Money To Burn (21 page)

“What did he say to that?” I asked.

The lawyer shrugged. “He assured me that Randolph Talbot would no longer be a problem. He said he had taken care of it in his own way.”

Oh, God. Please don’t tell me that Thomas Nash was marrying Lydia just to get her old man off his back and on his side? For the first time, that possibility raised its ugly head and I didn’t like it one bit.

“Did he explain what he meant by that?” I asked the lawyer.

Ingram shook his head. “I pressed for details and he wouldn’t give them.”

I thought of what Lydia had said about reporters snooping around lately. The news of her relationship with Nash would be public knowledge soon enough. And I had to be sure about a couple of things. It was worth giving the information away to know.

“Would it surprise you to learn that Tom Nash was engaged to Randolph Talbot’s daughter?” I asked.

He stared at me, cupid mouth open.

“That’s right,” I said.

His face grew thoughtful as he thought back to their conversations. “It would explain… a lot of things,” he said in a halting voice.

“It would indeed.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ingram was saying, shaking his head. “Nash and Lydia Talbot?” He stared at me. “No offense, Miss Jones, but my client was a bit of an absent-minded professor. And Lydia Talbot is one of the most beautiful women in Durham. I’ve met her at a few parties and such. We move in the same circles.”

I checked out his gold rings more thoroughly. None of them were wedding bands. Another son-in-law wanna-be.

“Look,” I said. “If I get any closer to finding out Talbot did it, I’ll need your evidence. It may be the only way to convince the police to take me seriously.”

He looked pained. “I’ll have to think about that. I have my reputation t C re0”>

“Okay. Fair enough. Think hard.” I rose to shake his hand. It was soft and round and warm, like a hot cross bun in my hand. “Thanks for your help today.”

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” He started to walk me to the door but I stopped short, remembering something.

“Wait,” I said, “there is a way you can be of further help.”

He glanced at the clock anxiously. “If I can…”

“Did you ever consider anyone else a suspect?” I asked. “It’s easy to get so focused on one person that you lose perspective. Maybe someone was just setting Randolph Talbot up to take the blame, killing two birds with one stone.”

The lawyer looked pained again. “We did look into the farmers Thomas had contracted with for his pilot program.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I had the same thought, but the fire destroyed his records, so I don’t know who they are. I don’t suppose?”

He beamed. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

He marched over to a file cabinet, delighted to be of help, and opened the center drawer, extracting the correct piece of paper within seconds. He was a meticulously organized man. “Keep this,” he said, handing me the paper. “I still have several copies left. It’s a complete list of the participants in his program. I talked to each of them on the phone. I don’t think any of them are a threat, but you never know. Maybe you can find out more. I just didn’t have the time to visit personally. Maybe if I had…” He looked sorrowful again, as if he could hardly bear one more tragedy. For a personal injury lawyer, he was a mighty sensitive soul, although it probably helped him in front of the jury box.

I scanned the list. At least twenty names, and I’d only tracked down one of them so far. “A lot of farmers for one little program,” I said.

“Science,” the lawyer explained with a shrug. “Go figure.” He extracted a card from his wallet. “In case you ever get injured, Miss Jones,” he murmured, trying to disguise the hopefulness in his voice.

I took the card without comment, then found my own way back toward the reception area. I was just in time to hear the receptionist greeting an elderly couple. From her chirpy enthusiasm, it was clear that, unlike me, the two old people were clients.

“Good morning to you both,” she was saying brightly Cyins a com. “Please have a seat. Mr. Ingram will be with you shortly. Can I get you some doughnuts? Would you like a magazine? Is the temperature in here comfortable enough for you?” From the way the receptionist was fawning over them, it was obvious they represented a hefty legal fee— and that she shared in a bonus pool. I wondered what she’d be offering the old dude if his wife hadn’t come along.

The old couple shook their heads while murmuring endless protestations back. She was not to trouble herself one iota on their account.

I sidestepped the politeness orgy and fled. Who had time for such niceties? Or the temperament. 

Brightleaf Square was only a few blocks from my apartment and the morning was perfect for a leisurely walk. The clear sky was a cross between Duke and Carolina blue, and a cool breeze stirred the hot summer air. I walked slowly, thinking about the possibility that Nash had only been using Lydia Talbot to get her father to back off. It just didn’t seem in character for him. But I’d been a worse judge of people before, God knows, just ask my divorce lawyer.

The charred ruin of Nash’s house still sagged in the morning light, though a bulldozer was now at work leveling out the surrounding destruction. Another week and only an empty lot would mark the spot. It would be as if Tom— and his historical home—had never existed.

When I passed the T&T building, I popped in to pick up a Diet Peach Snapple and give Dudley a hard time. He was sitting on his stool behind the counter, doing his Stevie Wonder routine.

“The Great Dudley,” I said. “He knows all and sees all.”

“Now Miss Jones,” Dudley complained. “Why do you always want to give me a hard time? I’m just trying to earn a living like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Illegally.”

“That red hair sure looks good on you,” he said, changing strategy, but only after looking around to see that no one could hear.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy staring at the newspaper rack before me, which featured the Durham Herald-Sun and a front page headline that read FAMILY OF SLAIN SCIENTIST FILES WRONGFUL DEATH SUIT.

I thought of Burly Nash and got a sick feeling in my stomach. I grabbed the newspaper and walked away while reading it.

“Hey!” Dudley shouted after me. “That’s thirty-five cents. You want to cheat an old blind man?”

“windowtext”>“Fleece it off the next customer,” I mumbled as I frantically scanned the article. Had Burly been lying to me?

I sat on a bus stop bench and examined the paper from end to end.

