Names of the six taken into custody have not been released. Witnesses described them as two females and four males, all young and all dressed in black. The police also impounded two vans.
The FBI named Timothy Lee McDonald and Mitchell Eggles “persons of interest” in the continuing investigation. Both men have ties to the Environmental Protest Alliance.
“Wow,” I said. “We’ve hit the big time.”
“Did you notice the byline?”
Noah Lakefield. I stared for way too long.
“Our new reporter,” Dad said.
“Yeah. Wow. That’s—great.”
Dad didn’t pay any attention to the weak note in my voice. “Yep. He’s working for the Greenville and Atlanta papers, as a stringer.”
“Really.” And working as a police informant, too? Four guys and two girls, dressed all in black. Headed to a protest. I wondered what they’d carried in their vans. Ropes? Climbing cleats? A large black banner they’d planned to unfurl in front of press conference cameras? One that now had some sort of slogan on it?
I got up to wash out my coffee cup. “I’ve got to get going. Too much goofing off yesterday. Those boxes aren’t unpacking themselves.”
Before yesterday, I’d never heard of the Environmental Protest Alliance, though I liked the takeoff they’d done on the federal government’s EPA, the Environmental Protection Agency. Too much coincidence that they showed up here, training at the old Yellow Fork Camp, about the same time Noah appeared in town? And those fires in Vail that Noah had talked about? Again, too much coincidence. No wonder he’d had to hurry over for the press conference yesterday. At least he could be first on the scene to get the arrest story and byline, even if the protest failed.
I needed to talk to Noah Lakefield, ace reporter. What kind of game did he have afoot? Best to think through my facts first, not go off half-cocked. Most stories had at least two sides, as I knew from years of interviewing clients. But if Mr. Lakefield was involved in any shenanigans that threatened my dad or his paper, I’d see that the Greenville News had a new story: “Local Reporter Suffers Grievous Bodily Harm.”
At the office, I found no sign of Melvin or his SUV, so he couldn’t provide me a handy excuse not to work. I pushed Noah out of my mind for the time being, slumped into the armchair I’d brought from my Columbia condo, and reached for a legal pad. Too many loose ends blowing in the breeze. I needed to see them lined up in front of me.
1. See Maggy Avinger about angel and new epitaph——Follow-up with Innis Barker.
2. See Hattie and Vinnia—Consider offering to buy their interest??
How could I do that, without talking to my parents and to my sister Lydia? And what about Aunt Letha? All too complicated.
3. Finish research on land sale set-aside for Dot Downing.
That was a straightforward item. I just needed to finish pulling up cases, jot some notes, and decide how best to proceed.
Like a lightening bolt, it hit me. Had going to the Shoals’ house with Valerie constituted a conflict of interest? I hadn’t thought about that. She’d wanted me to talk to her husband about the criminal suspicions mounting against him, but that conversation hadn’t happened. He was dead. Technically, I’d had no client contact with him and had learned nothing that would affect representing Dot in setting aside her land transfer.
Technically, too, Valerie wouldn’t have any claim on the property if she and Lionel Shoal weren’t married. However, Valerie seemed the kind who would do her best to establish a claim. Who could have dreamed such a complicated twist of interests, all with people I knew?
What about Alex Shoal? She hadn’t retained me, either, but she’s the one who potentially stood to lose the most. Likely no way to get her inheritance back for her, especially if Shoal had used her money to build the model home and office. On the other hand, if Shoal had given Alex’s money to Dot Downing as a down payment, it could be returned to her if the transfer was set aside. That could work out well for Alex—if Lionel had paid any down payment or earnest money, that is. Who knew what shell game Shoal played.
Alex Shoal could use some cash, and she wasn’t in a financial position to contest the loss of the bargain in the land deal. To do that, she would have to pay Dot Downing the rest of the contract price and then take on the responsibility of completing the development. Alex was probably less interested in possible profits from land speculation and more interested in immediate cash.
I wanted to handle Alex with respect, which might be a problem if the only way to protect Dot was to bring a fraud or misrepresentation claim against Lionel Shoal’s estate.
