by D. L. Wood
Hints of cinnamon and vanilla from the candles wafted over Chloe as they entered. Old wooden planks, possibly the originals, comprised the floor, and walls of exposed brown brick stretched throughout the space. Every square inch was packed with thoughtful, creative displays of unique merchandise: jewelry made from antique spoons, photo frames assembled from reclaimed wood, and hand-dyed scarves from Africa.
“Emma!” Tyler shouted, running up to his sister who was hanging a group of deep aqua sweaters on a rack.
“Hey, buddy,” Emma responded, putting one arm around him as he hugged her waist.
“Sorry,” Chloe said sheepishly. “I know you’re working but he really wanted to see you.”
“No problem,” Emma told her, crossing her arms. “I see he talked you into the clown.”
Tyler’s gaze shot to Chloe, guilt flushing his cheeks.
Chloe narrowed her eyes at Tyler in mock disappointment. “Should he not have?”
“Just watch out for the sugar rush in about thirty minutes,” Emma warned.
“Ahh. Gotcha.”
“Thanks for the texts about Dad earlier.”
“Of course,” Chloe said. “I thought maybe we could go by after you get off work.”
“Um, well, I thought I would go see him by myself after work and then head over to hang out with Jacob and Trip. If that’s okay? Jacob’s having a tough time.”
Chloe wondered whether Reese would think that was okay or not. Did he let Emma stay out on school nights? But then, this was such a special situation. “Sure. If you think it will help, that’s fine.”
“Thanks. I should be home around ten thirty or so.”
Chloe nodded. “I don’t know the rules, so whatever rules you have with Reese work for me.” She realized as she said it that she would just have to trust Emma because she had no way of knowing what Reese’s parental rules actually were.
“Excuse me?” A customer asked, approaching Emma through a large opening that led to an adjoining space that had probably been another shop at one time, but was now an expansion of Philanthropy. “Could you help me with some sizes?”
“Sure,” Emma replied, accompanying the woman as she retreated back into the other side.
“Come on,” Tyler said, taking Chloe’s hand. “I want to show you the wall.”
Wondering what he meant, Chloe followed him through the opening that Emma had just gone through. Like the other side, this part of the store was replete with clothing and gift items. But it also contained large displays of colorful handmade items sourced from struggling regions where people sold the products in an effort to create self-sustaining industries. Descriptions accompanied the goods, some showcasing lovely photographs of the artisans, connecting customers even more personally to the vibrant handwoven bags from Uganda, beaded jewelry made from brightly-hued recycled paper by women in Kenya, and multicolored canvas shoes cut and sewn by Chilean villagers. Chloe ran a hand over the soft fabric of the shoes.
“What a great idea.”
“Yeah, they help people. Okay, so come here!” he said excitedly, motioning her to follow. She slowed as they moved past a whimsical display piled high in the center of the room consisting of stacked wooden crates topped with mounds of old books and, scattered amongst those, robin’s egg blue pottery filled with dried ivory hydrangeas. At the pinnacle of the mound was a painted Queen’s Anne chair reupholstered in creamy velvet, standing crooked on a gravity-defying single leg, counter-balanced by a thick rope secured to the ceiling by way of an old factory pulley. The inventive decor alone was reason to award the shop a feature spot in her article.
Impatient, Tyler took her hand, dragging her the rest of the way to a waist-high narrow table made of reclaimed wood pushed against one wall. The space directly above the table was covered by rows and rows of horizontal wooden planks pierced every several inches by large, square-cut nails. Every nail had dozens of old-fashioned, manila shipping tags hanging from it, each tag containing a message penned in different handwriting. Tin pails on the table held more blank tags and several pens. A stenciled sign declared this to be the “Prayer Wall.”
“See,” Tyler said, pulling a tag from the pail and choosing a pen, “you write your prayer on this, then hang it on the nail. Then you take somebody else’s prayer and you pray that for them.” He began scribbling on his tag as Chloe perused the ones others had left behind.
