The Jezebel Remedy (19 page)

“Damn,” Lisa said after Joe finished, “that
would
make you think twice. You and Toliver have been busy lads.” She arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Where to next?” she asked. “What do you think we ought to do?”

“If you keep holding that cynical high note, there's a chance you'll shatter the window glass. I could've kept this to myself.”

“I'm not being cynical,” she said. “I promise. The fake license combined with Lettie's e-mail sounds odd. Of course I'm not sure you can
get a meaningful read from a fruitcake like Neal, so I'm inclined to discount that part a bit.”

“Seriously?” Joe asked.

“Seriously,” she repeated. “I've had a weird feeling since that dog guy was here. But more to the point, you're my husband, and if it's important to you, it's important to me. Count me in. I'm happy to help.”

Joe leaned against the wall. He accidentally brushed the light switch and extinguished the overhead. “Do I need to make an appointment with an exorcist?” he joshed as he was flipping on the switch again. “There must be a crafty demon in possession of my wife's soul. This is Lettie VanSandt we're discussing. I've been wasting time and burning favors to track down leads I got from Dr. Strangelove. Worse, I'm just now telling you all about it.”

“We need to get a handle on this. I have an open mind. Based on my history with Lettie, you waited till you thought it wise to tell me. I can appreciate that. No worries. I'm not ten years old, Joe.” She said it pleasantly, without sarcasm. “What do you think happened? Or maybe happened?”

He slid into a chair. “Connecting the dots,” he said eagerly, “it seems plausible that a man and woman from Benecorp came to visit Lettie about her wound formula. On September third, they traveled from Roanoke to Henry County in the rental. The mileage fits. We can certainly infer they were trying to conceal their identities. Lettie's e-mail puts them at her trailer. They cajole and threaten her, which would've been like trying to train a deaf mule. No results. They return in roughly the same time frame as her death. She's killed. But something goes south. There's no way they wanted this rental car to turn up bright and blipping on the radar. I think perhaps tough old Lettie injured one of them. If she did, they can't visit our local ER, and they damn sure can't return to the Roanoke airport. I checked, and there's a hospital a block away from where the car turned up.”

“Makes sense,” Lisa said. “Though there're closer hospitals. How serious can it be if you travel two, two and a half hours?”

“If we can somehow manage to pull the string, I'd love to see the ER records.”

“Possibly worth a shot,” Lisa said. “But good luck with all the HIPAA
bullshit. You'll need a court order with gold seals and special ribbons. I'd wait awhile. I wouldn't go to so much trouble yet. You said the car was paid off?”

“Yes, by the mysterious Jane Rousch.”

“Who, so far, is a complete dead end.”

“Correct,” Joe said. “Also, ask yourself why the hell Neal kept rescheduling appointments and took so long to come here and settle Lettie's small estate. Was he in negotiations with our pals at Benecorp? Or were they pressuring him and the arm-twisting required several months? Or were they rehearsing him so he could meet with us and not screw up? From his reaction, either he sold somebody the Wound Velvet formula or he still has it and knows it's an extremely hot item.”

“Now that I'm hearing this, here's another red-flag tidbit for you: Soon after your sweetheart died, a call came in from a collection agency, asking about the terms of her will and potential assets.”

“Right, yeah. I remember. I forwarded the info to Neal.”

“And I had Betty advise them that you were the beneficiary but planned to disclaim any interest. The more I think about it, and in light of what you're telling me, I think it was bogus. Lettie didn't owe anybody a dime. She was tight as a tick. I think somebody was fishing, trying to discover where her assets were heading. Or maybe confirming information they'd received from Neal.”

“Could be. Damn. I wonder if we still have the number for the collection company?”

“I'm sure we do,” Lisa said. “Betty has the message from the first client who ever called us.”

They went together to their secretary's desk, and she located the number for them, and when they dialed it using the speakerphone, they heard a three-part electronic tone and a woman's scratchy, recorded voice informing them the number was no longer in service.

“Okay,” Joe said. He focused on Betty, who reflexively opened her steno pad and gripped a pencil. “If my wife and law partner agrees, I vote we wait a day or so and then have you contact Neal VanSandt in Atlanta and inform him that we think we might've located copies of the paperwork. Tell him it's possible his mother's most recent directions left all her inventions to the rebellion trust. Make sure you
emphasize the words
think
and
might
. And say there's no charge for the research.”

“Do I need to pull a file for you, Mr. Stone?” Betty inquired as she jotted shorthand notes. “Or search the VanSandt boxes in storage?”

“That would be a waste of time,” Joe said. “At one time or another, I've read every paper in those boxes; you can't find something that doesn't exist.” He looked at Lisa. “Let's see if we raise anybody to take a peek at our bait.”

