Sitting on a Fortune

by Becki Willis

  “Sweetheart?” Brash murmured between kisses.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why were you out on Sawyer Road yesterday?”

  She pulled away, swatting at his chest. “No fair!” she accused. “You’re trying to take unfair advantage of my distraction.”

  “On the contrary,” he countered smoothly. “I’m asking before I got too distracted.”

  “Nice try, Mr. D.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What? You’re spying on me now?”

  “Of course not. In a town as small as The Sisters, I don’t need to. Nosy neighbors do the work for me.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a jest before explaining, “Burl Evans called and said he saw you out his way. He wanted to let us know he sold his watermelon patch to his daughter and son-in-law so they could build a house, but that he’ll still have plenty of melons when summer rolls around. He’s moving the patch out to his other property off County Road 451.”

  “I saw that. Looks like a nice house. Does his daughter live here?”

  “Not yet. His son-in-law is a professor at A&M but will commute once the house is ready and they move in. He said College Station was growing too fast, and they wanted to raise their children in a small town. What took you out that way? Do you have a new client?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Monte Applegate has me on retainer.”

  Brash ran the name through his mind. “Applegate. I know Herman Applegate and his wife Jean. She’s a big-time artist and has showrooms in Austin, Dallas, New Orleans, and a couple of other places. Remember? She gave us that painting of bluebonnets for our wedding.”

  “Yes, I love that painting.”

  Brash tried to place her new client. “I know their son Troy, but I don’t think I know a Monte.”

  “He’s Troy’s son. And before you ask, he’s all of eleven or twelve, and he’s paid me a very generous sum of twenty-two dollars to find his lost dog.”

  A smile hovering on his lips, Brash nodded. “Ah, now I know who you’re talking about. Officer Schimanski mentioned a boy came in, wanting us to help find his dog. He promised to keep an eye out for the pup but explained we couldn’t dedicate any resources to searching for a lost pet.”

  “Hence, my latest gig.”

  “Any luck?”

  “I made a preliminary drive-by of the yard he escaped from and the area Monte says the dog likes to roam. It’s about a mile down the road, but he prowls around Lamont Andrews’ house sometimes. Which is unfortunate, because Lamont doesn’t like dogs.”

  “I’m not sure there’s many things Lamont Andrews likes, other than money, flashy cars, and flashy women.”

  “Yeah, I sort of got that vibe.”

  “Just from driving by his house?”

  “Not… exactly.”

  Brash gave her his infamous smirk. “How, exactly?”

  “On my way home, I dropped by the Gold and Silver Exchange. I’d never been there before, so I thought I’d look around and maybe ask a few questions.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s nothing more than a glorified pawn shop, if you ask me.”

  “Was Andrews there? Did you get to ask your questions?”

  Her sigh was heavy. “Oh, yeah.” She felt her husband’s gaze boring into her, even though she studied the night sky. “He made his dislike for dogs very clear. He said if he found it there again, he would shoot it. Then he kicked me out of the store.”

  Beside her, Brash bristled. “He kicked you out of the store?”

  “He told me they were closed, totally opposite of what he had said when I first came in. By that time, he knew I wasn’t a paying customer, and he didn’t want to waste his time on me.”

  “I don’t want you going back there again.”

  Hearing the growl in his voice, she quickly assured him, “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to! But why, by the way, do you say that?”

  “There’s something about the man. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t trust him. He’s known to have a volatile temper and, if you ask me, he’s a bit paranoid. He’s always claiming there’s someone lurking around his shop, trying to break in. I can’t tell you how many false alarms I’ve answered over there.”

  “Doesn’t he have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, and plenty of locks to back it up. But we all know a lock is only designed to keep an honest man out. If a criminal wants in, he’ll find a way.”

  Seven

  The man fumbled in the dark. Clumsy without the aid of overhead lighting, his fingers at last connected with the lantern. He twisted the button, cranking it to its full extension.

  Two thousand lumens of bright, white light flooded the old barn, washing it with the harsh brilliance of LED illumination.

  He looked around with satisfaction, taking stock of his treasures. The shelves were full, piled high with valuables. A meticulous inventory list accompanied each set of shelving, detailing the precious items and separating them into distinct collections.

  Some were treasures the man had collected in his travels. The more he had to scour for them, the more he treasured them.

  Many were investments. Sure bets for a profitable return.

  Others were insurance for the future. Their value would only increase over time.

  Still others were short term. Disposable items he could sell as the need arose.

  The light glinted off the neatly aligned items, winking back at him with hues of shimmering gold, warm copper, and shining, dancing silver. It was a rainbow of metallic color, and it was his. All his.

  Together, the items on these shelves were his kingdom. His destiny.

  As an afterthought, the man remembered the dog.

  “Where are you, mutt?” he grumbled. He whistled, but the dog didn’t come.

  “Some watchdog you are! I put you here to guard my treasures, and you’re off chasing a rat!” He grumbled again but pulled something from his pocket. “No matter. I brought you kibble. You can have it for dessert.”

