The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (7 page)

16.

Dowdeswell Street

Nassau

An Hour Later

              Dowdeswell Street was a quiet lane where two story stucco houses abutted the sidewalk. Judging by small, tasteful signs, most of the ground floors were occupied by office space, doctors, lawyers and the like. Although there were no street numbers Lang could see, he had little trouble finding Image Printing, the fourth print shop he had visited in the last sixty minutes. He had gotten the address from the Google app on his iPhone

              An overhead bell jingled as he pushed through the door. Copying machines and devices Lang did not recognize cluttered the space behind a counter running the width of the single room. The air was heavy with the smell of ink and paper.             

              A young Bahamian woman wiped her hands on an apron with multi-colored smudges. Her smile was mega-watt.

              “Con I hep you?” she asked in a tone that said she might really want to.

              Lang took one of the library flyers out of his pocket, unfolded it and held it up for inspection. “Did you print this?”

              The woman looked at him a moment, apparently unsure what to say. “Why you wont to know?”

              Not the first time in the last hour Lang had fielded the question. Bahamian printers, at least those in Nassau, were a curious lot. “I like the font and your selection of light orange.”

              “Apricot, it’s called ‘apricot’.”

              “OK, apricot, then. Whatever, I’ve got an event coming up and I’m going to need a couple of thousand flyers. I’d like to have the same person do mine as did these.” 

              She shrugged, a matter of little consequence. “We done those.”

              “With whom did you work? I mean, what person ordered them?”

              Lang could see a veil of suspicion drop over her face. “I tolt you: We done them flyers. Why you wont a name?”

              “I want a reference. It’s very important the job gets done smoothly.” Lang feigned touch of impatience. “You want the work or not?”

              He could see equal measures of uncertainty and desire for profit on her face.

              As usual, the profit motive won out.

              “The Chief librarian, Miss Abigail Albury.”

              Lang was already headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon as I speak with her.”

              Lang was less than surprised to learn from the current librarian that, after thirty-six years, Miss Abigail Albury had unexpectedly announced her retirement. The present holder of that post was unsure but believed her predecessor still resided at an address in Fox Hill, a native settlement that dated back to colonial times.

              Fox Hill was a neighborhood in transition. A number of bungalows, each fenced by blooming hedges and obviously newly constructed, occupied beach frontage and ocean view lots. A couple of small hotels clearly catered to vacationers. Further inland, Fox Hill Road displayed shabbier dwellings, mostly cinder block construction with peeling paint and yards filled with uncut weeds.

              The cabbie pulled up in front of a police station and pointed across the street to an unattractive single story fourplex in need of both paint and exterior maintenance. “Dot be de place, mon.”

              Lang saw no street number or other indicia this was the address he had been given but got out. “I’ll pay you to wait.”

              The driver shook a head of dreadlocks. “I’ll wait but you pays me fo’ ‘d trip out here now.”

              Seeing no alternative, Lang peeled off two tens.

              “Be another ten fo’d’wait.”

              Thirty dollars lighter, Lang crossed the road.

              Three of the four apartments stared at him with empty windows. Those of one of the two middle units were screenless and open. Curtains, once white, now gray, fluttered in a stream of air Lang guessed was generated by a fan. There were no visible air conditioning units.

              Nor was there a bell. Lang rapped his knuckles on warped plywood, shedding flakes of green paint.

              A second knock and he could hear someone shuffling inside. The door opened perhaps six inches revealing an elderly woman in what looked like a shift made from the same material as the curtains. For no particular reason, Lang noted blue furry slippers with rabbit ears. The soundtrack of an old sit-com filled the room behind her.

              She peered at him suspiciously through glasses that magnified her eyes, giving her a frog-like appearance.

              “Miss Abigail Albury?”

              She bobbed her head, silver hair drawn back in a bun catching the sunlight. “And who might you be?”

              The tone wasn’t hostile but it wasn’t friendly, either. Lang guessed not too many white men came calling on the former librarian. And it probably wasn’t a coincidence she chose to live across the street from a police station.

              “My name’s Lang Reilly and I have a few questions about that exhibit of the Oakes murder.”

              She said nothing for a full five count. Lang guessed she was contemplating shutting the door in his face.

              Then, to his surprise, she opened it wide. “Come in. I jes’ put the kettle on. Would you care for a cuppa tea?”

              He stepped across the threshold. “I would, thank you.”