Some were sweet scrawls in kindergarten-like fashion, asking for help for ‘Sam my golden retriever,’ or ‘Grandpa Jim.’ Others were penned in flowing cursive, asking for ‘peace after my husband’s passing,’ or strong, block-print letters requesting prayers for a new job. She touched one, imagining the person who wrote, ‘heal Anne’s cancer,’ and wondered who Anne was, and how she was doing.
“And then,” Tyler proceeded, clicking his pen and dropping it back in the pail, “you put yours on a nail for somebody else to take.” He hung it on the nail closest to him. “Get it?”
“I do. Tyler, this is beautiful.”
“Yeah, I like it. I take one every time I come in.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “And I pray too. For the person on the tag. Do you ever pray, Chloe?”
Chloe smiled. “I do, Tyler. I do.”
“Well, here,” he said, pulling a tag off the wall. “You take this one and pray for,” he squinted at the message, “Ellen’s surgery, and then you put your prayer on this,” he handed her a blank tag, “and leave it.”
“That’s a great idea, Tyler,” Chloe said, pocketing Ellen’s tag and taking a pen from the pail.
* * * * *
Before heading home they went by the hospital to check on Reese. She felt guilty for not spending more time there, but as the nurses continued to tell them, there wasn’t really anything they could do but wait. Even so, it was good to go by there, squeeze Reese’s hand, and let Tyler tell him about his day.
On the way home, Zach, a friend of Tyler’s, called his cell to ask if Tyler could spend the night. Apparently, his mother heard about Reese’s incident and wanted to help. After speaking with the mother and texting Emma to confirm that it would be okay to leave Tyler with this family, Chloe took Tyler home to pack a small bag, then dropped him off at Zach’s house where he was attacked with a Nerf gun before even making it inside.
By 5:00 p.m., Chloe was back at Reese’s house, alone. It was an odd feeling after all that had happened there over the last several days. She was just about to pour herself a glass of merlot from the stash Reese kept in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang.
“Got some hungry kids in there?” Holt asked when she opened the door. His hair was ruffled and shirt loose at the waist. His tie and suit jacket were absent and there was an air of exhaustion about him.
“Hard day?” she asked.
He nodded. “Started out chasing some idiot through a neighborhood and it went downhill after that,” he grinned tiredly. “I went by to see Reese,” he explained, seeming to sag a little more. “It’s tough seeing him like that. Going out might be a distraction for us all.”
“Holt, I’m sorry but both of the kids are out. Emma’s with friends and Tyler’s sleeping over at a buddy’s. I should have called.”
“Oh,” he replied, genuine disappointment in his voice. “Okay, well,” his eyes brightened, “you’ve got to eat, right? We can still go. I promise not to keep you late. A little karaoke can go a long way. You’ll feel like a new person.”
She was hungry. And not particularly looking forward to hanging out in the house by herself all night. She was about to accept when a generic, white delivery van pulled to the curb in front of the house.
“Hi there! Sorry,” the driver called out, exiting his door and sliding open the rear door of the van. He pulled out a large vase of salmon-colored roses, intermixed with airy fern branches and snowy baby’s breath. “Last delivery of the day. We were running a bit behind,” he explained as he approached them. He glanced at the attached envelope. “Chloe McConna
ughey?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Great.” He thrust the vase into her arms and jogged back to the van. “Have a good night.”
“The boyfriend?” Holt asked, his hands in his pockets.
Chloe didn’t answer, instead withdrawing a small blue card from the envelope.
I’m sorry. Take your time, but please call me. This isn’t what you think. I love you. Jack.
“Yeah,” she confirmed, sliding the card into her pocket. “It’s from Jack.”
“You don’t sound too happy.”
