“I’m sure there’s an explanation for his behavior in the trailer.”
MacWain snorted. “Too bad he’s a horse and can’t talk, or are you going to try and tell me he’s talking to you? Wouldn’t surprise me!”
“No. He’s not ‘talking’ to me. But if he’s crazy, why did he walk so calmly back into the barn with me?”
“No explainin’. Maybe two crazies get along, that’s all I can figure.” MacWain pivoted on the high heel of his cowboy boot. I was staring at his khaki back. Best I beat it. And I could not stand Suivant. I’d go by the horse pound later and check on the stallion.
MacWain was striding away.
“Okay. Well. Sheriff, bye now.”
He didn’t even grunt. A terrible urge to explore more–what wonders, for example were behind that door with a brass sign that read, TACK? I’d had a glimpse inside last February, just enough to be dazzled by this room of saddles and trophies. And, there were over fifty acres here. I wanted to walk every inch of them then go through the barbwire fence into the scrubby cow pasture of the neighbor’s. Also, find the dog…
I peeled the gloves from my pickled hands and walked to my car. The door handle was scorching. I got into the greenhouse heat of the vehicle’s interior, cranked it and shoved the air conditioning to High. Hot air blasted out. A half-empty Dasani water bottle lay on the passenger seat. Its contents would be warm. I could barely touch the steering wheel. Using the heels of my hands on the wheel, I backed up under a pear tree then swung around and out of the drive. So many questions. Leteesha Gulliver at the Record’s office might have some answers.
1:37 PM
I had an ice-cold bottle of Dasani in one hand as I leaned on the polished oak countertop in the Record’s office. The wood was cool from the air conditioning. The air smelled of new crisp paper and old musty paper. Fortunately, the office was deserted except for Leteesha. I’d just finished telling her about my earlier discovery of Marcie’s body. She had known Marcie better than I and she was crying. It made me want to cry, too, and so after fighting the crumpling of my chin and seeing horrible flashes of Marcie’s bloodied body in the stall, I started to cry. We stood there separated by the counter and sobbed like teenage girls, an age which Leteesha was closer to than myself.
Leteesha wadded up a tissue. “She was so sweet. She let me ride one of her mares. You know I’ve been saving to buy a horse for ages and never seem to get enough money together.” She blotted her eyes. I dug in my fanny pack and found Kleenex for myself and I wiped my face and blew my nose. Thank God for waterproof mascara.
“It’s just an awful thing, Leteesha.”
She nodded. Then got brisk. “Lila mentioned you were going out there, and something about her not paying the feed bill. I looked up some things…” Her eyes moved to her computer and I smiled hopefully. I got out my wallet. “Whatever paperwork you have that’s legal for the public to see, I’ll buy copies.”
Leteesha smiled. “I’ve found some interesting stuff. First, the divorce papers between Marcie and her husband Theodore.”
“Is Theodore’s address on that? I’d like to meet him.” Doubtless the sheriff had it now and would have informed the man his ex-wife was deceased.
“Yep. There’s an address. In the city.” She meant New Orleans. She stood by a printer that was spitting out papers. “I also did a little research. Did you know Marcie’s place used to be owned by Cade Pritchard? He was the old man who had that beautiful young wife who died in that awful way–”
“I have heard. Even talked with MacWain about it this morning.” The printer continued.
“Well, I found the mortgage, the Act of Sale where the Goodall’s bought the place from the Pritchard’s? Something funny that might catch your attention, Bryn. They bought the place from Aimée, the wife.”
I knew this. I’d already found a copy at Marcie’s, but I kept mum.
“So?” I said.
“When they bought it, she was already dead.”
I felt a chill. “How could that be?”
“Apparently Pritchard never transferred the property into his name after his wife’s death–it was in her name all along and he just let it be.”
“Wouldn’t there be tax implications? Did he make a profit on the sale to the Goodall’s?
“Did he! Profit on everything!” She gathered up the printouts. “You heard about all the insurance he collected.” A door beyond her opened and the actual Clerk himself, Leteesha’s boss, stepped into the room. Leteesha straightened. “I’ll just tote up the cost here, Bryn. Have it ready for you in a second.” She went to her desk and tapped at the computer. Soon another page shot out from the printer. The invoice. She got it and showed it to me. I pulled out a twenty and paid her the copying fees. The Clerk returned to his office without a word. Leteesha gave me a little smile.