Burly was in the clear. But his parents had filed a multi-million-dollar civil lawsuit against T&T Tobacco as well as a separate civil suit against Randolph Talbot personally, charging that both had directly contributed to the premature death of their son, Thomas Nash, and the loss of millions in potential future earnings and royalties.

The article was short on facts and long on filler about the Talbot family finances. But one fact stood out above all others—and it was a whopper: the combined bid for
damages was in the neighborhood of $150 million and change.

I got to Lydia’s within half an hour, but it was too late. She’d learned about the lawsuit a few hours earlier over her morning coffee and newspaper.

“My father didn’t even have the guts to tell me face-to- face,” she said. “I’m sure he heard about it yesterday.”

“You’ll get dragged into it,” I warned her. “I don’t see any way around it. Once the trial starts, your name will come up. They’ll use you against your father. It’s going to be a media circus. I think you need your own lawyer.”

“Oh, God.” She was looking out her sitting room window, watching a gardener prune the boxwoods along the driveway. “What if everything they say is true? What if Daddy did have something to do with his death?”

“That’s what you hired me to find out,” I told her. “And I will find it out. Before the lawsuit begins, believe me. You’ll know soon enough.”

“I almost asked my father to escort me tonight,” she said softly. “As a peace offering. But my stepmother Susan wanted to go. God knows it’s her only chance to get near a debut. I knew she’d throw a fit if he’d been unable to escort her. So I asked my little brother instead.”

“Jake?” I asked, thinking of her brother with the too- pretty face.

“No. A friend of his already asked him to escort her. Haydon’s going to be my escort. He’s very excited. It’s the first time he’s ever worn a tuxedo.”

Well, hell, if I’d known twelve-year-olds qualified as escorts, I could have gone down to the video arcade last night and saved myself a lot of trouble.

“I don’t want to Cdono Cdono upset you further,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s kind of weird that Tom was killed on the anniversary of your mother’s death?” Hey, she was already in a hopeless mood. May as well drag her down further.

She thought about it. “No. But wait until the press gets hold of that.” She looked out the window again. “Father is doing his best to keep my involvement with Thomas out
of the papers. I guess it’s selfish of me, trying to keep it a secret. But I’m just afraid that if it gets turned into a story, it won’t seem real anymore. And this empty feeling is all I have left of him, know what I mean?”

I nodded. I did understand. “So you’re talking to your father still?” I asked.

She nodded. “I phoned him when I saw the newspaper. He swears he had nothing to do with Tom’s death.” A look of horror crossed her face. “Oh, God. My father will know I’ve hired you, if you show up tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “I don’t think it matters anymore, anyway. There’s nothing he can do to stop me if you’re worried that he might intimidate me into dropping the investigation. Besides, I’ll only be one of a whole stampede of people on his ass, now that the lawsuit’s been filed.”

“He said something funny about you this morning,” she said. “Something like, maybe it was time to give you a call.”

“Give me a call?” I repeated, an ominous feeling nibbling at the edges of my brain. Boasts aside, I didn’t have the power to go head-to-head with Randolph Talbot.

Lydia nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“Have you had any more threatening phone calls?” I asked her.

“No. But I told Winslow that I wasn’t taking any calls. I can’t bear anything else this morning.” She shook her head resolutely, as if trying to clear it. “I better start making my own phone calls right now or someone will fail to show up tonight. I always confirm with the caterers, wait staff, florist and musicians. You never know who’ll give you trouble.”

A lot like her grandmother, I thought.

I left Lydia to her business and went in search of another telephone. God knows there were enough rooms to meander through. Lydia was supposedly living in one of the estate’s “cottages,” but her cottage was three times as big as any house I’d ever lived in. I couldn’t imagine spending my life surrounded by such luxury. But an afternoon of it would be just fine.

The phone in the sunroom was free. I sat back in a chaise lounge and pretend Ce aext”ed that I owned the place. Winslow, the butler, brought me a Pimm’s cup in a tall glass, without even being asked first.

“I see you read minds,” I told him, a remark that elicited a quick smile from him. He bowed as if to go, but I stopped him with a question. “Winslow, did you ever meet Thomas Nash?” I asked.

“Certainly, ma’am,” he replied politely. “A perfect gentleman.”

“Were they in love?” I asked him. “I mean, really in love? In your opinion?”

He looked taken aback, as if his opinion was entirely beside the point. “Why do you ask?” he said carefully.

I wondered how much to tell him. “I am trying to figure out how Mr. Nash’s feelings for Lydia may have affected his business dealings with Mr. Talbot.”

He grasped my meaning at once. “I would say that Mr. Nash genuinely loved Miss Talbot,” he explained. “And that he would have given up any amount of money or material goals to have made her happy. I have seen many people together who do not love one another, but must pretend that they do.” He paused, struggling to remain discreet. “Mr. Nash and Miss Talbot were truly in love. Which makes this house all the more sad today. This has not always been such an unhappy family, Miss Jones. Death has made it that way.” Having said more than enough, he bowed again and was gone.

I sat there, sipping my drink and thinking that over. All that money and all that unhappiness. It didn’t make me feel any richer. 

I have deeper relationships with my answering machines than any human being I know. I decided to check in. When I called my office machine, there was a message waiting for me from Randolph Talbot. He’d left his private number at home. I called him back and was put through immediately by a woman with a professionally polite voice. Was I moving up in the world or what? Butlers. Pimm’s cups. And now little old me was on the “A” list for one of North Carolina’s business titans.

“Miss Jones,” he growled, in what I think was an attempt at politeness.

“Yes,” I said, injecting as much boredom into the syllable as possible.

“I’d like to hire you,” he barked.

“What?” I almost dropped my drink.