“We’re just…in a rough patch at the moment.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Chloe shrugged. “It’ll pass.” The roses offered a heady clove scent, unusually strong for store-bought flowers. A pang of regret pinched her, though her uneasiness over Jack’s decision to keep his interactions with Lila from her had not dissipated. She would call him soon. She wasn’t punishing him. It was just that she honestly had not decided how she felt about the whole thing and had no idea what she would say.
She cleared her throat. “Maybe we should do karaoke another night?” she suggested, feeling that maybe it was better to just stay in. “I brought a couple of the discovery boxes home with me and I should probably just work through those. I mean, the faster we get through them all, the faster we figure this thing out.”
“Tell you what,” Holt said, adjusting his stance. “Why don’t we both work through the boxes? Otherwise, you’re right, it’ll be that much more staring us in the face tomorrow.” He waved her inside. “Come on. Pizza’s on me.”
* * * * *
“It’s nearly ten,” Chloe said, reaching for the last piece of pepperoni and mushroom pizza despite her better judgment. She was bored with this and eating gave her something else to do. She followed the bite with a sip of ice water. She had switched over after her glass of merlot. A headache in the morning was the last thing she needed.
“I know,” Holt said, dropping the last piece of paper from the box they were working on into one of the piles they had made on Reese’s dining room table. “I just want to finish this box.” He leaned back, looking somewhat satisfied.
Chloe shook her head. “Look to your right,” she drawled.
He squinted at her, then turned, his eyes landing on another inch-high stack on the far corner of the table. “Ugh. I thought I got it all,” he grumbled, snatching up the papers and leaning forward again. Holt snapped half the stack to her, which she took with exaggerated dismay.
“Not a word,” she chastised, skimming a page and sending it to the ‘project planning pile.’ “It was your idea to help me tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answered.
Chloe perused the next page and relegated it to the ‘communications pile.’ Looking up, she noticed Holt’s eyes narrowed on the sheet he was holding. “What is it?”
He pointed to a list of three names at the bottom of an email from Donner’s company updating the Main Street Business Council on the project’s progress. “These companies were copied on this email. Don’t know why.” He turned, tapping the communications pile. “I’ve seen several names here and there, copied or included in the mailings for different things. I think we should make a list. Then track down what they had to do with the project. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe we get lucky and find someone with a vested interest in Donner’s project or a bone to pick with him. It might help us get a better picture of the scope of things.”
Changing gears, they started skimming the documents related to communication, looking for names other than those directly associated with Donner’s company. In another hour, they had compiled a list of eight businesses and individuals.
“I recognize a few of those from some of the documents I sorted at the office today, but I wasn’t looking for names then, so we’ll need to go back through those. And there’s still three boxes we haven’t opened yet,” Chloe pointed out.
Holt shrugged. “It’s enough to start on. We can add to the list and eliminate as we go.” He pulled the laptop to him and started typing. Finding contact numbers for most of the names was relatively easy, requiring only a few minutes of searching. Two of the businesses, Marble Properties, LLC, and Vettner-Drake, Inc., did not return anything in his internet searches, and neither had a website, Facebook page, or online presence of any kind. “Okay. Let’s go at this another way,” Holt said, resuming typing and entering, ‘Tennessee Secretary of State’ in the Google search bar.
“So, every corporation doing business in Tennessee has to register and identify the person designated to receive service of legal documents on behalf of the company,” he explained, typing in the first corporate name and slapping the ‘Enter’ button. “We can find out who it is and go from there.” Within two minutes he had pulled up the entity information pages for both companies and jotted down the listed agents and their addresses. No phone numbers were offered and a search of the agents’ names online did not reveal any.
“So what now?” Chloe asked.
“The ones with numbers we can call, at least initially, but we’ll have to go see the other two in person,” Holt said, waving the slip of paper he had jotted the information onto. “They aren’t far. We could knock both of them out in a couple hours tomorrow. What do you say, Nancy Drew? Up for some sleuthing?”
She was.
