“I’m still waiting to hear what it is you really want.” This I said calmly despite the tension I felt.
“If your patent idea works out,” she said, “we’ll split the profits, minus whatever expenses I pay out of pocket. In exchange, I want the property Harney left you; the cabin, and everything else that’s rightfully mine. And one other thing”-her eyes locked onto mine-“it’s not important to me, but my citrus expert is the obsessive type. He’s convinced you know the location of a very special orange tree. The mother tree, he called it. Is that true?”
This is what I’d been waiting to hear. “I knew it,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You hired a crazy man to follow me. He almost killed me the other day. Is that what you want?”
The woman started to get up, then decided it was wiser to stay where she was. “What in the world are you talking about? This is business, for god’s sake. Calm down and listen. I don’t give a damn about orange trees or some damn disease, but I do care about my financial security. When an expert I’m paying talks about millions in potential profit, I’m going to take his advice. You should, too.”
“Answer my question,” I said. “You hired Larry Luckheim to bully and intimidate-”
“Larry who?” The woman shook her head as if confused. “If you’re being followed, it’s because the word’s out, Hannah. People in the citrus industry talk. I guarantee, Kermit’s not the only one willing to steal your idea, or anything else, if there’s big money in it. How many people you think are combing this state right now, looking for some damn old tree? And not just your tree. Keep that in mind. There have to be others.”
I maintained eye contact. “Are there?”
Lonnie and her icy smile-I could picture her practicing in front of the mirror. “The two most dangerous animals on earth,” she said, “do you know what they are? I’ll tell you: stupid men and smart women. Hannah, the smart thing for us to do is to cooperate, join forces. You and your mother will never see one goddamn cent of Harney’s money if you don’t. Is that what you want?”
Her phone, which she had turned back on, rang. She looked, and said, “Oh shit, I’ve got to take this. Do you mind?”
She wanted privacy. Fine. The temptation was to put the ledger and the notebooks under my arm and march out the door. I could’ve done it. How would she stop me?
I didn’t, but she stopped me anyway by stepping in front of my SUV as I was leaving.
“Reggie’s dead,” she hollered, the phone still to her ear.
My window was down. I heard her plainly enough but demanded that she repeat what I didn’t want to believe.
“One of our Mexican guys just found him,” she said. “Suicide. He hanged himself. I thought you’d want to know.” She covered the phone and demanded, “Hannah, come back inside. We have too much in common-”
That’s all I heard before I drove away.
EIGHTEEN
The gate to the Salt Creek Gun Club was open. I turned left on the dirt lane to Reggie’s house but stopped when I saw emergency vehicles in the distance. I’d hoped Lonnie had told an outrageous lie to manipulate me, but it was true. I didn’t want to see the chauffeur’s body, or answer more questions from the police, yet I couldn’t believe he had actually taken his own life.
I put my vehicle in park and stared at the flashing lights. It had been a little more than two hours since I’d spoken to Reggie on the phone. A man contemplating suicide might polish a cherished car as a farewell gesture, but he wouldn’t encourage visitors, and he certainly wouldn’t have said he preferred barbecue to homemade sandwiches for lunch. Unless…
In a sack on the floor was a slab of pork ribs and containers of coleslaw and baked beans. The smoky fragrance, otherwise pleasant, became a queasy reminder that there was another explanation. Reggie might have been in the process of taking his own life when I’d called. Perhaps, in his mind, by accepting my offer to bring lunch, he could die with the comforting assurance that a friend, a woman he trusted, would be the first to find his body.
It was a painful possibility to consider, worse to imagine happening. That poor, distraught, lonely little man…
I spun my car around but could not escape the despair that descended. It would have stuck with me had I not seen a familiar truck as I approached the gate. I slowed and watched the truck enter from the main road, then accelerate toward the log cabin and river. The driver remained oblivious to me, and the dirt lane that led to Reggie’s place.
It was a white Chevy Silverado.
My despair made a welcome transition into anger.
I sat and waited several minutes. If Kermit Bigalow was willing to trespass on a late Sunday afternoon, there had to be a reason. Rather than listen to more lies, I wanted to find out for myself what he was doing.
Beyond the horse stalls and the equipment shed, a path led to a dilapidated greenhouse walled with Plexiglas. Kermit’s white Silverado was parked among trees to the side of the building and out of sight.
I approached on foot. He wasn’t in the truck, so I went to the greenhouse door and peeked in. Kermit, wearing jeans and work gloves, was busy loading a wheelbarrow with planting pots, some containing fledgling trees, others just soil. When the door closed behind me, he jumped, as if shot, and spun around. Relief registered on his face. “Geezus… thank god, it’s you. What are you doing here?” He busied himself brushing dirt from his pants and gloves.
“I might ask you the same thing,” I said from the doorway.
“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m stealing plants I grew and giving them enough dirt to keep them alive. Someone needs to look after them.” He indicated the wheelbarrow. “Do I really have to explain?”
“It’s sort of funny,” I said. “Until this afternoon, I dreaded having to tell you. Now I feel just fine about it. Mr. Chatham left this property to my mother and me in his will. And Reggie. You’re the trespasser, Kermit, not me. When’s the last time you saw him?”
The man resumed selecting gallon-sized pots from a row. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor. He left you the citrus groves, too? That’s great news.”
“Half the grove. Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m happy for you-yeah, I really am. Anything’s better than Lonnie inheriting a place she doesn’t give a damn about. What are you going to do with it? I could see you living in the cabin; have a little boat on the river, maybe a dog or two. If I’d known, trusted Reggie enough, I would’ve stopped and asked to take these-plants I grew from seedlings. I’m glad you’re here. We have to talk.”
“Do we?”
He looked up for a moment. “Let me guess. You’re not mad about me trespassing. You’ve been talking to Lonnie. I warned you she’d make up some sort of lie about why she fired me. What did she say? I bet it was a good one.”
“What about Reggie?” I asked again.
“I haven’t seen him in… I don’t know… a couple of days, I guess. What’s he have to do with it?” The man’s expression transitioned to concerned. “Hey… what’s wrong? You’re really upset about something. What did that crazy woman say?”
“It was more of a show-and-tell conversation,” I replied. “When she brought out your notebooks, I accused her of being the thief. Has that ever happened to you, Kermit? Defended someone you wanted to trust, then it turns out they were making a fool of you?”