  The man took a final survey of the barn, a smile lingering on his face.

  All his.

  Eight

  On her last day of work at New Again Upholstery, Madison tried to soak up as much knowledge as possible. She was full of questions, including those about her recent acquisition.

  “Do you keep records on where your furniture pieces come from?” she asked.

  “As much as possible, but often times, we acquire items from unknown origins.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes, we purchase a piece at auction or off the internet. We go to garage sales and flea markets, and, yes, we even do a little dumpster diving from time to time,” Ralph Musa acknowledged without apology. “People bring things in to sell or trade. Sometimes, they ask us to recover a piece and then never return to pick it up. After six months, it goes out on the floor to sell. We try to learn the history of a piece, but sometimes we never know its background.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember how you acquired the chair I bought?”

  “The red velvet?”

  “Yes. The one I’m recovering for Brash.” The one with a fortune stuffed inside its cushions.

  “I’ll check the records to be sure, but if I’m not mistaken, we got that one on a trade. A few months ago, a man came in looking for a locker-type cabinet with a lock. Said he needed it to store valuables in. He offered the chair as a trade, and I liked its bones. I thought it seemed like a fair trade, so we made the deal, and he took the cabinet with him.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember his name?”

  “I certainly do. There’s no need to check the records; it’s all coming back to me now. A few days after the transaction, I wondered if he thought to secure the cabinet to the floor. As light as it was, it wouldn’t be a secure location for anything of great value. A thief could easily make off with lock, stock, and cabinet. I decided to give him a call, so I looked up his contact information. The guy called himsel
f Paul. Paul Revere.”

  “How original.”

  “He was an odd one, all right, but seemed harmless enough.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Gray hair. Maybe some sort of beard. About my height. A few years my senior, I would guess.”

  The description was so vague, it could be anyone over the age of seventy. It didn’t give Madison much to go on.

  “If you need help recovering the chair, just let me know,” he continued. “It’s a good, solid piece. I’ll be happy to lend you a hand.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Musa. I appreciate that. And I may just take you up on your offer.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  On her way home that afternoon, Madison stopped by New Beginnings to grab a cup of coffee with her best friend. She could use the jolt of caffeine to prepare herself for the evening ahead. Brash had the late shift, so she could spend the time pouring through Juliet Blakely’s old journals.

  Genny gladly took a break and joined Madison at the back booth.

  “You have a smudge of frosting right here,” Madison advised, touching the correlating spot on her own face.

  “Oops. Hazards of the job.” With a giggle, Genny brushed a hand across her cheek. Touching her finger to her tongue, she nodded. “Buttercream frosting like what’s going on Virgie Adams’ birthday cake. Mr. Hank is throwing her a party for her eightieth birthday.”

  Blowing on her coffee to cool it, Madison nodded. “Granny Bert is looking forward to going. It’s a surprise, right?”

  “Supposedly, but Miss Virgie was in here the other day, dropping hints on her favorite cake flavor and talking about buying a new dress.”

  “Busted.”

  “It seems that way,” Genny agreed. “But it’s sweet of him to try. I know she’s been down in the dumps lately, what with the trial and all.”

  “It must be hard, knowing your son and grandson are going to prison for what will no doubt be the rest of her life, at any rate. I testified when called, but I didn’t stay for the full trial; living through it the first time was enough for me, thank you very much. I heard Gerald got twenty years. Paul was sentenced to an extra four, because of the hidden mics.”

  Genny clucked with disapproval. “Greed,” she all but spat. “Just because they thought their family should have inherited the old house, instead of Granny Bert.”

  “Exactly. But it was Miss Juliet’s house to do with as she pleased. I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  Back in the day, Truman Ford had been butler at the old estate, and Rose Hamilton had served as cook. Their children and grandchildren, including Hank Adams and Bertha Cessna, practically grew up in the house and had quite naturally developed an emotional attachment to the property, even though any sense of ownership stopped well short of a legal claim. There was a long-held assumption that the butler’s offspring would be named heirs, so when Juliet Blakely left everything to her cook’s daughter, the news hadn’t settled well.

  Gerald Adams and his son had nursed the grudge until it became a sickness. They turned the old family business of “bootlegged” liquor into a modern-day meth lab and refused to let the old rivalries between the towns die. More because of her family name than the fact she now owned the old mansion, Madison had been caught up in their madness.

  “Yes, but karma won out in the end.” Genny flashed her trademark dimpled smile. “Each of you is now living in your respective Big House. Theirs is run by the state, yours is run by love.” The dimples deepened. “Karma.”

  After a mock toast with their coffee cups and a shared chuckle, Madison moved to a new subject. “Your friend Mr. Pruett seemed in rare form the other day. Has he had any more midnight callers?” Her hazel eyes danced with amusement.

  “Not that I’m aware of. He came back the next day with some other tall tale, but I haven’t seen him yet today. He normally comes in at least every other day, always to order the very same thing. You would think he would grow tired of chicken-fried steak, but he eats it at least three times a week.”