TWENTY-SIX
Holt finally left around eleven o’clock, having deciding that since Tyler was sleeping at a friend’s house, it might be an opportunity to get some really good sleep in his own bed.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” he insisted, though Chloe told him they would be fine alone. “I don’t want Tyler worrying when he’s here,” Holt pushed, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer.
Emma noisily arrived home a few minutes later, flinging the downstairs door open in typical teen fashion, without regard to anyone who might be sleeping. Proclaiming exhaustion from a night hanging out with Jacob and Trip, she headed to bed with barely a word and was out again by seven thirty the next morning. One quick hello and an update on Reese given through bites of peanut butter toast was all Chloe managed to fit in before Emma was zipping off to school.
Tyler was a different story. The boy was super chatty on the phone, assuring her he was fine and almost ready for school, before abruptly hanging up to get in on the cinnamon rolls made by Zach’s mom. Chloe took advantage of the next couple of hours by herself to chart an outline for her Franklin piece, until Holt rolled into the driveway at nine thirty and honked.
After first asking about the kids and Reese, Holt explained that he had already managed to get in touch with three of the names on the list they had made the night before. “They were either friends of Donner or people he had done business with before. One said Donner had asked him to invest in the project, but it wasn’t for him, so he passed on it. The others will probably be more of the same, but it’s good to check. Less legwork for the public defender when Sims finally gets one.”
They decided to first head over to see Charles Scott, the registered agent for Marble Properties. The address listed on the Secretary of State website was in Murfreesboro, about forty minutes east of Franklin. When they arrived, they found that the address was for his personal residence. Scott was at home and more than happy to talk. He explained that the business was a small, family-owned construction company that would invest in, develop, and then sell small properties. Scott was the owner, managing partner, and registered agent. His relationship with Donner had been a personal one, not business, though Donner had also approached him about investing in the Franklin project.
“Not the right market for us at the time, though,” he said, explaining why he declined Donner’s invitation. “Too rich for our blood. And, given what’s happened, I’m glad we opted out. Shame about what happened to him.”
They traded perfunctory sympathies and chatted about Donner’s business for another fifteen minutes, until it was clear they had exhausted his knowledge of
the subject. Then Chloe and Holt were back in the car, headed to the office because Karen had called, asking Holt to sign a few documents that needed to be filed that morning. After that detour, they struck out again, this time to find Eli Drake of Vettner-Drake, Incorporated, located in south Nashville.
They settled into a comfortable silence as they drove north into the city by way of Hillsboro Road, one of the pre-interstate thoroughfares into Nashville. Holt promised her that it would be more interesting than I-65 and would allow her to get a better feel for the area. As they rolled through Franklin and the suburban areas linking it to Nashville, they passed a variety of sprawling scenes: young neighborhoods sporting the latest stone veneers and craftsman beams; older homes—some renovated, some not—with long concrete drives cracked from age; century-old, stacked stone walls; open fields with brown, grazing cows. The roadside was packed thick with bushes and trees, dotted every so often by a church or school or the odd business building. Green was everywhere, though tinted with the slightest hint of brown, signaling the quick approach of coming cold days and the changeover to winter that would soon strip the color from most of nature for several long months.
After about ten minutes, the landscape began to change, the wooden fences replaced by iron ones crowned with gated drives leading to mansions rivaling anything in the best neighborhoods in Atlanta. Holt explained that they had moved on from Franklin and were now in what was referred to as the Forest Hills area. One particular jaw-dropping structure was stone, with three stories of floor-to-ceiling windows, wrought-iron balconies, and a pebbled circular driveway quartering what looked like a Porsche.
“These houses are insane,” Chloe told Holt, eyeing another gate that zipped by on the right, this one flanked by six-foot-high white stucco walls, each boasting a metal sculpture of the letter ‘E.’ The drive behind the gate snaked between rows of giant oaks that bent over it worshipfully, likely leading to an equally impressive residence hidden further back on the property.
