Sitting on a Fortune

by Becki Willis

  “Maybe the necklace was stolen.”

  “Maybe the owner of the gold took the smaller of the nuggets to the jeweler and had him disguise it as a piece of jewelry.”

  “An ugly piece, at that!”

  “Maybe this was one of the pieces he worked on, late into the night in his basement.”

  “If I made something that ugly, I’d hide my face, too.” This, from Granny Bert.

  “Maybe it was some of the jeweler’s early pieces. Before he perfected his craft.”

  “If that’s a sample of his work, there’s no way he stayed in business for all those years.”

  “Maybe this was some of the ‘questionable’ work the article was referring to.”

  “But who would have commissioned him to do the work?”

  “Someone who could afford all those diamonds and rubies. In the middle of the Great Depression, there couldn’t have been many people with that kind of money.”

  “Miss Juliet. Her sister Naomi. Possibly one or two others, but it’s doubtful.”

  “And it was Juliet’s chair.”

  “There is that,” Madison agreed.

  “But, why?” Genny demanded. “Why would she hide a fortune in gold and jewels in the cushions of a chair and never go back to retrieve them?”

  “We’ve asked ourselves that, a hundred times.”

  “Then there’s the matter of Mr. Pruett, and how he plays into this.”

  “Maybe it was a case he was working on.” Belatedly, she thought to tell her grandmother of their other discovery. “It turns out we owe Mr. Pruett an apology. Some of his tales may be true. If the photographs on his walls are to be believed, he once worked for the Secret Service and in several other highly confidential positions.”

  “Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit!” her grandmother gasped. “I’d have never believed it.”

  “I know. But the photos look authentic. We even saw a medal of honor,” Genny added.

  Granny Bert detected the fault in Madison’s logic. “But it couldn’t have been his case. He was born a decade or so too late for that.”

  “It could have been a cold case,” Genny suggested.

  “They overturned the Executive Order,” Granny Bert pointed out. “That would be like going back and trying to catch bootleggers after prohibition ended.”

  Madison stood and moved about the kitchen. “But would Mr. Pruett have realized that? If he does have dementia—”

  “No ifs about it,” Granny Bert harrumphed. “He thought he saw Nazi and Japanese warplanes flying the friendly skies.”

  Genny understood where her friend was going with the thought. “So, he’s clearly been confused about what year it is.”

  “Exactly. If he can believe it’s the 1940s and we’re at war with Germany and Japan, he could easily believe it’s 1933 and the Executive Order is still in place.”

  “He may believe it’s his sworn duty to track down hoarded gold.”

  “But… how would he know it was here? In this chair?”

  “He found it, same as us,” Granny Bert reasoned. “You heard Hank and Virgie. They sold him the chair in a yard sale. At some point, that crazy old coot found the gold. He probably remembered the basic history of the Executive Order and dug into it.”

  “And at some point,” Genny reasoned with an air of sympathy, “got confused and believed it was a current event.”

  “That would explain some of his crazy ramblings. That bit he gave Latricia the other day at the café, urging her to hide her gold.”

  “Wouldn’t that be taking the other side?” Granny Bert pointed out. “If he believed he was acting on behalf of the government, he would be trying to confiscate the gold, not encourage people to hide it.”

  “Who knows what he might think? Clearly, he’s delusional.”

  “And yet, at times,” Genny argued, “his mind is as clear as a bell. He’s like a walking calculator. He can add his tab faster than I can put the numbers into the register.”

  “The mind is a complicated piece of machinery,” her surrogate grandmother reasoned. “Even with our modern-day medicines and all those doctors with their fancy degrees, they still can’t tell us exactly how the mind computes the data we put into it.”

  “That’s true,” Madison agreed. “Maybe Mr. Pruett has trouble deciphering what’s from the past, what’s in the present. He certainly wouldn’t be the first person to get it confused.”

  “Maybe what he doesn’t remember, he just makes up. Maybe his wild stories are his way of filling in the gaps,” Genny suggested.

  “You mean like creating his own version of the truth?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And we all know the government goes in and erases an agent’s brain,” Granny Bert threw in.

  “I don’t know about erasing their brain…” Madison protested.

  “Okay, their memory. Same difference. I’ve heard tales all my life, about how they brainwash their agents so they can’t reveal items of national importance.”

  Madison contemplated the thought with a twist of her lips. “Genny and I were talking about that earlier. I wonder what happens when someone like that becomes senile? I wonder if their brain ever short-wires and resets, bringing back things they were supposed to forget?”

  The thought startled Genny. “That could be a hot mess!”

  “Yes, but it’s like Granny Bert said. What if Mr. Pruett can’t remember how to compute all that data rolling around in his brain? Think about it. He had a career handling highly sensitive material. He has to have a trove of information locked away in his head.”

  “He just can’t remember it,” Genny empathized.

  “Right. But whether he’s forgotten it by design or by nature, what if he remembers just enough to truly muddy the waters? He could have access to things the rest of us would never know, but, because of his dementia, he wouldn’t know what to do with that information.”

  “What are you getting at, girl?” her grandmother asked.