  “My guess is that the man likes order with little variation. Just look at his wardrobe. I’ve never seen him in anything but khaki work clothes.”

  “You have a point,” the restaurateur agreed. “The only thing he ever changes are his stories. According to him, he’s had ‘a long and distinguished career’ in either the Army or the Navy, he’s been the band leader for an all-female orchestra, he’s a retired helicopter pilot, done a jaunt with the Secret Service, served on the Board of Directors at the Smithsonian, spent eight years designing and building a helicopter that will make him a millionaire many times over, and done undercover work for the nation’s top security agencies and at least two administrations. For my own safety, he can’t be more specific. With so much classified information that can’t be revealed, he’s worried the documentary about his life will have too many holes in it.” Genny flashed her dimpled smile. “By my best estimate, the man should be about a hundred and twelve, give or take a year or so.”

  “That could make for a long documentary,” Madison mused with a smile. “Maybe they should consider turning it into a mini-series.”

  Genny rolled her eyes. “Don’t give him any ideas. According to him, the producer is either his daughter or his niece, depending on the day he tells it. I’m afraid to call him on the oversight, in case it turns out to be one of the situations where she’s actually both.”

  “Sounds like the Havlicek family,” Madison murmured, unable to keep the grimace off her face.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. But in this case, I think he just forgets which story he made up last.”

  “You seem to know him as well as anyone. Some people say he makes up these stories because he’s lonely and doesn’t have a life outside his imagination. Others say he’s delusional or even borderline psychotic. Which do you think it is?”

  Genny pursed her lips, thinking before she answered. “I don’t think he’s dangerous, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to think it’s nothing more than an overactive imagination. I want to think he’s just a lonely old man, with no wife, few friends, and a housekeeper who only comes twice a month. I don’t want to think he’s just out-and-out lying. Nor do I want to think he’s that detached from reality.”

  Madison heard the lingering doubt in her friend’s voice. “But?” she prodded her.

  Genny’s sigh was heavy. “But I just don’t know. Some of his stories…” She shook her head, reluctant to repeat some of the outrageous claims he had made. “He’s big on conspiracy theories and top-secret investigations that, and I quote, ‘will rock this community when the truth is discovered.’ According to him, there’s some sort of scandal currently underway at Juliet Bank and Trust, an investigation of questionable practices at the Naomi Post Office, and,” she lowered her voice in imitation of the older man, “‘strange goings-on’ at The Gold and Silver Exchange.”

  Madison didn’t share her friend’s laughter. Instead, her brows puckered together.

  Genny was quick to notice. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I recently made my first trip to the Exchange. By mutual agreement, I won’t be going back.”

  Genny’s gasp was audible. “Lamont Andrews threw you out?”

  Madison’s shrug was casual. “More or less.”

  “How does one ‘more or less’ throw another someone out of a place of business? On the few and rare times I’ve had to ask a customer to leave and never come back, there was nothing ‘more or less’ about my request. Believe me. They knew they were being thrown out!”

  “Lamont Andrews told me, in no uncertain terms, that he was closed.” Seeing her friend’s look of confusion, Madison waved her hand in airy explanation. “It was in his tone.”

  Genny chose to nod in agreement, even though a frown still puckered her forehead. “What, exactly, prompted such a reaction from the store owner?”

  “I was questioning him about my latest case.”
>
  “You have a new client? That’s great. Who is it?”

  Client confidentiality aside, Genny was her best friend. Plus, she often helped Madison solve some of her more perplexing problems. Madison had no qualms about sharing. “Monte Applegate.”

  “As in ten-year-old Monte Applegate? About yay high—” Genny held her hand up to indicate his height “—with red hair and rosy cheeks? That Monte Applegate?”

  “He’s paying me the very respectable amount of twenty-two dollars to find his dog,” Madison explained.

  “Ah, that’s what he was doing in here talking to you the other day. We got so busy after that, I never had a chance to ask you about it.”

  “Pup is fond of wandering and often visits Lamont Andrews’ house, which is about a mile down the road. Mr. Andrews made it abundantly clear that he does not like dogs.”

  Genny wrinkled her nose in distaste. “From what I understand, Lamont is known for his temper.”

  A shudder worked through Madison’s shoulders. “I only got a glimpse of it, but what I saw wasn’t pretty.”

  “Have you found the dog yet?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t told Monte, but it’s not looking too favorable. Pup’s already been gone almost a week.”

  “I saw the posters around town.”

  “And on your bulletin board,” Madison pointed out.

  Genny shrugged. “It seemed the least I could do.”

  “Well, not the least,” Madison said pointedly, looking at her friend with hopeful eyes.

  “Uh-oh. I know that look. And doesn’t Lamont Andrews live out on Sawyer Road? The same road where we did reconnaissance at the old Muehler place?”

  “So we already know the area,” Madison was quick to say.

  Genny was still skeptical. “If I recall, that adventure didn’t end so well.”