That ugly phrase “conflict of interest” reared itself again: Did my conversation with Alex Shoal create a conflict? I’d need to fully disclose my contact to Dot Downing. I couldn’t let my sympathy for Alex Shoal get in the way of representing Dot’s interests. I suspected Alex would be happy to get out from under any obligations on that land sale, but, in any event, I would be scrupulously open with both Dot and Alex.
My biggest fear was that Lionel had borrowed heavily against the property and that other investors—probably a bank—would swoop in to take both Alex’s money and Dot’s property.
How difficult would it be to follow the money?
—Check with Dot Downing about money, etc., from Shoal.—
Check whether liens filed against Dot Downing’s property.
Sheesh, this small-town law practice stuff could get complicated in a hurry. Too many intertwined interests, too much tiptoeing around others’ interests.
Valerie Shoal, the pretend wife, likely wouldn’t make things easy. Did she know she wasn’t legally married? In South Carolina, any claim she made wouldn’t go far since the state frowns on adultery and other licentious behavior. Valerie wouldn’t be pleased, but judging from the questions she’d asked earlier, I suspected she had a good idea where she stood.
In fact, depending on how Shoal arranged his financing, Valerie might end up being the only person harmed by Lionel Shoal’s death. Most everybody else he’d come in contact with stood a chance of redeeming something from the mess he’d created. I doubted Alex Shoal would agree with my assessment; she had stuck with him through all manner of lies and abuse. Love is a strange thing.
Musing on Lionel Shoal’s demise brought to mind another item:
4. Follow up with Carl Newland Knight.
My one client with paying potential. I needed to ask Carl whether L.J. had backed off and focused her crack investigative talents elsewhere.
What about the third in the trio of deaths, Len Ruffin? Had they formally released a cause of death yet for any of them?
While my computer was booting, I called the Sheriff’s Department. I planned to leave a message, but Rudy picked up my call.
“Now that’s service with a smile,” I said. “Personal service, and on a Saturday, no less. Thought you’d be over guarding the nuclear plant or rounding up black-suited radicals.”
He snorted. “No way in hell. Too much paperwork. I got enough gahdam paperwork of my own, I can assure you. Paper everywhere. For what, I ask you?”
As I cradled the receiver against my ear, I studied my own office and could only murmur my sympathies.
“I called about one particular piece of paper, Rudy. Any word yet on what was in that sealed letter I brought by?”
I was dying of curiosity, but given the focus of the other letters I’d likely be dying of embarrassment after I, along with Rudy and the entire Camden County law enforcement network, learned the letter’s contents.
“They faxed a copy from the state lab. That’s only one of the many freakin’ pieces of paper cluttering my desk and ruining my Saturday.”
I heard shuffling and heavy breathing.
“Here.” He sounded triumphant. “Damndest thing, A’vry. Somebody wanted you to know Lionel Shoal had smashed hisself out of a fortune.”
“Do tell.”Huh? No embarrassing critique of my behavior? I was relieved—and curious.
“Is it like the others, with a newspaper clipping?”
“Uh-huh.” Rudy began reading, trying to decipher the old-fashioned inked handwriting.
Dear Miss Andrews,
In trying to destroy the wetlands and gain sympathy for his development, Lionel Shoal likely destroyed a fortune in large crystals and valuable precious and semiprecious stones.
The land over which he hauled his heavy equipment sits on a rich quartz vein. In addition, just on the other side of the hill, the explosion at his model home collapsed a nearby abandoned mine which was likely the easiest, most accessible entrance to the vein.
Greed makes one stupid. Help Dot Downing realize whatever may be salvaged.
“Wow. What’s the article about?”
“‘Lifetime Search Yields Fortune—Finally. Local Man Discovers Giant Crystal Worth Thousands.’”
“Where?”
“Hiddenite, North Carolina. Apparently this guy’s seen as something of a fanatic. Spent hundreds of thousands of dollars digging and looking.”
