Showdown

Chapter Twenty-three

There was a young woman Prine had briefly dated when he'd come to Claybank. She worked in the county records office. Prine had been more interested in her than she'd been in him. After a few evenings of stilted courting, she admitted that she was sorry but that she was just using his good looks as a way of making another young man jealous enough to ask her to marry him.

Which had apparently worked, because slender Sharon Sullivan was now portly and with child as she waddled up to him behind the counter of the records office. "Hi, Tom." She smiled. "I weigh a little more than the last time you saw me."

"Well, congratulations."

"Thanks." Even with a fleshy face, her smile radiated the pride of a good and decent woman. "And Art wants another one right after this."

"I'm glad it all worked out for you, Sharon."

Her sweet face tightened. "I'm just sorry I wasn't nicer to you."

"It was fine," he said. "And it turned out fine, too."

They talked a few more minutes about people they knew in common. This was the age—she was twenty-four to Prine's twenty-nine—that most still-unmarried folks, men and women alike, started looking around for a lifelong mate. There was plenty of gossip about all those various couplings and uncouplings.

Finally, he said, "You've got the records of local businesses, don't you?"

"Depends what you mean by 'records.'"

"You know. Who started them. Then who bought them. And then if there are any silent partners."

"Oh, sure. We'd have that on just about every business in the valley. Who're you looking for?"

"Pentacle Mattresses."

She laughed. "We've been so busy around here, I haven't even had time to put it away. It's sitting on my desk right now."

"Oh? Somebody else asked to see it?"

"Man named Woodward. Insurance investigator is what he said."

"When was this?"

"Let me think." She had a pert little freckled nose that was fun to gaze upon. And gaze he did. "Monday, I guess." She patted the belly beneath her blue gingham dress. "I wasn't feeling too good. You know how women get in the morning. He was telling me how his wife had gotten with their four kids. He seemed like a nice fella. He still around town?"

"That's what we're trying to find out." He told her about Beaumont and Woodward missing. "Can people just ask to see the file?"

"Afraid not, Tom. We can look up things for them, but we can't just hand the files over." Her smile made her small, exquisite face—so nicely framed with hair the color of mahogany—look like a drawing of a woman in a magazine. "But I forgot. You're a deputy. All you have to do is sign a form and I can turn the file over to you."

"Knew there was a reason I wore this badge," he said. "So I can throw my weight around in the records office."

"Be right back," she said.

He spent fifteen minutes with the file, sitting in a chair in a corner like a boy who'd misbehaved in class. People came in and out, looking at his seat outside the counter. They probably wondered what a deputy was doing looking through a file. They also probably thought that something pretty interesting was going on. This was, after all, the deputy who'd gone looking for Cassie Neville.

Everything in the files was routine. As the state required, there was about half a pound of various legal documents establishing Aaron Duncan and a company named River's Edge properties as co-owners of the mattress-manufacturing firm. There was no information at all on River's Edge except a post office box address in the state capital. The signatures for River's Edge had been entered by the attorney, whose address was also listed as being in the state capital. Did this mean the signature was a legal proxy or that the lawyer himself was River's Edge and therefore signing for the company?

He asked Sharon about this.

"I really can't say, Tom. I'm sure the owner's name has to be on file somewhere. Maybe it is this lawyer."

He wrote down the name River's Edge and the number of the post office box. He pushed the file back to her and said, "Good luck with the kid."

"It's good seeing you again, Tom. Hopefully next time, I'll be a little thinner."

"You look great."

She'd wanted reassurance that she was still an appealing woman—which she definitely was—and Prine was happy to give it to her.

Five minutes later, he was at the telegraph office, writing out the message he wanted sent to the River's Edge attorney in the state capital.

That afternoon, Cassie Neville was buried.

The town had never seen such a crowd of important people. You knew they were important because of the way they strode about, the way they ordered lesser humans about, and the way they would tell you they were important if you failed to recognize their splendiferous humanity. Even the governor attended, taking time to do his usual politicking, of course. He probably had chapped lips from all the kissing he did. He made short order of the babies, but lingered longer bussing the mothers.