              He followed her across a room that might have been lifted in toto from the 1960’s: A black and white television in a console sported the first pair of rabbit ears antenna he had ever seen in actual use. Lang would have bet the piece of furniture also contained a radio and ’78 record player, the early version of a home entertainment center. A three piece sectional sofa covered in chartreuse crushed velvet was flanked by two Danish modern chairs with Naugahyde seats matching the color. A coffee table held a pair of lava lamps.

              The linoleum tile floor was spotless and surfaces were free of dust or dirt despite the open windows.

              He followed her to a kitchen perhaps five feet by five, stopping at the door because he didn’t see how two people could fit into the space. She turned off one of the stove’s two gas eyes, pouring boiling water into a tea pot that was either Spode or a remarkable imitation. Two cups and saucers with the same blue underglazing as the kettle appeared as she dipped a metal tea egg into the latter.

              She noticed interest in the tea set. “Yes, it be genuine. When the Bahamas go independent in 1973, lots of the English left.” She chuckled. “Guess dey were ‘fraid the country was being turned over to a bunch of savages who would murder dem in dey beds. Dey sold off a lot fragile things, things likely to get broken in shipment like dis tea set. Lady I worked for part time, she give it to me.” She looked at Lang. “You surprised to see Spode in a house like this?”

              “I’m always surprised and delighted to see lovely things,” Lang answered diplomatically.

              She poured stream almost as dark as coffee into each cup. “Lemon, sugar, cream?”

              “I’m fine, thank you.” Lang inhaled deeply. “I’ve never smelled tea like that. Sort of like cinnamon and maybe a spice I can’t name.”

              “Comes from the Udapusselawa region of Sri Lanka. Company called Dilmah ship it outta New York. It’s my sole extravagance.”

              She turned to go back into the living room. “When I got dese here cups, I planned to sell ‘em. Then, I thought, no, wait. Likely be the onlyest thing I ever get this fine, workin’ as a maid when I’m not at the library. So, I started drinking tea-nobody on this island but the English drank tea back then. You might say the Spode got me addicted to the stuff.”

              She turned off the television and sat on the sectional sofa, placing her cup next to one of the lava lamps. “But you doan come here to hear an old woman go on about tea.”

              Lang sat on the far end of the couch. He was beginning to realize this woman was enjoying company. Not necessarily his but just having another soul to talk to, common among the elderly, no matter their nationality.

              “No, Ma’am, but is delicious.”

              She nodded an acknowledgement and smiled, showing equal number of teeth and empty sockets. “You say you wanted to talk about the Oakes exhibit.”  

              Lang took a long sip from his cup. Cinnamon and . . . what? Allspice?

              She continued. “A bit of history: When the Windsors arrive in 1940, Government House was pretty much a wreck, I understand. Not only in bod repair but infested with termites, sand flies, no-seeums and mice. Dey had to live somewheres else while the work was going on. For a while, dey were guests at Harry Oakes’s estate, Westbourne.

              “The Duchess, she write letters, her Aunt Bessie, friends back in the States. Him, too.

              “Now, I don’ know for sure but I’m guessin’ dey kept copies of some of dem letters from friends, relatives, ‘ticular hers in the States . Ennyway, some of dem letters get stowed in boxes ‘long with dresses de duchess don’ want, odds an’ ends. An’ de boxes, dey gits stowed in the library, meybbe ‘cause all that movin’ aroun’, nowhere else to put ‘em.

              “Still guessin’, library gets renovated in 1964. Stowage room made into the men’s and ladies’ WC. Part sealed up to cover plumbing. But a year ago, we had a leak an’ part of the wall had to come out. Dere de boxes was.

              “Some had newspaper pitchers o’ de room where Sir Harry was kilt, some had both the Duke and Duchess’s personal letters ‘bout the murder an’ other stuff. One box had items like her hairbrush n’ comb, a cigarette holder n’ a cigarette lighter with the duke’s initials, things like that.”

              “So, you included some personal items in the exhibit?”

              She nodded. “Sho. Folks, ‘ticularly American tourist, interested in the Windsors. Dey come in the library, meybbe leave a donation.”

              Lang took a sip of tea, still uncertain of the flavor’s origins. “But the whole thing only lasted a day or two.”

              She drained her cup and stood. “Not even dot. Mon, a white mon, come into the library jes afta dot white American lady wid de blond hair, de one done washed up on de sho’. I think the white mon be English. He talk thot way. He spend about five minutes lookin’ ot the exhibit and leave. Not five minutes later, I get a call from Edmund Curry hissef. More tea?”

              Lang extended his cup. “Just a warm up, thanks. Who is Edmund Curry?”

