In Plain Sight

18

ARLEN SCARLETT WAS DISTRACTED. MARYBETH COULD tell. Though he was looking at her across her desk with the well-practiced face of an eager-to-please canine, his mind was clearly elsewhere. Even as she explained that she had broken Opal’s code when it came to her record keeping for the ranch, something Arlen should have been ecstatic over, his mind was elsewhere.

The previous week, Arlen had shown up at Marybeth’s office with five banker’s boxes full of paperwork—envelopes, statements, invoices, files. He complained he could not make hide nor hair of them. Opal had kept the books on the ranch, he said, and she’d never explained to anyone how she did it. Arlen claimed he had no true idea if the ranch made money and if so how much, or if they were in trouble.

Marybeth had reluctantly agreed to take a look at the contents of the boxes to see if she could find a method in Opal’s madness.

“It didn’t really take me as long as I thought it would,” she explained to Arlen, who looked at her but not really. The antenna of a cell phone extended out of a snap-buttoned breast pocket of his white cowboy shirt. Even though he never looked down at it or reached up for it, Marybeth got the distinct feeling the phone was what he was concentrating on, even as she spoke. He was waiting for a call.

“At first,” Marybeth said, “I couldn’t figure out why she filed things the way she did. It seemed like random collections of paper held together with rubber bands. Some of the papers went back years and some were as current as two months ago, just before she . . . went away. All in the same bundle. It was obvious she wasn’t using monthly P and Ls, or any kind of cash-flow records to keep track of things. But we know Opal was not the type of woman to maintain haphazard records, so I figured there must be some kind of formula she was using. It came to me last night,” she said, widening her eyes, trying to engage Arlen. “I realized she grouped records by season and category. It kind of makes sense, when you think about it. For example, you grow and sell grass hay, correct?”

Arlen nodded.

“Well, Opal’s approach was to start a file with a receipt from the first hayseed purchased for a specific meadow and go from there. She’s even put the purchase of a new tractor in that hay file if the tractor was used for cutting and baling. If one of your employees fell off the hay wagon and busted his arm, the workers’ compensation hearing materials would be put in the hay file.”

“We paid workers’ comp?” Arlen asked, surprised his mother had been so progressive.

“No, of course not,” Marybeth said, shaking her head. “Opal fought every single claim to the death. My point is that the only way to figure out what you’ve got here is to understand how Opal kept track of everything. It was her own system, and I still don’t have everything figured out yet, but I’m getting there. There are a few bundles of invoices I can’t assign to a specific project or category yet.”

“You’ve done a great job,” Arlen said. “I looked at that stuff for a month and couldn’t make anything out of it. My lawyer looked at it for ten hours, which he charged me a hundred dollars per hour for, and handed it all back and said there was no logic to it. But you figured it out. Damn, you’re good.”

Marybeth thought, Yes, I am.

“So?” Arlen said.

Marybeth arched her eyebrows, not sure what he was asking.

“Are we making money?”

“You’re making a ton of money.”

“Did you find anything that will help me in my battle with Hank?”

“Actually,” Marybeth said, “Hank’s side of the ranch seems to make more money than yours. It’s more efficient.”

Arlen said dismissively, “You mean he’s more ruthless.”

“If that’s possible,” Marybeth said, thinking of the workers’ comp claims.

Arlen’s cell phone rang and he jumped in his chair, clawing for it. Marybeth sat back and observed. He plucked the phone out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment while it rang. She realized he was unfamiliar with it, and didn’t know for sure how it worked.

“New phone,” he mumbled to her. “The buttons are so damned small . . .”

But he pushed one and held it up to his face, tentatively saying, “Yes? This is Arlen?”

From where she sat, Marybeth could hear a loud, deep voice on Arlen’s phone. As he listened, Arlen peered around her office. His expression was anticipatory.

“You’re here now?” Arlen said, looking at Marybeth as if she should be as amazed as he was at the identity of the caller. “You’re right outside on the street?”

Arlen signed off, dropped the phone in his pocket, and stood up. His face had drained of color.

“Meade Davis is outside,” Arlen said, referring to the lawyer Opal was rumored to have worked with to develop an updated will. “He just got back from Arizona today and he says everybody he meets tells him we’ve been looking for him. He said someone broke into his office while he was away and stole a bunch of records. But he says he’s got some news for me.” Arlen was clearly excited.

Marybeth said, “You’d better go meet with him, then. Maybe we’ll actually see a resolution to the dispute. Please let me know how it goes.”

“I will,” Arlen said, acting more nervous than Marybeth had ever seen him.

When he left her office his Stetson and barn coat were still on her couch, so she knew he would be back.

She stood up and watched him through blinds. He bounded outside and approached the dusty black Lincoln Continental that belonged to Meade Davis. Davis got out. He was portly, avuncular, with thinning hair and a white mustache and a quick smile. Arlen and Davis were of the same generation. Marybeth watched Davis shake Arlen’s hand, then place his other hand on it as well, as if offering condolences. Then he shook his head from side to side, and Arlen looked momentarily distraught.

It looked to Marybeth as if Davis was delivering bad news. Marybeth was surprised, but not as surprised, it seemed, as Arlen.

But Arlen quickly recovered. He spun Davis around, threw an arm over his shoulder, and they started walking away, Arlen bending his head toward Davis, putting his face in Davis’s ear, his jaw working, talking up a storm.

AN HOUR LATER, Arlen burst through her door. His eyes blazed.

“There was a secret will,” Arlen said excitedly. “Meade Davis drew it up last fall. Mother gave me the entire ranch, as I knew she would. Hank gets nothing.”

Marybeth was taken aback. But when she watched them it had looked like . . .

“Congratulations are in order, I guess.”

“You can say that again,” Arlen said, beaming.

“When I saw you outside, it looked as though Davis was telling you something awful. You looked unhappy with what he said.”

Arlen stared back at Marybeth as if frozen against a wall by a spotlight. He regrouped quickly, and fully, threw back his head and laughed too loudly for the room. “When he told me his office had been broken into and the will stolen, I thought Hank had beaten me once and for all. That’s probably what you saw. Then I realized that if Meade testifies to what it said, and what Mother’s wishes were, it’s as good as finding the will in the first place! You must have seen me before I figured that out.”

“That must be it,” she said, rising and holding out her hand. “Again, congratulations.” She said it not so much for Arlen but for the rest of the valley.