  “Maybe he found the gold, like you said. Maybe he recognized the necklace from old files. Or maybe he just knew that people hoarded their gold by disguising it as jewelry. Maybe his brain knew there was something secretive about it, but he couldn’t remember what. Maybe for that reason, he chose to keep it hidden. He could have discovered the gold and decided to leave it there in the cushions.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes, girl,” Granny Bert scoffed.

  “Maybe you have a better explanation?” she asked, pinning her grandmother with a sharp gaze.

  Genny broke into their staring contest. “Even if that’s what happened, how did the chair get to Navasota?”

  “Mr. Musa said someone brought it in. They traded it for some sort of locker.”

  “Did he remember who?”

  “A gray-haired man, maybe with a beard.”

  “Could it have been a mustache? Did he get the man’s name?”

  “Yes. Paul Revere.”

  “Great!” Granny Bert snorted. “Now he’s reverted back to Revolutionary days!”

  “If it was Mr. Pruett who traded in the chair.”

  “Unless there’s another chair thief on the loose in The Sisters, I highly doubt it.”

  Her grandmother was right. It was unlikely someone had stolen the chair. Then again, she never would have suspected anyone would take Mrs. McSwain’s orange and white monstrosity of a chair. It had been handcrafted for the proud parents of a Texas Longhorn football star and taken from her living room.

  “You have a point,” Madison conceded. “But why would he trade a chair holding a half-million-dollar fortune for a locking cabinet?”

  “Dementia, girl.” Granny Bert clucked her tongue in empathy for the other senior. “The mind is a terrible thing to lose.”

  Twenty-Three

  After leaving Granny Bert’s, Genny reminded her friend, “All these theories still don’t explain what happened to Mr. Pruett. I’m still worried about him.”

&
nbsp; “You’ll be even more worried when I tell you about the black car.”

  “What about the black car?”

  “One followed me home from Granny Bert’s on Friday. She saw it circling her house a few times. That was after a strange woman was peeking through her windows. And before the same car made almost ten laps around the Big House. Brash was counting.”

  “Brash knows about all this?” Genny asked sharply. “I thought you said you and Granny Bert agreed to keep it a secret.”

  “He doesn’t know about the gold. But I couldn’t keep him from seeing the car.”

  “I guess not. Do you know who it was?”

  “I assumed it was Lamont, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “You think the car and the necklace have something to do with Mr. Pruett’s disappearance?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. All of this is giving me a major headache.”

  “Why don’t you take me back to the café? You go on home. I’ll take my car and go back to question Mr. Pruett’s neighbors.”

  “Not by yourself, you won’t.”

  “I’m a big girl, Madison. I can make a few house calls on my own.”

  “I could have rescued a dog on my own, too, but I didn’t. You helped. Just like I’m going to help you.”

  They returned to Meadow Street to visit the few houses on the block. Genny fished a Styrofoam box from her backseat and gave it to Madison to carry. “Whatever you do, under no circumstances do you allow anyone to eat one of those cookies,” she instructed her friend.

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re at least three days old. Maybe four.”

  “So?”

  “I am not about to risk my reputation on a four-day old cookie!”

  “Oookay. Then why did you hand these to me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Genny knocked on the first door, smiling brightly when the homeowner answered the door. “Hello, Mrs. Morse. How are you today?”

  “Why, I’m fine, Genny. Just fine. And Madison.” She acknowledged her with a nod. “Won’t you come in? I’ll make tea.”

  “We’d love to, but we’re just making a delivery. Tom Pruett ordered a dozen cookies, but when I rang the bell, he didn’t answer. Do you happen to know if he’s home?”

  “Is his car in the carport?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then he’s home. He never goes anywhere afoot,” the neighbor said with confidence.

  “Does he ever get a ride from some of your neighbors? Maybe someone runs him into town from time to time?” Madison inquired.

  “No, not that I’m aware of. He doesn’t have much interaction with the neighborhood, I’m afraid. Keeps to himself mostly.”

  “If you should happen to see him, would you please tell him I dropped by?”

  “Sure. Say, if you’d like to leave those cookies here, I’d be happy to deliver them for you.” The woman eyed the box greedily.

  “Thanks, but I’d better not.”

  There weren’t many houses on this back street of town and of those, half or more of the homeowners weren’t home in the middle of the day. When a rare door opened, the occupants had no helpful information.

  Two houses down, they heard a similar story to Mrs. Morse’s.

  “Beats me. The lights are on at night. Maybe he’s just not answering. Tom’s a loner.”

  “Does he ever have company?”

  “Not that I ever see. Other than his ‘business associate,’ I never see anyone come by the house.”

  “What business associate?” Madison asked, her interest piqued. She noticed the way the man said the words, as if mimicking Mr. Pruett’s stern tone.

  “That Andrews fellow, the one that owns the pawn shop in town.”

  “Lamont Andrews? Do you mean the Gold and Silver Exchange?”

  “He may call it that, but it’s just a fancy name for what it really is. A pawn shop.”

  “And he and Mr. Pruett are business associates?” Madison questioned.