“Thanks, Leteesha,” I said. “Catch you for a coffee at Lila’s one of these days?”
“I’m there most mornings before work. Havin’ breakfast.”
“I’ll look for you. Oh–and if you really want a ride now and then, you can come by and try out my horse.”
She grinned like a kid. “Thanks, Bryn.”
I gathered up the papers and left.
Chapter Seven
May 21, 2:38 PM
I was driving home. Lots of papers to read. Some were under the old Dasani bottle on the car seat next to me plus those faxes I’d sent myself. Not to mention that I had to call the Morgan magazine and let them know of the tragedy. A selfish thought intruded: Would my article now be toast? Hence my check? Or could I rewrite and make it a tribute to a courageous woman breeder whose legacy…? Maybe. The twenty I shelled out for the copies hurt. I lived a tight frugal life with my dog, Lulu, a black Standard poodle, and my horse, a black mixed-breed gelding I’d given the lofty name of Count Amethyst. Mostly he went by “Am.” Didn’t bother him one bit that it sounded somewhat metaphysical. Of course, secretly, it delighted me. I have a horse, therefore I am.
I drove down a short, tree-shaded lane and into my graveled front yard. My cottage looked cool, as in of a lower temperature, but it was fronted by the deep shade of a magnolia and a golden raintree so literally, it was cooler by ten degrees. Lulu came galloping from around the back and danced around me in poodle joy. In the distance, in the eight-acre pasture out back, Am stood under a volunteer tulip tree, swishing his tail. Normally I kept him in during the heat of the day so the sunlight wouldn’t bleach his black coat. I started to bring him back inside when I heard my phone ringing from the house. I kept walking to the wide door of the tiny stable. The stable was connected to the house. I shooed Am into his stall, walked through the dimness and opened a door right into my kitchen. I grabbed a yellow wall receiver and said, “Hello.” It was the Morgan horse editor. I told her what had happened and waited through her silenced shock.
“This is so unusual,” she said at last. “Murdered!”
“Yes,” I answered her, “thank heavens that it is unusual.”
“I don’t–”
“It’s awful, for sure. You may need some time–”
“No–um–yes–this is terrible of me. I am thinking of the huge hunk of white space there will be in the October issue–”
“Actually I, too, had thought of that.” I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath. “What if I rewrite it as a salute, a tribute to one intrepid woman’s great breeding program? How she made Lightning Strikes Once a World Champion three times over? And her program is still intact–Once is in great shape–” I stopped. If I could keep him alive.
The editor was talking. “–yes. Yes. Bryn, I think so. A retrospective. Might even expand it. If the herd sells, could you write something about the new owner…?”
I exhaled in relief. My check might be safe, Am and Lulu would eat, and maybe the check would even grow.
“Good idea. I’ll keep on it. See if the woman from Texas buys.”
“How will you find out?”
“We
ll, for starters, I’m going to see Marcie’s ex-husband soon. He might know who inherits the horses.”
“Good. Keep on it then. I am so sorry about Marcie.”
“Yes. Me too.” We hung up.
I jogged out and watered Am. Lulu followed me back into the house. I refilled my empty Dasani bottle from the jug of filtered water in the fridge and went into my office, which was actually one of the two bedrooms. I also had a living room, kitchen, of course, and bathroom. My living room walls were book-lined in floor-to-ceiling shelving I’d made when I moved in four years back. Right after the divorce. The shelves wrapped around the fireplace I’d scrimped to have installed. I loved my floors: wide, Southern pine planks, laid even in the kitchen and bathroom. Stained dark walnut and highly polished, by me. I moved past French doors that opened onto the arbored patio that looked over the pasture. Wisteria tangled with muscadines for space on the arbor, to my benefit. Purple, grape-like flowers hung from it in the spring; actual grapes in the fall. An oak gave this aspect of the house shade. From the high-set window in the office, seated at my desk, all I saw were branches. The tree really belonged to a paranoid gray squirrel that warred with Lulu. Because the squirrel was smart enough to stay up in the branches, it won all the shouting matches and even got Lulu into trouble for barking too much. Lulu gave me a look. I let her outside where she flopped down on the shaded patio.
