwight downstairs, so I took the elevator back up to the first level and walked along Cedar Gap’s pristine Main Street down to the Tea Room. The fog or cloud or whatever it was had retreated from the higher peaks, but the lower elevations were still swathed in white and the damp air definitely held a touch of coming winter.

As usual, there was a line, but by now Carla Ledwig was so used to my walking in and out of the kitchen that she just gave me a wave and kept on with her hostess duties.

“You should have called,” said June. “We’d have brought you lunch.”

“I need to walk,” I said. “It helps with the stiffness.”

I watched them fix me a salad, then said, “Is Simon Proffitt your landlord?”

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” asked May, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Something Carla’s mother said Tuesday. She said she was glad her husband hadn’t known about this business venture because he couldn’t stand Simon Proffitt.”

“Well, yeah,” May admitted. “It’s his building.”

“Did you know that he’s been missing ever since Captain Underwood asked him to come in and answer some questions about his threats against Ledwig and Osborne?”

“Simon didn’t kill them,” said June. “The sheriff and the DA are just looking for somebody to hang it on now that they don’t have Danny anymore.”

I held up placating hands before they could gather a good head of protective steam for the Trading Post’s elderly proprietor.

“It’s not official yet, but he doesn’t have to worry. They know it wasn’t him.”

“Really?”

“He’s a feisty old guy, isn’t he?” I asked. “Bark worse than his bite?”

“Exactly!” said May. “He’s really a sweetie, Deborah, and at his age, he doesn’t need to be hounded by deputies.”

“At his age, wherever he is, don’t you think he’d probably be more comfortable in his own bed?” I cast a jaundiced eye toward the pressed tin ceiling, beyond which lay nothing but spiders and mice and dirty old junk were one inclined to believe what they’d told me yesterday.

They both looked at me sheepishly, but before they could blitz me with more twinspeak, Carla came through the door with a dazed expression on her face. “I just heard someone say that Sunny Osborne killed Dad! She and Mom play tennis together. Why would
she
kill my dad? Was she sleeping with him?”

By the time I adjourned court for the week, the buzz was all over town, and George confirmed it for me when I stopped by his office and found Dwight there.

“It was like you thought,” he said. “Ledwig arranged for Osborne to be tested down in Winston back in August and the tests indicated the onset of early dementia. That’s when he planned the merger so that he could maximize his holdings. The way his condition was deteriorating, he knew he wouldn’t have time to liquidate everything himself and he’d have had to take a huge loss with the economy so soft right now. The easiest thing was just to stick it to the Ashes. When Ledwig heard about the merger, he called Osborne and told him to cancel it or he’d tell Bobby Ashe. Osborne was in such despair that Sunny went over to Ledwig’s the next day to try to persuade him to keep quiet. When he wouldn’t back off . . .”

“Sunny told you all this?” I asked. “Her attorney let her?”

“He couldn’t stop her once I laid it all out. All she cares about right now is helping us build a case against Bobby Ashe for killing her husband. She’s still trying to protect him.”

“What about Ashe?”

“Claims he didn’t have a clue, doesn’t know what Sunny’s talking about, and, on the advice of counsel, has nothing more to say.”

I shook my head. “He’s going to get away with it, isn’t he?”

“Unless we can find someone who saw him follow Osborne out onto that terrace Monday night, we don’t have a real case. No fingerprints on the candleholder. No proof that he knew what Osborne had done to him.” George gave an exasperated sigh. “Sloppy work on our part. We should’ve confiscated the shoes and clothes he was wearing that night, checked them for blood spatters. There’s another search team up there right now, but he’s had four days to dispose of anything incriminating.”

“Tough luck,” Dwight said sympathetically.

As Dwight and I stood to go, I hesitated. “Jason Barringer. Is he from around here?”

“Louisville, Kentucky. We couldn’t get hold of his parents till late and they’re driving over today.” George looked at his watch. “Should be getting in anytime now.”