Water's Edge

by Robert Whitlow

  Rover raised his head and barked when Tom walked across the room. Elias stirred in his chair and opened his eyes.

  “Is it suppertime already?” the old man asked. “It seems like I just finished eating a sandwich for lunch.”

  “I came home early,” Tom replied. “Sorry I interrupted your nap. I’ll be out in the garage for a while.”

  “All right.” Elias nodded and closed his eyes.

  Rover stayed with Elias.

  Tom began with the fishing tackle. He searched through every tackle box and inspected every piece of fishing equipment for any connection between his father and Harold Addington. He found several fish stringers. Some were blue and white, others were red and white. He picked up a red-and-white one, ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the thin nylon rope, and shuddered at the thought of a stringer wrapped around a human being’s throat and twisted tight. He moved from the fishing gear to the camping equipment but found nothing except musty sleeping bags, old-fashioned tents, and antiquated outdoor cooking equipment.

  He turned to the boxes. He’d looked at less than a fourth of them with Elias. This time he didn’t stop to reminisce and squelched any hint of nostalgia. He opened each box with purpose, taking only enough time to make sure he didn’t miss something. It took more than two and a half hours to inspect every box. Three cartons of files slowed him down as he flipped through every folder. None of them contained information about Harold Addington. One of the last boxes he opened was filled with financial records from the office. Why and how the information ended up in Elias’s garage was a mystery. Tom sifted through every bit of it, but the records related to the general operating account, not a trust account. Tom put that box in his car so he could return it to the office.

  He peeked in the front door of the house. Elias was still asleep in his chair. Still agitated, Tom decided to go to Austin’s Pond. He drove past the parking area where he and Elias began their walk and opened the gate to a dirt road that led to the barn. When he reached the end of the road, an older model pickup truck with faded green paint was parked in the middle of the road. Tom pulled his car onto the grass beside the truck. He walked cautiously around the truck until he could see the pond. A solitary fisherman, wearing blue overalls and a brown cap pulled low over his face, was standing on the bank at the far end of the pond. He was casting into the area where the large bass hid in the brushy bottom. The man looked up at Tom and continued fishing. Tom walked over to the picnic table and sat down.

  Tom didn’t know what he expected to find at the pond. Only the water knew what happened the day John Crane and Harold Addington died. Its dark surface revealed nothing. Tom considered looking for clues but knew in his heart there weren’t any. Instead, he stayed at the table and faced again what Charlie Williams told him at the office.

  Before meeting with the DA, Tom was convinced Harold Addington was the man who’d compartmentalized his life, separating the moral from the criminal. Now he had to admit that John Crane, for some insane reason, might have been the one who ignored the line between right and wrong. Continuing to stare across the pond, Tom focused his attention on the area where the two men would have been in the boat. He tried to visualize their last moments.

  Then it came to him.

  Whatever his father did, he did in self-defense. While the two men were in the boat the truth came out. John Crane realized what Harold Addington was attempting to do with the money in the designated trust. They argued. That led to a physical confrontation. For two older men who were inexperienced fighters it would have been an awkward, quickly exhausting battle. In the midst of the conflict, John Crane wrapped the stringer cord around Addington’s neck, but it didn’t stop the attack. He fell overboard and drowned. Addington, whose breathing was severely impaired, also fell out of the boat. Fully clothed and weakened, both men died. It was a plausible scenario. Tom played it through again, then realized it had one big fatal flaw.

  It didn’t explain the check in the plastic bag.

  People might write checks under duress. But not to themselves. Tom looked down at the ground. Bud Austin had cut the grass around the edge of the pond to lessen the chance of a surprise encounter with a snake. Tom rubbed the grass with the toe of his shoe. Even though he’d not walked around the pond, his mind had come full circle. The pond wasn’t going to give up its secrets. Tom could not escape the possibility that his father might have caused another man’s death. As he walked to his car, Tom glanced toward the end of the pond. The man who’d been fishing wasn’t in sight.

  When Tom reached his car, the man in the overalls was putting his fishing pole in the back of the pickup truck. He looked to be in his late twenties with dark hair, brown eyes, and unshaven face.

  “Didn’t bring your pole?” the man asked.

  “Not today. Did you catch anything?”

  “Yeah, but I always throw ’em back. The big ones are too pretty to keep.”

  “That’s what my father did. He fished this pond a lot.”

  “Who’s your daddy?”

  “John Crane, the lawyer who drowned here a few months ago.”

  The man took off his cap. “I was sorry to hear about his passing. He was a good fisherman, showed me where that brush pile is under the water at the far end of the pond. I’ve lost a lot of lures that got tangled in the branches, but it’s the best place to catch big fish.”

  “Yeah. What’s your name?”

  “Barry Fortenberry. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

  “Tom Crane.”

  The two men shook hands. Fortenberry had the strong grip of a man who worked with his hands for a living. The fisherman got in his truck.

  “I’ll pull down close to the pond so you can turn around easier,” he said.

  Tom got in his car. The truck rumbled forward toward the water. Tom turned around and drove away. He didn’t see Fortenberry’s truck in his rearview mirror.