The faxes! I went back to my desk and stacked them. Then I laid out all the papers according to subject matter: two Acts of Sale, one Property Settlement and a wad of Agreements to Purchase. I’d gotten some from Leteesha. The Agreements to Purchase and an Act of Sale I had illegally faxed myself from Marcie’s. Some had been fanned out on her kitchen table beside the empty coffee cups; one was in her file cabinet. The Agreements to Purchase were printed forms filled in by hand. The forms had an Anton Delon Brokerage logo and a Metairie address up top. Marcie must have gotten them from Mr. Delon. Hadn’t I seen his name on her Caller I.D.? Check on him. I felt the case building beneath me like a volcano: rumbling, shifting, heating up before a big eruption.
I looked at the signatures. Seemed like the filler-out was Marcie, judging by how the writing matched up with her signature. I paused and thought: the joy of not being an expert! Here I could, as a total amateur, non-forensics person, blithely and expeditiously decide on the ownership of this handwriting. No waiting around, no time-consuming testing–just wham! Marcie did it. I smiled. This sort of stuff drove MacWain nuts.
Three separate Agreements–I flipped though them and looked at the dates–in six months. Seems there were a lot of disagreements. They were all between Marcie and a couple named Filmore and Tammi Takeur. I hated reading legal documents, but they could reveal so much. Blood, terror, passion, greed, betrayal, all clothed in formal, antiquated English. I sighed, slugged water and got on with it. Very quickly I deduced that the $35,000 check on Marcie’s kitchen table was not for the stallion but instead, earnest money to seal the property deal. Now my stomach began preliminary seismic rumbling. I was getting hungry. Long time since breakfast. I read faster. In a few moments, I understood that the Takeurs had a firm deal to buy the property from Marcie for $335,000. A lotta hay, literally. But after paying off her mortgage she’d have a fifty thousand dollar profit. Not much considering the improvements she’d made. I knew that right around the corner, a forty-acre place had recently sold for eight hundred thousand, and the house was nothing compared to Marcie’s. So why had she been selling so cheap? Heck of deal for the Takeurs. Had Marcie been desperate?
Where was the actual thirty-five thousand dollar check Filmore Takeur gave to Marcie to hold the place? Who had that moullah?
My stomach wouldn’t wait any longer. I got up and picked out a Lean Cuisine from the freezer. Ripped open the box of Chicken with Almonds–360 calories; 16 grams protein–stabbed holes in the cellophane covering and microwaved it for five minutes. Using a tea towel to protect my hand from the heat I carried the little black tray back to the office and ate while I read. Not bad. I was trying to lose ten pounds. I gained and lost the same ten pounds over and over. I had myself on my own version of a diet–I bought whatever low-cal/low-fat frozen meals were on sale. Ate them for lunch and dinner often with a huge salad. I pigged out on fresh fruit. If I stuck with it, my overall poundage diminished.
To see if the deal Marcie had made with the Takeurs was a good one, I turned to the pile of papers from Leteesha and the one labeled Act of Sale. It sat right next to the Property Settlement. Maybe I’d start there. Get the more human side of things. I read slowly through the legal language. I understood it was a property settlement in the divorce of Marcia Brent Goodall from Theodore Samuel Goodall. Marcie got the farm, the horses, and the debt pertaining thereto and her husband got a 1961 Rolls Royce and a Ford Taurus. He also got workout equipment–weird. I ate the last bite of Almond Chicken and because no one was around, licked the last bits of sauce from the bottom of the tray then dumped it into my wastebasket. I took a drink of water.
Well. Workout equipment can be expensive. I cleverly deduced Theodore was some huge, muscled, fitness-crazed brute. Poor Marcie. He also got–that’s all. Nothing else. Not even a toothpick…I saw a potentially angry man here. What had old Theo been up to that put him at such a disadvantage? I resisted a frisson of anger. I must not inject my personal, common-but-devastating divorce experience, into the situation. He might have been the most faithful guy in the world. And wasn’t there any money? Didn’t seem like it.