The interior of the church was so crowded with flowers that several people had allergic reactions. There was a lot of sneezing.

When Richard Neville, godlike once more, made his shining way up the center aisle of the church, everyone turned to look at him. Would he cry? Would he come apart? Or—wouldn't this be pretty remarkable—would he faint? Bereaved men had been known to faint at the funerals of their loved ones. Imagine someone as big and strong and handsome as Richard Neville, the richest man in this part of the state, crumpling in his pew, while someone rushed for smelling salts and a piece of cloth dipped in cool water?

He didn't do any of those things, of course.

He took his seat in the front pew with the other close relatives and sat there with his hands on his knees for the entire ceremony. He didn't look around, he didn't speak, he didn't sing when the others opened their hymnals.

He wasn't much different at graveside. He watched it all with stern mien but didn't seem to be participating in the communal mourning. He looked as if he had other business to attend to. But since Cassie's killers were dead, people couldn't imagine what that other business would be.

One of the horses pulling the hearse played wild for a few minutes, frightening some children. The minister reading the services developed a cough he couldn't seem to quell for long. And Mrs. Morgan, who had moved here with her brood only a month before and had in fact never laid eyes on Cassie except in the coffin, wept so extravagantly that some people began to smirk at her. My Lord, was she auditioning for some kind of play?

The temperature stayed at a sunny sixty-five. Autumn had never looked lovelier than it did right now.

Every once in a while, Prine had the impulse to step in front of the coffin and explain that she might still be alive if it hadn't been for his stupid plan to get rich. But he was too shy to do this. He would be a ridiculous figure, making a public confession that way. Living with guilt was bad enough; purposely making yourself a figure of foolishness was even harder to bear.

In town, Prine went directly to the telegraph office. The lawyer for River's Edge, a Mr. Kyle Abernathy, had already wired back.

CO-OWNER OF PENTACLE MATTRESS

CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION. SORRY.

WOULD NEED COURT ORDER.

He'd expected this. Lawyers weren't about to give out client information of this nature without a battle. That's what people paid lawyers for—protection.

He went over to the bank to see Eugene Sims. Sims had a nineteen-year-old son who'd been born with a hand the shape of a bottle—a whiskey bottle. You rarely saw that hand when it wasn't that shape. Todd Sims was always getting into trouble of the public intoxication kind. Prine always ran the kid home instead of charging him and putting him in jail. This wasn't because Prine felt all that sorry for the young man, which he did to a small degree. It was because a bank vice president was somebody good to know. You never knew when a bank VP would come in handy.

Eugene Sims was a fleshy man with a round pink face and dog-sad brown eyes. He looked afraid when he saw Prine walking toward his desk in the back of the bank. There was only one enclosed office here, and that, needless to say, belonged to the bank president.

"Todd in trouble?" Sims asked, touching his tight, white celluloid collar.

"Relax, Eugene. Todd's fine."

Sims's relief was visible. He had his left hand on his desk. It was trembling. "Sit down, Tom. Since this visit doesn't involve my son, I can relax now. So what can I help you with, my friend?"

"You do Aaron Duncan's banking, right?"

"Yes, we're very glad to have him as a customer."

Prine leaned forward, giving the conversation an air of secrecy. "There's a co-owner for his mattress company."

"There is? Gosh, Sam, I handle that account myself. You sure about that?"

Prine nodded. "I wondered if you could check in his file and find the name of the other owner for me."

Sims leaned back. Talked around his steepled fingers. "You start looking through a man's personal files—it's not good, Tom."

"This is official business," Prine said.

"He in trouble?"

"Not that I know of. We're just trying to wrap up this investigation, and we need to know who all the players are."

"Then why don't you just ask Aaron Duncan himself?"

Prine was careful about what he said. "I'm trying to help Aaron keep his name clear of what could be a financial scandal. And lose him one hell of a lot of money. And prestige."