“Funny, I was just reading about him. Persistent fellow.”
“Even blind hogs find acorns ever’ now and then.”
“You think Lionel Shoal blew up his buildings?”
“Don’t know.”
I had mental pictures of Shoal that night at the explosion site, rude and pushy, angering everybody around him. Was he trying to divert suspicion, trying to look innocent and uninvolved by acting bad? “Did Shoal have any military experience?”
Rudy took only a blink to see what I was hinting. “Don’t know.” He was silent. Had they not thought of investigating that option, to see if Shoal knew how to blow things up? Or was Rudy just not letting me in on their secrets?
“Of course, he was a real estate developer,” I said. “He might have learned how to handle dynamite sometime in the past.” I had trouble picturing Shoal rolling up his sleeves and getting his own hands dirty. He seemed the type to want a get-rich-quick guide rather than a hard-work how-to manual.
Another possibility popped into my mind. “Rudy, do you have those environmental protestors there, in your jail?”
“Naw, the FBI transported them to Greenville, so they could be arraigned in federal court on Monday. We had quite enough nonsense from reporters for the few hours they were here, I can tell you.”
“Any hint that they’ve been playing with dynamite?”
Another silence. Something else he couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about.
“You think the letter writer is right, about the damage to the crystals?” I asked.
“Who knows? This article talks about how fragile these deposits are, how blasting or heavy equipment can ruin them. That’d be something, wouldn’t it.”
Ironic. And sad, especially for Dot Downing.
“Says here the Hiddenite vein is akin to the vein that runs through these mountains. That was gold-mining country, too, you know.”
After too much pause, waiting to see if he had any other nuggets, I said, “Thanks, Rudy. I was curious about that letter.”
“I’ll bet you were,” he said, his attention drawn away from treasure hunting long enough to let me know that he knew what I’d been curious about. He’d seen the other letters.
“Why’d you get this, do you think?” Rudy rustled the paper. “Why not send it to Miz Downing?”
“Um. Good question.” I hadn’t thought about that. “Maybe because I represent Dot. I don’t know.”
The letter surprised me. All the others had a scolding, schoolmarmish tone, telling the recipient to straighten up. Lionel Shoal was beyond scolding, so why not write Dot and tell her what she might own? Or Alex? Or even Valerie? Why write me?
“Aren’t you going to ask about the other letter?” Rudy interrupted my reverie.
“What letter, Rudy?”
“The one the SLED investigator found while going through Len Ruffin’s papers.”
“One of these letters? With a news article?”
“Yeah, Sherlock. We’ve all managed to notice the unique identifiers. Difference was, Ruffin’s letter wasn’t so nice. It told him to keep his hands and, I quote, ‘everything else,’ off his daughter or, and I quote, ‘I’ll bury you where you won’t be found. Abusing your wife is bad. Moving to your daughter is unforgivable, in God’s eyes and those of any decent human being. Only death stops a monster. Prove me wrong.’”
I felt as though the breath had been sucked from my lungs. “So all of them got letters. All the ones who died.”
I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until Rudy spoke. “And some others. You and Cissie Prentice, you got letters. I knew she was a bad girl, but you, A’vry? Tsk-tsk. You got two letters, and neither one of them about your penchant for speeding. What’d’ya think that means? Besides that you’re special.”
“Well, we know not everybody who got a letter is dead.”
“Still not a club that’ll be able to hold many meetings. No offense.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I hadn’t turned the heat on in my office, and I realized I was huddled inside my jacket.
“Be careful, A’vry.” Rudy’s voice grew uncharacteristically serious. “At least until we get this figured out. Then you can go back to bein’ as bad as you want to be with that Melvin Bertram.” His seriousness hadn’t lasted long.
‘Thanks.”