Even though she wasn't able to cure the hard lump in her conscience, by early May, Lisa felt slightly better and the pangs and assaults were at least manageable, incorporated into her life like a bum leg or arthritic joint or insulin imbalance, something to compensate for and tolerate until the discomfort became routine, the hurt mitigated simply because of its dreary persistence. The Monday following a spur-of-the-moment, early-anniversary, weekend trip to Primland Resort for a prix fixe meal and extravagant wine and a stay in a hotel room twice as large as their own den, Lisa was frantically fetched to Joe's office by Betty, who scurried down the hall several paces ahead, chattering as she went, arms chugging. Joe was seated at his desk, an ear trained on his boxy 1990s phone. As soon as Lisa walked through the door, he gestured excitedly at the phone and mouthed something she wasn't able to decipher. A man was talking to him through the speaker.

Joe bent toward the phone and interrupted. “Mr. Champoux, sorry to break in, but my wife just arrived.” When he used the speaker, Joe had a habit of bobbing closer to the base each time he spoke and then rocking straight again after he was finished.

“Ah. Excellent. Mrs. Stone, my name is Matt Champoux, and I've already introduced myself to your husband. I understand you two are partners, and he wanted you present for our exchange. Good morning to you, ma'am. We were discussing the Red Sox's prospects for the year while we waited. Your husband and I are fans.”

“Good morning.” Lisa walked behind the desk and stood next to Joe's chair. “I hope he's not in too much trouble.”

Champoux laughed politely. “Oh, no. I'm afraid I'm the one with a
problem. You see, my firm represents a client who purchased assets from the…let me make sure I read this correctly…the Lettie Pauline VanSandt estate. We took title from her son, a Mr. Neal VanSandt. We now understand there might be a problem with title and our ownership. A possibility that the late Miss VanSandt had transferred certain assets into trust before she passed away. I've already given your husband an overview; he wanted me to highlight my issues for you as well.”

“Who's your client?” Lisa asked.

“I'm sorry, but that's confidential. I hope you can appreciate our position.”

Joe leaned toward the phone. “That brings us to a bit of an impasse, doesn't it? I don't feel comfortable discussing Neal's business without his consent. Moreover, assuming for the sake of argument that a trust or a foundation holds the rights to certain of Miss VanSandt's assets, we can't give you any details or information unless we have approval of the trustees.”

“I understand. As we speak, you should be receiving a fax copy of Mr. VanSandt's consent and waiver. He has no problems whatsoever with you discussing the estate with us. In fact, I'd be glad to wait while you confirm this with him on another line.”

“He doesn't like to be bothered at work,” Joe said. “And I usually prefer to set my own agenda.”

“I didn't mean to suggest otherwise.” Champoux tried to sound deferential but wasn't able to mask his impatience.

“Exactly which asset is it you're concerned about?” Joe asked. He slanted toward the phone to talk and bounced upright when he was through, reminded Lisa of a glass-bodied novelty bird, perpetually dipping its beak in and out of a water glass.

“A fair question,” Champoux said. “My client purchased the rights to all of Miss VanSandt's formulas, medicines and inventions, lock, stock and barrel. Everything. Or so they thought.”

“How about VanSandt's Velvet, a wound salve?” Joe asked.

“This may or may not surprise you, Mr. Stone,” Champoux said tersely, “but I have no idea about any of the particulars. I simply handle the acquisitions and secure the rights. No more, no less.”

“That must hamstring you,” Lisa told him. “It would seem to make your job complicated.”

“I'm not sure I follow you,” Champoux said. “However, I'd appreciate it if you would check with whoever needs to be contacted, and if there is indeed a flaw in our title, or we do not own what we think we do, please let us know what needs to happen to correct the oversight.”

“Meaning?” Joe asked.

“Meaning, Mr. Stone, that we still wish to purchase the assets and stand willing to make a fair offer to put this to bed.”

“That's curious. As far as we know, Lettie's inventions are nothing but humbug. Worthless.” Joe remained bent over the phone this time, didn't bounce back.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” Champoux replied, now more exasperated than irked, “I promise you I truly don't know the small details. I simply want to acquire the rights we thought we had gained from her heir, this Neal VanSandt. I would think it makes your decision easier if the items are of little value.”

“Perhaps,” Joe said into the speakerphone, his voice full, almost loud. “But here's our take on this: I'm on the board of every single trust and foundation Lettie ever created. Usually it was Lettie, myself and, occasionally, Lettie's friend du jour, and that could be anyone from a clerk at the convenience store to Homer Lockhart, who delivered her mail. Ultimately, this will be my call, and I plan to be very prudent. Very circumspect.”

“Of course,” Champoux said. “Don't blame you. But the good news is that you'll have the authority to negotiate with me, correct?”

“Not exactly. I'd like to do my negotiating with Benecorp. Directly. I
am
very interested in the small details, you see. No offense to you, but I want to hear from Anton Pichler. Tell him to give me a call, and we'll see what we can do.”

“I'm not at liberty to—”

“Mr. Champoux, I'm not interested in smoke and mirrors and posturing and what you can or can't do. If Benecorp wants the Wound Velvet, they're going to have to show up at the table and quit ducking and hiding behind lawyers and tell the truth for a few minutes. Simple as that.”

“Well, Mr. Stone”—Champoux was gruff, didn't want to appear cowed—“you're in no position—”

Joe cut him off again. “The Sox overpaid for Lackey. He'll prove to be a chump. Theo Epstein's an idiot and should be embarrassed. Mark my words. And you tell Anton I'm expecting his call.” He pressed the button to disconnect them, and Matt Champoux was gone.

