Bone Valley

by Claire Matturro

  “You told your attorney to dismiss it?”

  “Yeah. You should get the paperwork today, tomorrow.”

  Well, that put a wholly new and interesting spin on things, didn’t it? “Obviously I haven’t yet received the notice of dismissal,” I said, buying a few seconds to recompose my set of questions. “But…why?”

  “Why’s it matter to you, why? You afraid you won’t get paid?” His salacious grin turned to a belligerent glare.

  Pausing a moment to assimilate Rayford’s mood change, and to figure out how to play the next round, I stared back at him. He was built solid, and almost handsome in that Marlboro man sort of way. I let him see I was looking at him. Tit for tat, so to speak.

  “Well, good,” I said, nodding and then aiming a playful sort of grin at him. “Thank you. For dismissing the suit. But I’d sure like to discuss this further with you. May we step inside your office?”

  “Look, I told my lawyer to get rid of the suit. I’m sick and tired of all you lawyers, so I told him to get me out of it.”

  “That sounds like a fine plan,” I said, gaining wind and composure. “Especially since there was never any money in the suit, and then there’d be all the bad publicity.” I remembered what Angus had said, that the gyp waste would make the groves like a toxic-waste site, and I threw that in. “You surely didn’t want your customers thinking you’re growing oranges in a Superfund site.” I was fishing around, hoping that if I came close enough to the real reason he’d dropped the suit, he’d own up to it.

  He paused, and stared at me. At my face this time, not my body. As if he could read something from my carefully neutral expression. It felt like a whole minute ticked by before he spoke. “You’re supposed to talk to my attorney, aren’t you? I mean, you aren’t allowed to talk directly to me, are you?”

  Well, technically no. The Florida Bar ethics code prohibits an attorney on one side of the case from directly discussing a pending lawsuit with an opposing party like Rayford if he’s represented by counsel. But I figured, hey, if he’s already dropped the lawsuit, then he is not technically the opposing party anymore. Right? And that made talking directly to him a gray area in the law, and gray areas are to lawyers what coastal hurricanes are to rabid surfers.

  Plus, I figured I could just say I came to place an early order on the honeybell tangelos if the ethics investigators were summoned and got huffy.

  But what I said was, “Oh, I thought a direct conversation might benefit us both.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  Change of tactics seemed appropriate, so I wandered to the window and looked out. “Such a lovely, lovely, grove. I saw surveyors out front? Are you…expanding the groves?”

  “No.” Rayford continued to stare at me. About this time I became keenly aware of the fact that Rayford had never invited me into his office and the overly eye-shadowed Odell was watching us as if we were the warm-up act for Toby Keith. “Perhaps we could discuss this whole situation in your office?”

  “I’m fine where I am,” Rayford said.

  Okay, be that way, I thought. “Perhaps Mrs. Moody has some plans for the groves—surveyors laying out a plan for an office for her, perhaps?”

  “How’d you know about her interest in the groves?” Belligerence brewed over to hostile.

  “Plantation, Inc., was your partner in Delilah Groves. And M. David Moody was the sole shareholder in Plantation. See, I know how to look up incorporation papers. I’m a lawyer and we know how to do stuff like that.” Actually, Olivia had looked up the Plantation, Inc., records, but Rayford didn’t need to know that level of detail. “And, being a lawyer, I know that Mrs. Moody would inherit Mr. Moody’s interest in the groves.” A whopper of an assumption on my part since I’d never seen M. David’s will, but Rayford’s prior admission that Mrs. Moody had an interest in the groves indicated I’d guessed right.

  Rayford didn’t say anything. Odell wasn’t even pretending to work. I didn’t have the sense I was going to learn much more useful information from either. But it was too long a drive for me to just give up. So I smiled again, aiming for a sad, knowing smile, not a giddy one, and I said, “Poor woman. Maybe a new project at the groves would be just the thing to perk her up in her time of sorrow.”

  “Sorrow, my ass, that woman was calculating the inheritance tax before her old man was good and stiff. She was out here going through the books the same day they pulled him from the gyp stack.”