We hung up, and I went to check the locks on both the front and back doors. Too early to try Maggy Avinger again, so I started clicking through computer searches, double-checking what I’d already done on the land transfer question. I had found a South Carolina statute that rendered any land transfer made to “defraud and deceive” a buyer “utterly void,” but no specific statute protected the seller. Maybe I could use the criminal statute that made it illegal to obtain a signature or property—including real property—by false pretense. Under that statute, when the property was worth more than five thousand dollars, the criminal punishment was a fine of not more than five hundred dollars or more than ten years in jail. Five hundred dollars? What a joke. When I stopped to think about it, though, Lionel Shoal’s sentence had ended up being much longer than ten years.
Because I was thinking about him and because the cursor on the computer kept blinking while I stared aimlessly at the screen, I typed “Lionel Shoal Phoenix” into the search line. The articles that filled the page were not a complete surprise. I clicked the first: “Developer Leaves Investors with Empty Hole.” A housing development gone bust, and Shoal just gone. The short article quoted several irate investors. What had Alex Shoal said? Something about the newspaper hounding him? An understatement, no doubt.
I skimmed through the article quickly and was about to click to the next when, at the bottom of the page, the reporter’s name stopped me cold.
Of course. How could I have missed it? Part of me wanted to laugh out loud. Dad had been right. Noah Lakefield had moved here from Phoenix, not Vail. The other part of me felt icy mad. If some stupid game he was playing caused my dad any kind of grief, I’d lash him in that freaking canoe and push him into his iconic river, by way of Raven Cuff.
I dialed the Clarion office. No answer, of course. Saturday. I scrambled around, looking to see if I had his cell number. Had he given me his number? I’d track him down, even if I had to call Walter at home. Best take a deep breath and cool off a bit, though.
I believe in coincidences, though I doubted that Noah and Shoal both turning up in Dacus was really a coincidence. Now that I thought back, it certainly could explain why Noah pulled a Clark Kent and disappeared so quickly the night of the explosion—and earlier, when Shoal started ranting at the plant dig. Shoal showed up and Noah vanished. Whatever Noah’s perfectly rational explanation was, it had better be one that didn’t embarrass my dad.
I took a deep breath. Focus on your list, Avery.
From whatever direction I approached it, fraud was prohibited. The problem was how to prove it, how to establish the “guilty knowledge.” I was making this ha
rder than it had to be. This wasn’t a criminal case, an attempt to put the defrauder in jail. Those could be tough cases, because the other side had plenty of motive to fight. This also wasn’t a traditional fraud case, trying to recoup the plaintiff’s damages and hoping for punitive damages to punish the bad intent. Those too could be tough cases.
This case wasn’t that tough. Even if I couldn’t prove Shoal intentionally defrauded Dot Downing, I certainly could show negligent misrepresentation. Had he been alive to face criminal and civil charges, I wouldn’t have been satisfied with a simple misrepresentation case. However, as much as I might like to punish Lionel Shoal, somebody else had already taken care of that. I needed to climb down off my trial lawyer white charger and climb on a humble little donkey. This case required gentleness and wisdom.
Realistically, all I needed to prove was negligent misrepresentation, an easier case than fraud. I likely wouldn’t be convincing a jury; I’d be talking directly to a judge, asking to have the sales contract set aside.
I’d been used to defending corporations and professionals against huge, complicated cases. I needed to quit making things difficult. Most of the items on my to-do list involved simple peacemaking, just chatting with people, not battling with them. I’d been used to a more—was “combative” the word I was looking for? A more combative environment, where I met opponents in depositions or in front of juries. This felt, what? Mushy more cautious. Blessed are the peacemakers, I reminded myself. No need to stay girded for battle. I needed to learn that I could protect people without a fight.
I dialed Maggy Avinger’s number. The answering machine picked up again. Dang, she was an early riser, and I’d let her get up and out of the house. I’d half-hoped to see her at The Mikado last night. Why hadn’t she called me back?
I scrabbled through papers on my desk, looking for Dot Downing’s phone number, and found it right where I routinely put contact information for my clients—scrawled inside a folder with interview notes for her case. A faint glimmer of organization. Which, of course, was the only folder I had for any of my so-called cases. Emma, little Miss Organizer, probably knew how to print labels on the computer. Heck, she probably had one of those little label machines.
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