"In other words, he won't cooperate."

"Well," Prine said, "I really haven't asked him yet. But I'm saving that as a last resort."

Sims sighed, sat forward. Nodded to the bank president, Homer Styles, who was standing outside the teller windows talking with some of the customers. He was a courtly man, a southern man, and those who weren't put off by his southern accent were enchanted by it. For many Yankees as well as southerners, the Civil War had yet to end.

"You see Styles out there? Can you imagine what he'd do to me if I gave you confidential information? I'd be out of a job, Tom. I just can't do it. The only way you could get it that I know of is to get a court order, and then you'd still have to deal with Styles, not me."

Prine shrugged. "I figured that's what you'd say. But I thought I'd give it a try."

"I'd help you if I could, Tom."

"Yeah, I know." He pushed himself up out of the chair. He'd always had a vague admiration for drummers. They could get turned down ten times a day and they could still find a reserve of enthusiasm to knock on one more door. Getting turned down drained him.

But as he walked out of the bank, his step quickened when he realized that there was one more person he could try. A person who didn't seem to like Aaron Duncan all that much. Aaron Duncan's wife.

Richard Neville wondered if he could survive the late-afternoon gathering at his mansion. Another excuse for the local gentry to get drunk and stuff their bellies at his expense. And all the cloying, embarrassing speeches he had to endure. She was so lovely. She was such a fine person. You must be so lonely. Anytime you feel like talking, just stop over. She would've wanted you to go on with your life, Richard.

She'd been a stupid, whiny little bitch who'd wanted to be praised constantly for all the inane little things she did. My God, she never stopped bragging about her charity work; never stopped regaling him with tales of the boy-men who fell in love with her; and never talked about how she was going to give half of her fortune to charity.

What she hadn't known—few people did—was the catastrophic losses the business he'd inherited had suffered in the past few years. Against the advice of his lawyers, his accountants, and his bankers, he'd started buying up towns and hamlets rumored to have been chosen by railroads as railheads. He'd already squandered hundreds of thousands of dollars on bad cattle deals; on timberland that logging companies wouldn't meet his prices for; on a steamboat scheme that would've returned the rivers to their former majesty—despite the obvious fact that people preferred railroad travel these days. River travel was in terrible decline. All this was made even worse by the fact that he listened only to those cronies who agreed with him. Hell, he bought them drinks, food, women—why wouldn't they agree with him?

He'd managed to survive last year only because he'd been able to blackmail Aaron Duncan into letting him buy into Duncan's various businesses—and then destroy them. Neville had witnessed a drunken Duncan cut up a whore pretty badly one night—the woman almost bled to death before Neville, terrified of the scandal, called in a doc to take care of her. Duncan had no choice but to go along with Neville's arson plans. Neville got the cash flow he needed. But then the insurance company sent that damned Al Woodward out here. Neville sent him a note luring him to the lake and killed him there.

But he knew he was beyond the help of arson. He needed a large amount of money, and he needed it quickly. That meant his sister's half of the family fortune.

He still remembered the day Rooney had come to Neville's buggy in town one day. The man even looked like a grifter, but it was easy to tell that Rooney thought otherwise. Rooney obviously saw himself as a very sleek-looking businessman. He would've ignored Rooney, but Rooney said, "I have some interesting news about your sister."

My God, you couldn't ask for a better opportunity. The stupid bitch had hired two lowlife grifters to kidnap her to teach big brother a lesson. Rooney offered to do whatever Neville said if the price was right. Neville made sure the price was right. He wanted Cassie murdered, and these scruffy boys were just the two to do it. He would make sure to kill them if he ever got the chance.

And he got his chance.

Now he watched all the hypocrites. They'd be laughing with their mouths and lusting with their eyes until it was their turn to come over and pay their respects to Richard. And then they would put on their grief masks. And natter on about what a loss she was. And how much he'd obviously loved her. And how, someday, he'd be able to carry on with his life.

He had a meeting on Monday with her lawyers. He needed to tap into her fortune, and quickly.