  Wow, okay, I’d finally hit a target Rayford wanted to chat about, and also I cattily remembered Mrs. Moody apparently being on a date with Galleon Theibuet two nights after her husband learned which circle in hell he was assigned to. So, let’s gossip, I thought. Having worked up to a specific distrust and dislike of Sherilyn since her attempted phone calls to me wrenched open a Pandora’s box of paranoia, I was more than willing to trash the woman. But before I said anything, Rayford Clothier walked back into his office and started to shut the door behind him.

  “Wait,” I practically screamed after him. Then I composed myself and asked in a sweeter tone, “Please, explain to me why you dropped the suit. I guess Mrs. Moody agreed too. Was it her idea?”

  Rayford stopped retreating. He turned and glared at me. “Why?”

  “I just thought the more I know, the better chance I have of convincing my client to let the whole matter drop. You know, not file a retaliatory lawsuit against Delilah for wrongful suit, abuse of process, or harassment, or trashing his First Amendment rights. That sort of thing. Also, perhaps if I fully understand what is going on, I can convince him not to protest the groves’ fertilizer habits anymore.”

  “Look, I don’t know you,” Rayford snapped. “And I don’t care if your lunatic client wants to sue the groves or march around it all day long. I’m tired of oranges and I’m tired of Florida. I’m selling out and going back west. I had a cattle ranch out there once and I’m going to get me another one. To hell with this state.”

  With that Rayford turned and walked into his office and picked up a drink that was sitting on his desk. He turned back to face me and took a sip. I saw that most of the glass was empty.

  So, okay, that amber liquid explained the tart, if not completely loose tongue. No doubt Rayford had been sitting in his locked office, drinking, while Odell had been out. Well, all the better for me, I thought, and scooted right in after him. Sure, Rayford hadn’t exactly invited me into his office, but I followed on the theory that it’s pretty hard to shut the door in the face of someone who’s already inside. I took a quick peek around, spotted a couple of intriguing filing cabinets, a door that was cracked just enough for me to see it was a bathroom, and wholly ordinary condo-art prints on the walls. Nothing of obvious, apparent value, like real art, to justify the burglar bars. I put my eyes right on Rayford.

  “You seem like a very interesting man,” I said, noting to myself that you should never overlook the obvious ploys because they usually work on men. “I did wonder about Mrs. Moody and that Theibuet fellow. Galleon Theibuet.” Fishing, yeah, but the man had a drink, and apparently a grudge.

  Rayford took another sip, and stared at me. Then he took a big swallow.

  “Theibuet, Sherilyn?” I queried, prompting him.

  “Yeah. I hear tell your grieving widow has been chasing Theibuet all over town for years. But then, she’s come sniffing around me too. Funny thing was, old Theibuet and M. David were tight. Till M. David screwed him over royally.”

  And men complain that women gossip, I thought, but added, “Screwed, how?”

  “You mean how old Sherilyn screwed Theibuet? I assume the traditional fashion. You need a drawing?”

  “No, I mean what did you mean that M. David screwed over Theibuet?”

  “Business. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I might. I read the newspapers.” Yeah, okay, okay, but I’m doing better now.

  “Cutting to the chase,” I added, “M. David was CEO at Boogie Bog. When it began having expensive problems di
sposing of the gypsum sludge, M. David, as its CEO, sold back his shares of company stock at an inflated value. The company had to borrow money to buy his stocks, and the additional debt killed it.”

  Clink, clink. Rayford took another swallow of his drink. “Yeah. Good for you,” he said.

  “So? What am I missing? You obviously know more of the story than the newspapers,” I said, trying to appeal to his vanity.

  As I waited for an answer, I watched Rayford’s face. He took another sip, and swallowed loudly, and a furious little charade of emotions flickered across his cowboy features as I caught him, open-faced, apparently calculating how to play me. Maybe it was his version of a risk-benefit analysis. Or maybe it was just too much whiskey in the middle of the day. But finally he spoke.

  “Yeah, before it gave up the ghost, Boogie Bog had all that gyp shit to get rid of. It looked at selling the gyp to road companies and building-supply companies to be mixed into pavement and concrete blocks and stuff, but the nuclear-waste folks had pretty much cornered that market. So the company decided, you know, what the fuck. Just leave it.”