A single sheet fell from the file I was stacking. Notice of Foreclosure it said, poorly copied. Had it been on the kitchen table, too? Had to have been! My chest tightened. I read it. Dated May 1, 2005–twenty-one days ago–it said if Marcie didn’t pay Cade Pritchard seven back mortgage payments, he was going to foreclose. So. The barely break-even price with the Takeurs made more sense. Marcie was trying to fend off foreclosure. Now I was really puzzled. Looks like she had buyers galloping up at the very last minute like the cavalry: Pritchard could receive his back payments, and Marcie would walk away with at least her credit rating intact. So, why was she dead? I felt a surge of anger. What fool killed her? What a stupid, stupid waste!
Perhaps I might consult the Lila-Diner Information Highway later this afternoon to see if any words were drifting around in that gossip-rich atmosphere. Maybe knowledge of this pending foreclosure had prompted Tommy Grayson to abruptly halt Marcie’s credit at his feed store? Maybe, I picked up a pen, I should visit Tommy as well? I added his name to the people-to-see list.
I sorted through the documents and was puzzled why Leteesha hadn’t gotten me the actual divorce papers, too. Perhaps her boss showing up distracted her and she forgot to print them?
I picked up the phone and called Leteesha. As it rang, I turned to the back page of the property settlement and read: ‘Parish of St. Tremaine, State of Louisiana, October 30, 2004.’ The settlement had been filed just seven months ago. It hadn’t taken Marcie long to go broke. Or, maybe she was already broke when it was filed. It’s tough to make money with so many horses. If she had no other means of support, feed, farrier, vet, advertising and other expenses could vacuum up the stud fees and the sales revenues of young horses promptly.
“St. Tremaine Parish Records,” said Leteesha’s voice on the line.
“Leteesha. Bryn here.”
“Hey.”
“Can someone have a property settlement and not have their divorce finalized?”
“Yep. It happens. Not too often. You saw that omission in the Goodall’s documents?”
“Yeah. Thought it was strange. Maybe I missed the actual divorce papers.”
“Nope. No divorce is on file.” I instantly thought: maybe the brute Theodore is the inheritor. Holy macaroni! That made him…
“Find anything else?” Leteesha asked.
I glanced through the papers. “Here, on this Act of Sale, back when the Goodalls bought the farm?” I shuddered at the expression. “Have you got that there?” I he
ard Leteesha tap some keys. Then I asked her: “Can you wait just a sec? I might have more questions.”
“Uh-huh,” said Leteesha.
I read quickly. Outside, Lulu barked once, a hard bark, so loud I jumped and restrained myself from screaming Hush! at her. That squirrel.
“Aha! What about this! Aimée Pritchard herself was the farm’s owner. I can’t find Cade’s name on any of these documents, except on one about foreclosure.” I read on. “They, rather, she owned the property. Purchased it in 1991 for…” I shuffled around again, found the earlier Act of Sale I’d gotten from Leteesha “–hot damn, Leteesha! Eighty-five thousand dollars? That huge place? Wow.”
“Yeah, I see it here,” said Leteesha. “Glad you noticed that.”
“The survey attached shows it’s actually three parcels of land, combined. They add up to a total of fifty-three acres.” I remembered the neighboring place had sold for much more with its mere forty acres. “The land must be worth four times that! Never mind that ante-bellum house. But I happen to have copies of an Agreement to Purchase that Marcie signed day before yesterday to sell the house for three hundred and thirty-five grand. So Marcie was hardly cleaning up.”
“Read the court documents. You’ll see that she paid the Pritchard’s not much less than that. Let me find it on my computer.” I heard the tap of keys, then Leteesha said, “Here it is, and you’ve got it there, too. Find the Goodall’s Act of Sale papers.”
“Got ‘em.” I read swiftly then said, “The Goodall’s bought the place for $285,000 from Aimée with a whopping down payment of $185,000–so immediately Cade, via his dead wife, was paid back her original investment, plus one hundred thousand bucks, just through the down payment!”
Leteesha jumped in, “Add Marcie’s improvements. New fencing, waterlines to all the pastures, gutting and expanding that barn. She must have spent close to fifty, sixty thousand on those improvements. I visited a few times, Bryn, wondering if I should buy myself a Morgan. I watched the progress, with some envy. Marcie made it first class.”
Hot Blooded Murder Page 5
