“I represented the sellers,” said Bill. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“You represented the sellers,” echoed Byrd with a tight little smile. “And who were the sellers, may one ask?”
“Well… the Confederate widows. Daughters, actually, I think. There were eight of them. Miss Dabney, Miss Pendleton… I could look up the names.”
“I never saw them,” said John Huff. “You ran the ad in the newspaper.”
“Well, yes,” Bill admitted. “They instructed me to. They’re very elderly, and they didn’t want to be bothered with telephone calls.”
“And when I flew down to Danville, you drove me out to the house and showed me around, but there was no one else there.”
“They went out to tea,” stammered Bill. “They were a little upset about… uh… selling their home.”
“But you didn’t see them at all, Mr. Huff?” asked Byrd.
“I did not.”
“And then you decided to purchase the house,” Byrd continued, staring at Bill as he spoke. “You signed the papers here, I believe?”
“That’s right,” said Huff grimly. “And he signed on behalf of the sellers. Said he had their power of attorney. We transferred the money from my bank to an account in his name.”
Bill’s head was reeling, and for a moment he thought he was back in one of his bar exam nightmares. “I can explain all that,” he stammered. “The old ladies didn’t want to come down to the office because one of them had a doctor’s appointment. It was short notice, you remember.”
“What doctor?” said Byrd quickly.
“How should I know?” snapped Bill. “I can’t even remember which old lady. We could ask them, I suppose. Now, will one of you tell me what this is all about?”
Huff ignored the question. “What did you do with the money, MacPherson?”
Bill blushed. “It’s going to sound crazy,” he said with a little laugh. “But the old ladies claimed they didn’t trust American banks. They asked me to deposit the money in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Can you imagine?”
Nobody laughed with him.
John Huff looked like a thundercloud. “A numbered account in the Cayman Islands! I’m surprised you had enough savvy to come up with that.”
“I didn’t do it,” said Bill. “The old ladies did. I don’t know how they came up with the notion.”
“Banks in the Cayman Islands won’t give out any information about their accounts,” said Huff. “They won’t say how much money the account holds, and they won’t tell you whose account it is, either. Of course you knew that.”
Bill looked from Huff to Byrd and back again in disbelief. “You don’t think I did it?” he gasped. “You think I opened that account and kept the money?”
“It seems obvious to me,” said Huff, stone-faced.
“But the fraud goes well beyond that,” Byrd pointed out. “That house is state property. We had filed a writ of eminent domain, claiming the property for use as an art museum for southwest Virginia. No one had any authority to sell it.”
“We did a title search,” Bill protested. “We got a clear title! Mr. Huff’s lawyer must have double-checked that.”
“I intend to find out,” said Huff grimly. “And if he didn’t, I’ll have his job at Fremont, Shields & Banks!”
“If the acquisition notice is not on file in the courthouse, that adds to the seriousness of the fraud,” said Byrd. “Tampering with legal documents for the purpose of fraud.”
“But I didn’t!” wailed Bill. “At least I didn’t do the title search. But Edith wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Get her in here,” said Huff.
Edith Creech appeared in the doorway. Huff, his eyes glittering like a snake’s, waved the title in front of her, and said, “MacPherson claims that you did this title search. Is that correct?”
“I went to the courthouse and found it,” said Edith warily. “Why?”
“Did you leave out anything? A document with a state seal on it, for example?” asked Custis Byrd.
“I don’t think so.”
“And you witnessed this power of attorney, signed by the eight residents of the Home for Confederate Women.”
Edith looked at the paper. Then she looked at Bill. And back at the paper. “Uh… well…”
“Did you or did you not witness these signatures?”
“What did he say?” Edith hedged.
“It’s all right, Edith,” sighed Bill. “I’ll tell them. I forgot to take Edith with me when I went out to have the paper signed. We had only about twelve hours’ notice about the closing, and she was very busy typing up all the documents we needed. By the time I realized that it wasn’t notarized, one of the women had gone for the evening, and we had a ton of work to do, so she took my word for it.”
“Of course we will be reporting this to the state bar association, as well as to the proper legal authorities,” said Byrd in a self-righteous pout.
“Wait,” said Bill. “Flora Dabney can clear this up. Just call her and ask her about the bank account and the newspaper ad-and all the rest of it.” He reached for the telephone book. “They said they were going to be moving to the Oakmont Nursing Home. They even invited me to come and have tea with them. Ah, here’s the number. We’ll soon straighten this out.”
Bill looked at the ceiling while he listened to the phone ring. What incredible bad luck, he was thinking. Everything going wrong, all on the same case. He’d catch hell for that notary business, and A. P. Hill would be thoroughly pissed about this snafu in the new firm, no matter how brief a mixup it proved to be. The ringing stopped.
“Hello,” said Bill eagerly. “Oakmont Nursing Home? May I speak to Miss Flora Dabney, please? She’s a new resident. She and the other former residents of the Home for Confederate Women just moved to your facility-oh, about a week ago… What? Are you sure? Could you check? Maybe somebody else?… Oh, you do.” Bill’s voice became progressively muted as the conversation continued. Finally he muttered a lifeless thank-you and hung up.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “They’re not there. The director of Oakmont says that she’s never heard of them. Oakmont-I’m sure that’s what Flora Dabney said.”
“Maybe they changed their minds,” Edith suggested. “You know how old ladies are. Try the other retirement communities.”
“Did you ever actually see any of these women?” Custis Byrd wanted to know.
“Well… no,” said Edith after a moment’s thought. “But I’ve heard so much about them. Miss Dabney came by the office on my day off.” She turned to Bill. “Was Powell here? Did she meet them?”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t know where she was. A meeting, I think. But Miss Dabney sent me a photograph of herself.” He reached in the desk drawer and pulled out the sepia portrait of the Edwardian girl.
Huff and Byrd were not impressed. “You can buy a hundred photos like that in any antique shop,” said Custis Byrd. “Instant ancestors for a dollar apiece. I’d hardly call that picture evidence.”
“Try the other nursing homes,” Edith said again. “Miss Dabney can clear all this up in two minutes.”
“If there is a Miss Dabney,” Byrd snickered.
Ten minutes later, Bill had completed four more phone calls, each following the pattern of the first. There were no more retirement communities to try. Then he called directory assistance in search of a telephone listing for Flora Dabney and for each of the other ladies. Nothing.
“But it just doesn’t make sense,” Bill kept saying. “Where could they be? They couldn’t just vanish into thin air!”
John Huff and Custis Byrd looked at each other. Huff stood up. “Well, I think that’s all,” he said, motioning for Byrd to follow him. “We’ll be going now.”
“Going?” echoed Bill, standing up as if he wanted to run after them.