  “Just leave it?”

  Clink, clink, and another swallow. “There’s a thousand different bugs and kinds of mold and fungus that kill citrus trees. I sweat like a pig all year round. One day you got a nice field, next day you got a damn swamp. I hate this state.”

  Smiling like he’d said something terribly clever, I wondered how much more info I could get out of him. My jaws were clinching from the fake smiling, but I gave him one more round. “Now tell me, how did the Boogie Bog company plan on getting away with just leaving the gyp stuff?”

  “Just like it did. Like you said, M. David made Boogie Bog buy back his stock, and then he ditched the company. Made it go belly-up. The shareholders didn’t have money for themselves, you think they’re gonna borrow millions to clean up their messes? Left the gyp for the state to deal with. The rest of the company men, like Theibuet, were screwed. Their company stock became worthless.”

  “How’d Theibuet feel about that?” I asked.

  “How did he feel about losing big money? How you think he felt?”

  “And you, were you invested in Boogie Bog?”

  “Look, I’m the man’s…that is, I was the man’s partner in these orange groves. You think he screws me on Boogie Bog, I go back in business with him? I sound stupid to you, or what?”

  “Not at all. No, you sound like”—what, a bitter, gossipy drunk?—“a savvy businessman.”

  While I waited to see if that flirt had any benefit, I remembered that Josey had pointed out Theibuet as one of the four shareholders behind Antheus. So where’d he get the money to buy into Antheus? And why would he?

  Rayford was looking at my legs again, and I was so glad I’d thought to wear a suit with the perfect little skirt, just a bare two inches above my knees. Pressing what I hoped was an advantage, I asked him, “But you’re telling me Theibuet was in Boogie Bog, and now he’s in Antheus. Doesn’t that suggest a weak learning curve on his part? That’s weird.”

  “That’s the phosphate business.”

  “But, why would you go back in business with a man who had—”

  “I’m tired of you, little lady, you aren’t even close to my type, and I hate lawyers and I hate orange groves and when my check on the sale of this place clears, I’m out of here, you hear?”

  “Yes, but just one more—”

  “You don’t listen good. I’m all out of answers.”

  After a few more smiles and queries, I decided Rayford was right—he was all out of answers. So I left.

  Frustrated at all I hadn’t learned, like why Rayford and Sherilyn had dropped the orange-defamation suits, I comforted myself with what I had learned: Where Odell hid the door key.

  And that Rayford had a goodly number of filing cabinets I wouldn’t mind carefully pursuing in the quiet of predawn.

  I could read pretty good by the glow of a flashlight.

  But one thing at a time, I reminded myself, then I got in my car and drove back to the law firm, stopping briefly to find out from one of the surveyors that a national housing-development corporation had a contract on the place, and the closing was next week.

  Naturally, a grove this big would be a plum for a builder, I thought as I pushed the speed limit on my way back to my law firm. Though I was sorry to think that the last orange grove in Sarasota would soon be plowed asunder, I wanted to get back to my office and see if there really was a notice of dismissal in the stupid orange-defamation case in my as-yet-unread morning mail, and if not, get Bonita to call the circuit court and see if one had been filed. And then my plan was to churn and spin through the scant remaining day, and hurry home.

  After all, I had a bird to feed, a delinquent handyman to grill, and two murders to figure out.

  Chapter 19

  The amazing thing was that when I finally got home that evening, nobody else was there. Oh, except Rasputin.

  Naturally, I went for one of the bottles of organic wine that I had hidden from Jimmie behind the laundry soap in the utility room, and headed straight back to my kitchen. While I was holding the bottle of wine in one hand and the corkscrew in the other, I heard the front door open and slam. Jimmie, as if guided by some homing device toward the good wine, came almost dancingly into the kitchen from the outside world, holding two videotapes in his hands.

  “I done got her done,” he said and beamed.

  “What?” I asked, eyeing the tapes and twisting the corkscrew.