“Damn,” Lisa said. “This is really getting interesting. Evidently, at least one of Lettie's bizarre inventions is actually valuable. You think we'll hear from Pichler?”

“Yeah, now I do.”

“I wish we could locate Dr. Downs. It would be helpful to talk to him again.” Lisa looked at the phone, then at Joe. “I hope nothing happens to him.”

“I had the exact same thought.”

“This is starting to seem huge and serious,” she said. “I mean, of course we don't need to jump to the wrong conclusions, but this truly is strange. Hard to imagine. This Byzantine conspiracy here in our small town. Major corporate intrigue. Like we won the upside-down lottery.”

“Everything has to happen somewhere,” Joe mused. Almost immediately, he laughed at himself. “Good to know you can count on me for that kind of fatuous insight if things turn dicey, huh?”

Lisa had a general district court case in Stuart the next morning, and she knew where the road was that led to the Presbyterian church, and she detoured toward it after she finished her trial, didn't turn for Martinsville. It couldn't hurt to drive by and see the place, a windshield gander, and maybe she'd stop or maybe she wouldn't, and who knew if the preacher, this Bucky guy, would even be there, and she was learning to live with her sin as it was, so maybe that was her best bet, but there was nothing to lose by taking a peek and seeing what struck her as she eased down Staples Avenue, wandering, undecided.

The church was small and older, brick with a white steeple, and two vehicles were parked in a gravel lot, a Toyota sedan and a dusty
Ford Explorer. A positive sign, Lisa thought. No Cadillac STS, no Lincoln with a personalized preacher's plate and an NRA sticker, nothing black and apocalyptic. She slowed and considered pulling in, almost stopped, then accelerated past the church and turned around at an elementary school and retraced her route. She parked beside the Explorer and crunched across the gravel to a sidewalk, then hurried for the door with her head tucked and shy, the way she'd seen people dart into the liquor store at the mall or the off-track-betting parlor over in Ridgeway. She entered an empty office that connected to another office, and she knuckle-rapped a wall and tentatively called “Hello?” She heard a wood-against-wood scrape, and then brisk footsteps from the next room. A man appeared and stood underneath the doorway between the rooms.

She'd already decided that hair product of any kind, veneers, French cuffs, monogrammed shirts, pocket squares and tie clasps were immediate and lethal disqualifiers, so she was relieved to see a bald man—clipped gray on the sides—wearing khaki slacks and a lightweight, crewneck sweater standing across from her.

“Hey,” he said. “Oh. Well, hello. Nice to see you, Mrs. Stone. Welcome to Stuart Presbyterian.”

“Huh? How…?” she stammered, flabbergasted. “How do you know my name?”

He laughed. “No holy magic, I promise. The heavenly hotline doesn't work quite that quickly. We met several years ago. I went to court with a member of our church family, a lady named Ashley Forbes. Ashley had a tough drug problem that led to her writing bad checks and stealing. You were her lawyer. She was poor, so the court appointed you. I remember you gave her your best efforts, despite the circumstances. You helped her a lot. I testified as a character witness.”

“Oh, okay. You sort of stunned me there for a minute. Sorry I didn't remember you.”

“No worries. I'm sure you have contact with hundreds of people.” He smiled. “Recalling names and situations is a big part of my job.” His face was intelligent and cherubic in equal measures, hospitable and smart, but a tad too impish to reach beatific, the countenance of a man who just might've veered off for a few colorful furloughs and side trips
along the way to the Sunday pulpit. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked. “You're from Martinsville, right?”

“Yes. Am I interrupting you?” Lisa asked. “There're two cars in the lot.”

“Oh no. Not at all. That's Wendy's car. She's our secretary. She's downstairs, trying to organize seven file cabinets of old records.”

“We have the same problem at our office. So much paper.”

“Computers and discs sure make it easier,” he said.

“So, actually, if it's not an imposition, and if you wouldn't mind, yeah, I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time. You're Bucky, right? The pastor here? I suppose we need to clear that up.”

“I am. Bucky Hunsicker,” he said warmly. “Come in.” He beckoned her into his office. The sign taped to his door was the size of a playing card, a piece of plain white paper with “Reverend Hunsicker” typed across the middle. “Makes it easy for them to send me packing,” he said when he noticed her studying it. “And easy for me to go if I need to.”

“Oh,” she said. “Probably wise for both sides.”

Hunsicker's modest office was dominated by a large, L-shaped executive's desk that was too formidable for the space and hogged the room. The desk was filled with a jumble of books, papers, knickknacks, Bibles, photographs and a model car kit—a Corvette—still in the box, wrapped in plastic. The wall to Lisa's right was loaded with framed diplomas.

“Where'd you go to school?” she asked. She was seated in front of the behemoth cherry desk.

“Undergrad at LSU and my MBA there as well. A master's from the University of Chicago. A doctorate in religious studies from Wheaton College.”

“Wow.”

“I'm a latecomer to the ministry.” Hunsicker smiled. “I was in the family business for several years. Hardware wholesale.”