              “Minister of Education. All Bahamas libraries unner de Department o’ Education. He tell me to close de library immediately, take down the exhibit.”

              Lang watched her step into the kitchen and return with two steaming cups. “Did he give any explanation?”

              She shook her head as she handed the blue tea cup to him. “He don’ haffta ‘splain; he my boss.
Was
my boss. It was day afta that he ‘suggest’” She made quotation marks in the air. “S
uggests
I want my pension, I retire.”

              After a few minutes of polite conversation, Lang thanked Miss Abigail Albury both for her tea and the information before bidding her good-bye.

              When he got outside, the cab was gone.

17.

L
aw Offices of Langford Reilly

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

Two Days Later

              Elizabeth Rountree peered expectantly through her glasses, reminding Lang Reilly of some aquatic creature looking through the wet side of a fish tank’s glass.

              “Well, Mr. Reilly?”

              Lang leaned back in his swivel chair, making a roof of his fingers. “I’m truly flattered you chose to come back, Dr. Rountree.”

              Flattered but not surprised, considering the local DA’s announcement yesterday he intended to have the cases set for trial in early November. 

              “But. . .?”

              “But I’m not inclined to go on the installment plan.” He came forward, placing both hands on the desk. “You see, once I appear as your counsel of record, a judge would be loath to let me off the hook just because you couldn’t come up with the rest of my fee.”

              The woman’s frustration was showing. In years as a high level bureaucrat, she was not used to being told ‘no.’ “It seems to me, Mr. Reilly, you are a great deal more concerned with your fee than seeing justice done.”

             
And you, madam, were a great deal more concerned with bonuses than educating the children entrusted to the system you led.

              Instead, he smiled sweetly. “If I’m not concerned about my fee, Doctor, who would be? I have been nothing but consistent: I will require $100,000 in cash, negotiables or other suitable form. When your case is resolved, I will refund any unused funds to you, ‘unused’ being defined as billing my time at $500 per hour.”

              “Seems an awful lot to me.”

              “Considering we will have not only the DA but the other thirty-five defendants all trying to blame you, I feel it’s going to be earned.” Lang picked up a ball point pen and marched it through his fingers. “There are any number of very capable criminal lawyers in town: Eddy Garland, Bruce Harvey, Steve Sadow. You might want to consult them.”

             
She probably had, Lang thought. And I’m evidently the low bidder or she wouldn’t be back here.

              “Oh, I’ve considered others, Mr. Reilly but you are the most suitable for me.”

             
Delete “evidently.”

              “Besides, my personal attorney doesn’t agree with you. He assures me the Atlanta Public School System will honor the ‘hold harmless agreement’.”

             
Swell. Let him defend you
.

              “Even the best of lawyers frequently disagree.” Lang checked his watch. “Let’s put this to bed, OK? If you want me to defend you, it will take a hundred thousand. Maybe your lawyer can get it from APS since he’s certain they’ll pay. In the meantime, I have a previous appointment.” He stood and extended his hand, the meeting over.

              As she stood, Lang added, “If I’m going to take your case, I’ll need to get started. November isn’t that far away and this isn’t a simple matter. I really wouldn’t be interested in getting involved any later than the end of the month.”

              As he watched her fill the doorway on her way out, he thought of the positives- besides the elusive hundred grand: The case would be tried by the District Attorney himself who was the Inspector Clouseau of prosecutors. In his fifteen plus years in the position, he had let the statute of limitations lapse more than once, lost evidence critical to the prosecution several times and almost routinely let criminal defendants walk free because his office was unable to fulfill speedy trial requests. His general courtroom incompetence alienated judges on a regular basis.

              The man could not have convicted John Wiles Booth of discharging a firearm in the city limits..

              Sara stood in the door. “Still haggling about the fee?”

              Lang stood, moving papers on his desk into a neat stack. “I never haggle, Sara. You know that. But the woman has made me late for my tee time with Francis”

              Sara smiled. “Father Francis: The Vatican’s answer to Tiger Wood.”

              “He’s good but not that good. Although he does seem to make some extremely lucky shots.” Lang stepped for the door. “Oh, you did deliver the Hartwell appeal to the Office Mate people, right?”

              Office Mate was an office supply, copying, scanning and printing operation of the first floor. Most small and single lawyer firms could not justify the expense of the more sophisticated equipment now available. It was simpler and made economic sense to farm out big jobs to such businesses.

              “Exhibits, notice of appeal, brief. All of it. Linda says it will be ready in about three days.”

              “Excellent. It’s due in thirty.”