Dead With The Wind

CHAPTER 33

Jackson came into the room seconds after the sisters proclaimed Richmond Thurston’s guilt in unison. An’gel was startled by his appearance, and she hoped that he hadn’t heard her and Dickce just then. They didn’t think they were ready to share their conclusions with anyone else.

The butler’s mien gave no indication he had heard them name the lawyer. “Miss Dickce, the policemen would like to talk to you now.”

Dickce rose. “Thank you, Jackson.” She waited till he nodded and retreated from the room before she spoke to An’gel. “Should I tell the policeman what we discussed with Horace?”

“No,” An’gel said. “Horace needs to be the one to talk to the police. If we find out he hasn’t, we will certainly inform Bugg.”

“What about our suspicions of the lawyer?”

“Better not talk about that either. We don’t really have proof, only speculation. When I talked to Bugg, he said he was investigating financial angles. We have to hope that if Thurston has been dipping his hand into places he shouldn’t, the police will discover it. In the meantime, the minute I can get Jacqueline alone, I’m going to talk to her about Thurston.”

“Good idea,” Dickce said. “I’d better get to the kitchen.” She hurried out.

An’gel felt suddenly restless. She had an urge to get out of the house. Perhaps a short walk up and down the driveway would help. She went to the front door and out onto the verandah. The day was still cool, a bit of a breeze, with the sun bright and warming. She stood on the verandah and looked out over the grounds in front of the house.

The live oaks, ten of them on either side of the driveway and more out on the grounds nearby, towered over everything around them. Majestic, old, impressive. An’gel marveled to think that these trees likely had been there when the first Champlain decided to build his house on this spot in the late eighteenth century. They had trees nearly as old on the grounds of Riverhill, and An’gel loved every one of them.

She could understand Mireille’s feelings about her home. The trees embodied so much, had witnessed so much, of the family’s history. One didn’t lightly give up the land or a house like Willowbank. An’gel knew she and Dickce would go to almost any lengths to preserve Riverhill, and she knew without a doubt that Mireille felt the same way about Willowbank.

What about Jacqueline, though, Dickce wondered. Did she have the same reverence for the past? She was pretty sure Sondra hadn’t cared much at all, but Jacqueline might. Especially now that she had a grandchild to look after. Surely this was all worth preserving for Tippy? Without Mireille, however, Jacqueline might be disheartened and ready to let the past recede, step away from it, and focus only on the future.

An’gel could understand that, in a way, but she knew roots were important. Roots gave you a foundation, something solid on which to build a life, a future. She hoped that Tippy would have the chance to know and feel proud of her roots, not have them taken away before she was old enough to appreciate them.

What has got you in such a strange mood?

Death, An’gel decided. Death had put her in this mood. Two murders and a death provoked by a vicious prank. Three lives taken away, and others damaged by the losses and the wickedness behind them.

The malice behind the events of the past two days worried An’gel. How could it be stopped when you weren’t certain who was responsible? She and Dickce had fixed on the lawyer, Thurston, as the culprit, but they had no proof.

The police might find the necessary evidence, but how long might it be before they did? An’gel prayed they found it soon, because she feared the malevolent will behind two murders might not balk at another. She worried that Jacqueline or Tippy could become a target. Maybe both of them were targets already. What exactly was the killer after?

If Horace was the killer, the answer was obvious. He wanted money. Now that Jacqueline had inherited from both her daughter and her mother, she was a very wealthy woman. An’gel couldn’t shake off the notion that Horace was ruthless enough to kill in order to get his hands on the money.

But there was the lawyer. Lawyers who helped themselves to their clients’ money were not a rare breed, An’gel knew. Many lawyers had absconded with their clients’ fortunes in some way or another. Horace said Thurston had a flashy lifestyle, with new cars, trips to New York and Las Vegas, and multiple homes. Was the source of his wealth Sondra’s inheritance from her father?

If such was the case, how did he benefit from Sondra’s death? The money reverted to Jacqueline. How did that help the lawyer?

It could delay, at least for a while, discovery of his embezzlement, An’gel decided. He also might think he could access the money through Horace. If he had sufficient hold on Horace, he might think he could continue to bleed the estate dry by forcing Horace to beg Jacqueline for more and more money to bail him out.

Thurston wasn’t the only trustee of Sondra’s trust, An’gel recalled. There was a banker, a man that Jacqueline referred to as a fussy pants or something similar. An elderly man who kept a tight rein on the money and wouldn’t let her borrow against her own income. An’gel wished she knew his name. She would like to talk to him.

Well, why shouldn’t she talk to him? She ought to be able to find out easily enough his name and his address. She glanced at her watch. It was only a few minutes past four. More than time enough to go into town and talk to the banker.

Jackson might know, she decided. She went back into the house to track down the butler and ask him. She found him in the kitchen. Evidently the police had finished using it for questioning witnesses. Jackson stood forlornly at the sink, staring out into the yard behind the house.

“Hello, Jackson,” An’gel said. The butler started, then turned to face her.

“Something I can do for you, Miss An’gel?” he asked.

“Yes, there is,” she replied. “Do you happen to know the name of the banker who is one of the trustees for Jacqueline and Sondra?”

“Yes’m, that’d be Mr. Farley Montgomery at the bank in St. Ignatiusville,” Jackson replied. “You need to talk to him about something?”

“Actually I do,” An’gel said. “Do you have any idea what kind of hours he keeps? I’d like to see him this afternoon, if at all possible.”