  “This first one,” Jimmie said, holding up a tape, “is of that spinal-injury-faker guy. I done got him carrying out garbage, lifting up what looks like at least a forty-pound sack of cow manure from his car trunk, and spreading the manure in his yard, then cutting the grass.”

  Pretty good, I thought, for a man who claims he needs daily chiropractic care for the rest of his life, plus a quarter of a million dollars.

  “Reckon that’ll ’bout do it on that,” Jimmie said.

  Nodding, I agreed that, effectively, the lawsuit against Jimmie was over. Technically, I still had to ambush Jason with the tape, then get him to dismiss the case, but how hard could that be?

  “Good, then,” he said, “I got me another project.”

  So saying, Jimmie took the other videotape, plus the video camera, and headed toward my guest room. He didn’t ask for wine.

  My something’s-up antennae went on red alert. Curious, I followed.

  “What are you up to? And where were you all night? And did you feed Rasputin today at all? Did you get the grass cut like you said you would?”

  Oh great, didn’t I sound like somebody’s mother?

  “I was busy,” Jimmie said.

  Well, after all, as the police and Dolly had both pointed out to me, he was a grown man, not a teenager. And he had made it home that morning, apparently safe, in time for breakfast, and that was a lot better than Delvon and I had managed on many occasions when we were teenagers.

  “But I’m gonna need this video camera another few days,” Jimmie said. “And I reckon maybe, Dolly might…”

  Dolly? And the video camera? I tried to hide my amusement as I told Jimmie to keep the video camera for another few days. I almost giggled at my next thought, Jimmie videotaping him and Dolly fooling around in bed. Which was, despite Dolly’s denials, exactly where I figured he’d been last night.

  As I turned to leave my guest bedroom, which, of course, had now been wholly taken over and was Jimmie’s room, I thought about what Jason the baby lawyer had said, that Jimmie owned a bucketload of Exxon stock. I turned back and asked Jimmie, “By the way, do you own about a quarter million dollars’ worth of Exxon stock?”

  I expected a denial, or even laughter. Instead, I saw Jimmie’s cheeks turn pink.

  “Yeah, I…not sure of their current value but, yeah, maybe. See, when I’s a young man, I done bought me some shares back when I’s working for Exxon. Course, this was all before I discovered the joys of wine a
nd poetry and became a beatnik, and I’s afraid I ain’t never goin’ to have a real job again, or earn me enough money to buy no more stock, see, so I ain’t touchin’ it for a while. I needs it for my old age.”

  “Jimmie,” I said, “you’re homeless. And you’re…what? Closing in on eighty? Maybe you might want to consider breaking into your financial stash. I respect your saving your Exxon stock for your old age, but I think you’re there now.”

  “I ain’t homeless, I lives here with you,” Jimmie said, and his voice sounded both indignant and hurt.

  It occurred to me that now would be a very good time for me to gently point out to Jimmie that I didn’t envision this as a permanent arrangement. But before I said anything, Jimmie said, “If you needs it, I can pay rent. I mean on top of all the work, you know, cutting your grass and fixin’ your soffits and eaves and paintin’ and feeding that bird, and, and…well, Lady, I thought…”

  Uh-oh. Jimmie’s feelings were hurt.

  For some reason, I realized I didn’t want to hurt Jimmie.

  For some reason, I realized I liked having Jimmie around. Probably a grandfather thing.

  “Listen, I’m sorry if I hurt you. Let’s go have a glass of wine. We can talk finances and housing later.”

  “In a little bit. I got me some things I needs to do. I’ll catch you later,” he said, and I heard the sound of dismissal.

  Thinking I must really have wounded his pride, and should let him sulk a bit, I nodded, and retreated to my kitchen, where I poured a glass of organic wine. Wine in hand, I went to my den and watched Jimmie’s surveillance video, agreed it was of a professional quality that left no doubt that faker plaintiff was as strong and agile as any healthy young man, and I poured my second glass of wine and went in search of food in my own refrigerator.

  After I’d picked at a salad, Jimmie staggered out into the kitchen and said, “I done plum forgot. Delvon wants us to come over tonight and join a prayer circle for Lenora. Maybe we can get some ice cream afterward.”