  ______

  “Where have you been?” Elias asked when Tom walked through the front door. “I didn’t know whether to wait until you came back to eat supper or not. I warmed up some meat loaf with mashed potatoes and green beans.”

  “I’m not hungry. Did you feed Rover?”

  “Yes. Are you sure you don’t want anything? I saved you a plate.”

  “No.”

  Tom started to walk up the stairs.

  “Where did you say you went?” Elias asked again.

  “I was in the garage for a while, then drove over to Austin’s Pond.”

  Tom didn’t wait for Elias to ask another question. He continued up to the blue bedroom.

  ______

  The following morning, a split second passed before Tom remembered his conversation with Charlie Williams. It was the only moment of peace he had as he prepared to go to the office. Elias fixed breakfast. After not eating any supper, Tom was hungry. They ate in silence.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s troubling you?” Elias asked after Tom finished eating a plate of three pancakes topped with peaches.

  “Just something I’m going to have to work through,” Tom mumbled.

  “I’m sorry. If I can help, let me know.”

  Tom glanced over at the old man. If he’d not wanted to burden Elias about the subpoena, he definitely didn’t want to tell him about the new revelations.

  “Just keep your integrity,” Tom said. “It helps to know there’s someone who’s consistent like you in the world.”

  ______

  The thought of sitting behind his father’s desk had suddenly become abhorrent. As soon as he arrived at the office, Tom called and left a message for Owen Harrelson. He then logged on to the Internet and started reading about Pelham Financial. He typed in key words he’d found in the notes taken from the tackle box: “island properties” and “Barbados bank regulators.” Generic articles led to more obscure ones, including a few online rants by people whose investments didn’t live up to expectations. That kind of complaint was common in the
financial industry. For every negative post there were ten positive ones from customers satisfied with steady, predictable, and above-market returns they’d received from Pelham.

  Tom confirmed that Barbados bank regulators, like many others in the Caribbean region, had a laid-back attitude toward financial oversight. He accessed Pelham’s most recent annual financial statement. As a private company, Pelham Financial wasn’t required to disclose the same detailed information as a publicly owned corporation. Thus the annual statement read more like an advertisement than an analysis of the company’s financial viability. Tom found references to “island properties” as part of the company’s portfolio but nothing about “insider loans.” Arthur Pelham owned a controlling interest in the company, which made him a very rich man. Tom remembered Tiffany’s words that she’d be a wealthy divorcée.

  Bernice arrived.

  “My back is feeling a lot better,” she said as she sat down behind her desk. “I wasn’t stiff at all when I woke up this morning. Most women my age can’t make that claim.”

  “Good.” Tom pointed to the box of financial records he’d found in the garage. “Look what I found at Elias’s house. They’re bank records for the regular operating account from a couple of years ago. I want to make sure there isn’t anything in there that needs my attention.”

  “So that’s where they were,” Bernice replied, leaning over and taking out a few pages. “I asked your daddy about that stuff for months, and he denied knowing where they might be. He must have taken them home by mistake.”

  “How did you balance the checkbook?” Tom asked, then stopped and held up his hand. “No need to answer.”

  Tom’s cell phone chirped. It was Owen Harrelson.

  “I’ll take this in the office. Glad you’re feeling better.”

  Tom closed the door.

  “Did you get the affidavit?” Harrelson asked.

  “Yes. Rose Addington brought it by yesterday morning.”

  “Good. Do you have a date for the hearing in front of the judge? Early this week is better for me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “But she brought the affidavit by yesterday morning. Didn’t you call the judge’s office?”

  Tom didn’t like the demanding tone of Harrelson’s voice. “No,” he answered testily.

  “What have you been doing? Do you have anything more important going on than this?”

  “I’ll contact the judge today and let you know immediately.”

  “See that you do.”

  The call ended. Tom laid the phone on the desk. He’d obviously caught Harrelson before the Pelham executive had his second cup of coffee. It was a few minutes before he could call Judge Caldwell’s secretary.

  Tom’s computer screen was still on the Pelham website. He returned to the search box and typed in “Owen Harrelson.” A bio popped up. The internal affairs officer looked a lot like Olson Crowther. He had a military haircut and a no-nonsense expression on his face. Harrelson was an executive vice president and a member of the senior management committee, which meant he probably had as much access to Arthur Pelham as anyone else in the company. If he was upset, Arthur might be upset. One of Harrelson’s previous jobs was with a bank in the UK. The name of the bank seemed vaguely familiar. Tom tapped his finger against the desk for a moment, then looked at the documents Harrelson sent outlining Harold Addington’s embezzlement scheme. The name of the bank was on the second page. It was the same bank Addington used to transfer the funds from Newcastle to Barbados. Harrelson worked there for eight years.

  Going back to the Pelham website, Tom typed in Harold Addington’s name. There were no matches. The Brit had been purged. Tom then typed Addington’s name into a general search engine. There were multiple hits about his professional life in the financial industry and hobby as a philatelist. Addington’s work history was divided between marketing and internal oversight, the latter job similar to Owen Harrelson’s position at Pelham.