Jackson smiled. “He’ll be at the bank till at least six o’clock, Miss An’gel. He’s been keeping the same hours ever since he started there fifty-three years ago. Hasn’t ever missed a day that I recall hearing of.”

“That’s impressive,” An’gel said. “He sounds like a dedicated man.”

“He sure is that,” Jackson said. “You know where the bank is?”

“No, I don’t, so I’d appreciate directions.”

Jackson explained that the bank was on a side street off the highway that ran through St. Ignatiusville. “You can’t miss it. It’s going to be the second street to your left, after you pass the light in front of the big Baptist church.”

An’gel nodded. She remembered the church. “Thanks, Jackson. Now I just need to find my purse and keys and I’ll be on my way.”

“They’re in your room, Miss An’gel,” Jackson said. “I found your purse in the dining room earlier, and I put it in your room.”

An’gel thanked him again and vowed to herself to do a better job of keeping track of her purse. “When you see my sister, please let her know I’m running an errand in town. I should be back by six at the latest.”

Jackson said he would inform Dickce, and An’gel hurried out of the kitchen to retrieve her purse. As she reached the second floor, she spared a thought for Benjy upstairs, still watching over Tippy. Perhaps Dickce would go and relieve him. Right now, she was determined to get to the bank and get in somehow to talk to Farley Montgomery.

A few minutes later she was on her way to St. Ignatiusville. She checked the brakes before she left the property, the thought having occurred to her before she had gone five feet. The killer had no reason to tamper with her brakes, she thought, but she didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances.

She drove more slowly than usual, just in case. The brakes seemed fine, however, and within minutes she was in town. She watched for the church and, when she spotted it, concentrated on a left turn on the second street past it.

She had to wait for more than a minute before she could turn left because there was a steady stream of traffic. Finally she saw an opening and took it. She hit the gas, and the Lexus jumped through the intersection.

The bank sat on a corner a block from the highway. An’gel found a slot right in front of the doors and parked.

Inside the building she surveyed the scene for a moment before deciding whom to approach. Her gaze settled on a young woman at a nearby desk who didn’t appear to be busy at the moment. An’gel walked over to her and greeted her. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Montgomery, please.”

The young woman looked up at her. “Do you have an appointment? He’s pretty busy this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” An’gel gave her a rueful smile. “It is urgent that I talk with him. If you’ll tell him I’m here on behalf of Mireille Champlain, I’m sure he’ll see me.”

The Champlain name was evidently the magic word, because the girl immediately picked up the phone and punched in a number. After a brief conversation, the girl hung up the phone. She stood. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am, I’ll show you to Mr. Montgomery’s office.”

An’gel nodded and followed the girl to a discreet door in the corner. Moments later, down a short hallway, the girl ushered her into an office with floor-to-ceiling windows at the back and a view of a park. In front of the window, at a large desk, sat the thinnest man An’gel had ever seen.

He rose and dismissed the girl. After she had closed the door behind her, he spoke to An’gel. “Good afternoon, madam. I am Farley Montgomery. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

An’gel was so fascinated by studying the man’s appearance that she failed to respond immediately. Then she realized he was waiting, and she introduced herself. “I am An’gel Ducote. I am Mireille Champlain’s cousin, and I have come to talk to you about matters affecting my cousin and her family.”

The banker’s face did not betray any hint of emotion at her announcement. He waved a hand with long, exceedingly thin fingers, and bade her be seated. He waited until she had done so before he resumed his own seat.

“You must understand, Miss Ducote, that I am not at liberty to discuss details of my client’s affairs without her permission,” Montgomery said in a sententious manner.

“Yes, I understand that, and under normal circumstances I would not have sought you out. Because of the events of the past two days, however, I felt I had to consult you.”

“I presume you are referring to the sad demise of Mrs. Champlain’s granddaughter.”

“Yes, I am,” An’gel said. She thought it odd that the banker hadn’t mentioned Mireille’s death. Surely Jacqueline would have informed him? “There is also the matter of my cousin’s death as well. Surely you are aware that Mireille passed away as well?”

“Yes, of course,” Montgomery said hastily. “Yes, Jacqueline did call to tell me.”

An’gel regarded him in silence for a moment. Something about his response struck her as odd, but she couldn’t figure out why. She’d think about it later. She decided to get straight to the point.

“I need to ask you some questions about the trust funds you help administer for both Sondra and her mother. I know you will think this is none of my business, but I have to tell you frankly that I believe Sondra’s murder is connected directly to her inheritance. Someone is anxious to get his hands on that money.”

An’gel knew she was taking a risk in confronting the banker like this. Despite what Jacqueline had said about him, there was a strong chance he was in cahoots with his fellow trustee, Thurston. They might be embezzling together, and here she was, letting him know she suspected what was going on.

But, she thought, sometimes you had to rattle the cage to make things happen. She waited for the banker’s response to her rattling.

Montgomery maintained his calm, reserved manner. He didn’t appear to be fazed in the least by her statements.

“While I cannot discuss the details with you, Miss Ducote,” he said in his dry, precise manner, “I can assure you that there has been no malfeasance with the trust funds under my purview. By the terms of the trust, both my fellow trustee and I have to agree on any disbursement of funds. And as those funds are deposited in this bank, and as my signature is required before they can be released in any way, I can assure you the trust has not been violated.”

An’gel took a moment to absorb the meaning of the banker’s stilted language, and then she was baffled. Montgomery sounded convincing. But if there had been no embezzlement from Sondra’s inheritance, what was the motive for her murder?