  The man laughed, but the sound was condescending. “According to Tom, they had some ‘serious business matter to attend. A matter of great importance’ that he wasn’t at liberty to talk about.” He snorted out another chuckle. “You know Tom. Always some grave and important matter.”

  “Do you happen to know what he did before he moved here?” Genny wondered.

  “I know he didn’t lead no all-female orchestra,” the neighbor sneered. “The man can’t carry a tune in a tow sack.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “I’d be happy to take those cookies off your hand, being as you wasted a trip and all.”

  “Thanks, but Mr. Pruett already paid for them. I wouldn’t feel right about giving them to someone else.”

  “Oh, I’d pay for them.”

  “I could bring you out some of your own,” Genny offered, “but this dozen is spoken for.”

  They turned to leave, before Madison swung back to ask, “One more thing. When was the last time you saw Mr. Andrews visiting down the street?”

  “I believe it was… Saturday? No, Sunday. I was watching a fishing tournament on television. Heard him peel out from the driveway and go racing down the street.”

  “Could you tell if anyone was with him?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I knew it was him; he always runs the same stop sign. Never bothers to stop, just guns the motor as he makes the corner.”

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” Madison mumbled.

  After making the rounds, their last stop was to the house across the street from Mr. Pruett’s.

  “Excuse us, Reverend Green. We don’t mean to disturb you, but—”

  “Not at all, not at all. Come on in here, young ladies!” the older man said in his deep, booming voice. Jamal’s grandfather’s voice always reminded Genny of James Earl Jones’ pleasant bass. “I just made fresh coffee.”

  “Oh, thank you, but we were actually trying to deliver these cookies to Mr. Pruett. He doesn’t seem to be home. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?”

  “Cookies, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.” When the reverend’s eyes lingered on the box, his look almost sinful, Genny prodded gently. “Your neighbor? Do you happen to know where he’s been the last couple of days?”

  “Who, Tom?” Eyes still on the box, he licked his lips.

  “Yes, sir. It seems he hasn’t been home for the last few days.”

  The reverend’s eyes shot to Genny’s. “Then how did he order the cookies?”

  “It—It was a pre-order,” Genny stammered, uneasy with telling a fib to a man of the cloth.

  “No, I have no idea where Tom went.” After one last glance toward the cookies, the older man transferred his gaze across the street. He stared at the house as if reading a hidden message upon the beige siding.

  “Do you recall the last time you saw him?”

  The reverend thought about it for a moment before scratching his chin and determining, “I remember waving to him on Sunday when we came home from church. Now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing him since.”

  “What was he doing? Was he getting in the car with someone, maybe?” Madison suggested.

  “No. That woman had come to the door again, but he didn’t open it until she was well down the street. He gazed after her, then turned around and went back inside.”

  The two friends looked at one another in confusion. No one else had mentioned a woman. “What woman was this?”

  “I didn’t know her. The first time she came, I thought maybe she was his daughter. You know. The one that raises that expensive beef. Raises the cattle in a sterile barn, wearing one of those hazmat suits when she feeds them. Gives them a fancy diet that includes champagne. Never heard of such foolishness myself, but Tom’s quite proud of her. Says the meat sells for a hundred dollars a pound.”

  Not knowing how to respond—this was one story she had never heard before—Genny said, i
nstead, “The first time? The woman’s been here before? And I’m assuming you decided this wasn’t the daughter?”

  “I hope not, at any rate. The first time she came, Tom slammed the door in her face. After that, he refused to answer. As proud as he is of that little girl, I can’t see him leaving her to stand out there on the sidewalk.”

  “Does Mr. Pruett have many other visitors?” Madison asked.

  “Not many. I’ve seen Lamont Andrews drop by a time or two, and his cleaning lady. But that’s about it. Sad, that no one ever comes to visit the old guy.” He opened the door wider in invitation. “Are you sure you two ladies don’t want to come in for coffee?”

  “Thank you, but we should go.”

  “About those cookies…”

  Hurrying back to the car, Madison couldn’t help but giggle. “Good grief, Genny! You could singlehandedly put the Girl Scouts out of the cookie business. Maybe you should consider adding door-to-door cookie delivery to your business plan.”

  “I’d be so busy baking and delivering cookies, I’d never have time to cook for the café. And speaking of the café, I must get back. They probably think I’ve skipped town.”

  “You, at least, have a job to get back to. I’ve just realized that while I thought I was so smart finishing up early at Marvin Gardens, it wasn’t a very wise move on my part. Now I’m out of a job.”

  “No problem. I’ll hire you.”

  Madison gave her friend the Mom Look. “Genny. We’ve talked about this. I’d make a terrible waitress.”

  “Not at the café, silly.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I have a crazy-busy week ahead of me, but I’m worried about Mr. Pruett. The obvious solution is to hire you to do it for me!”

  She knew she would never accept money for helping Genny look for the elderly gentleman, but Madison finally agreed to ‘take the job.’ It was the only away to appease her best friend. She knew from experience that once Genny got something in her head, it didn’t do much good to argue with her. Genny had her hands full running the restaurant and preparing for Virgie Adams’ birthday party this weekend, and Madison happened to have some free time.

  Both women knew the logical thing to do was call Brash and report Mr. Pruett missing.