  The courthouse was now open, and Tom called Judge Caldwell’s office. The judge didn’t have an available spot on his calendar until the end of the week. Tom didn’t want to tell Harrelson on the phone that it would be several days before they could see the judge, so he sent him an e-mail notifying him of the date and time of the hearing. There wasn’t an immediate reply. Maybe Harrelson was in a break room drinking a desperately needed second cup of coffee. Tom took a few minutes to prepare a simple motion and order authorizing him, as executor of his father’s estate, to turn over the balance in the designated trust account to Pelham Financial.

  Working on the Addington/Pelham matter helped get Tom’s mind off his father. But now that he’d done all he could before the hearing, the specter of what happened at the pond returned. He fidgeted in the office for a few minutes, then walked into the reception area. Bernice had the bank records from the garage spread out on her desk.

  “Making any progress?” he asked.

  “What you see is progress. It looks like everything is here except for a few statements shredded by mice looking for something to line their nest.”

  “I hope there isn’t a mouse hiding in the bottom of the box.”

  “I already checked, and if I’d found one, you would have heard me scream on Main Street.”

  “I’m going out for a while,” Tom said.

  “When will you be back?”

  “Uh, a couple of hours or so.”

  Bernice gave him a puzzled look. “Where are you going?”

  Tom hesitated. It would be odd to tell her that he didn’t have any destination in mind. “Uh, I’m going to the Rocky River Church and see if Lane Conner has time to talk with me. Elias and I heard him speak a couple of weeks ago, and he said he wanted to get together before I left town.”

  “Do you want me to call the church and find out if he’s available?”

  “No, it’s a nice day for a drive.”

  Bernice shrugged and returned to stacking checks.

  Driving through town with the car windows down and the breeze blowing against his face, Tom felt a little bit better. The road to the church was one of the more scenic in the area. He passed Henderson’s cattle farm with its lush green grass and contented cattle grazing in the morning sun, then crossed the bubbling creek that gave the Rocky River Church its name. There were a couple of cars parked near a small sign that read “Church Office.” Tom didn’t feel comfortable barging in without making an appointment but hoped the minister wouldn’t mind. He opened the door. A young woman with blond hair was sitting behind a desk.

  “I’m Tom Crane. I was wondering if Reverend Conner was in. I don’t have an appointment, so it’s okay if—”

  The woman picked up a phone, pressed a button, and announced Tom’s presence.

  “Have a seat. He’ll be right out,” she said.

  Tom sat on an upholstered sofa.

  “I’ve known your uncle Elias since I was little girl,” the woman said. “He baptized my mama and daddy in the creek on the other side of the church. I’m sorry about your daddy. I never met him, but of course I’ve heard a lot of good things about him.”

  “Thanks,” Tom managed.

  Lane Conner came into the room. He was wearing a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.

  “That’s how we dressed where I grew up in south Georgia,” the minister said in response to Tom’s look. “My kinfolk have been farmers for generations. Come into the office.”

  Tom followed the minister into a large office lined with bookshelves.

  “Have you read all those books?” Tom asked as they sat down.

  “Parts of most of them,” Conner replied with a smile. “I’m not the first man to read the Bible, and I want to benefit from the wisdom of those who’ve studied it before me. Computer research for pastors hasn’t caught up to what’s available in the legal field, probably because there isn’t as much money to be made.”

  “That may be true, but you’re a better speaker than most of the lawyers I listen to.”<
br />
  “Coming from you, that’s a high compliment.”

  Tom shifted in his seat. “Like I said, I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Don’t worry about it. What brought you by?”

  Tom suddenly realized what Conner would be interested in hearing about. “Some things have happened in my life since I met you a few weeks ago.”

  Telling Lane Conner what God had been doing in his life made it seem more official. Tom started with his first prayer based on Psalm 78:72 and went from there.

  “I guess you hear stories like this a lot,” he said at one point.

  “Not as often as I’d like.” Conner tapped his finger on his desk. “What you mentioned about 1 Corinthians is very true. You might also want to read the book of 1 John. It says there that the Holy Spirit is a better teacher than any author on these shelves.”

  When Tom finished, Conner stared at him for a few seconds as if he were about to quiz Tom on his Bible knowledge.

  “Did you know Harold Addington?” Conner asked.

  “Uh, no. I never met him. How about you?”

  “He came to the church on a regular basis, and we spent quite a bit of one-on-one time together in this office. I delivered the eulogy at his funeral. Harold Addington was a man who was willing to make hard choices to do the right thing even if it might cause negative consequences for himself.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of choices?”

  “I can’t answer that specifically because what he told me was shared in confidence. But he said he talked to your father about it.”

  Tom’s eyes opened wide. “My father?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom paused. “Did you talk to my father about these choices, whatever they might be?”

  “No.”

  “Do Esther and Rose Addington know what you’re talking about?”

  “Now you’re sounding like a lawyer,” Conner replied. “But the answer is no.”