“Horse breeding is not my field, but I understand what you mean. “
“What else have you got for me, Si?” I drank some coffee and fought closing my eyes. I was starting to feel weary.
As I talked, Simon’s eyes had roamed my petite living room. His eyes drifted over the book spines in my shelves. Now he got up, and stood in front of the television set. He picked up a videocassette lying on top of the TV and waved it at me. Both his eyebrows were up. It was the Takeur tape.
“Oh.
That!
“
He read the side of the box, “
Takeur’s Farm Tour.
What farm, may I ask?”
“I was planning to give you that today. Glad you found it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I guess I found it in Marcie’s tack room. Just before my first concussion.”
“Hmmm. Suppressing evidence?”
“Take it, Simon. I was meaning to give it to you all along.”
“Okay. But now you owe me a dinner out. I pay, you come. Annabelle’s Plantation.”
My eyes got wide. “Really? Fancy place.”
“Not too fancy for you, Bryn.”
Wow. What was fancy about me?
I worked hard not to be fancy. “Um. Oh.” My stomach plummeted like an elevator with a broken cable.
Please, Simon! Not a date!
He held up his hands. “I’ll be good. Just want an evening out with you.”
“Well. I guess we can plan on something down the road.” My throat was constricted. My voice sounded like a chicken squawking.
“Uh-uh.” He looked benevolently down at me. “Let’s pick an evening now.” He smiled.
I did not want to go on a date with Simon. With anyone. And with Simon it was too much like fraternization. Besides, I was just now getting comfortable with celibacy. And, if I weren’t celibate, would I actually be attracted to Simon? No!
“Okay,” I said. “A week Saturday?”
“Not this Saturday?”
I shook my head. It hurt and the fries fell into my lap. I left them there. I knew I looked terrible with damp, flattened hair, old baggy sweatshirt and flannel pj bottoms. Maybe all this would discourage him. He smiled at me, pleading in his eyes. Oh what the hell. Besides, Annabelle’s had good food.
“Okay. Saturday.”
Anything could happen by then. I could be dead.
“Great, Bryn, just great!”
Now he sat back down next to me and put his briefcase on the coffee table. He clicked it open and removed a CD. Waggled it in front of my eyes. “I will play this only once. You might want to take notes.”
“Okay,” I slapped the fries back on my head and got up, slowly, and regally moving to my office, I returned with a legal pad.
“Ready?” asked Simon. “Only once, now!”
I nodded, my adrenaline taking off as I caught the word ‘once,’ with its ominous association to the horse. Favorite Pilot V5 pen in hand, a pad on my lap, I was prepared.
He inserted the CD. Soon, Marcie’s voice: “Morgan Oaks Farm, Marcie Goodall here, and I’m busy with the horses. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll call you back.”
A copy of a tape from Marcie’s answering machine! I had missed it!
Tape sound, then a man’s voice, high-pitched: “Hey Mrs. Goodall. Fil Takeur here. Bad news. Double whammy. Anton called and said he got the appraisal just now. The appraiser says the place is unlivable–broke air conditioning, all sorts of plumbin’ problems. Bad roof. Guess you didn’t know all what was wrong. Also, worse news–I just got laid off work. Real sorry. We can’t buy your farm now. Believe our agreement with you stipulated this sort of thing would cancel the agreement. So, now it’s canceled. Bye now.” Here was the clue connecting so many dots. Filmore actually canceling his agreement with Marcie based on a false appraisal, the one I had found at Delon’s, and also giving the no-work excuse. Marcie must have felt dreadful hearing this. Her whole life disintegrated with one phone message.
So still, why kill her?
It made no sense!
I scribbled. More tape sound, then another man’s voice: “Hey Marcie! Cade! All fixed up. Lawyer said since you agreed to hand back the farm, we won’t do a foreclosure, we do a’ assumption. Appointment for you to sign the papers tomorrow mornin’ at 9 A.M. Gaspachio and Ligitoni Attorneys, office in Metairie, 452 Realto Road, Suite 100. Call my cell, confirm.”
I wrote fast then looked up at Simon. “That’s it?”
“There were some earlier messages but these pretty much null those out.”
“Whew. So you checked on this–was there an assumption?”
As if I didn’t know.
“I did and yes, there was. A Kitty Z. Abeletti assumed it from Aimée Pritchard.”
“Aimée! Dead Aimée?”
“Yes. Pritchard never put the deed to that farm in his name, just left it in his deceased wife’s. In fact, his name doesn’t appear on any of the documents. Kitty is his sister.”
“You don’t say. What a jerk! Is this legal?”
“It’s dicey. Could be a form of income tax evasion.”
Simon, his skin even paler under his sparse black hair, near-black eyes droopy as a bloodhound’s, suddenly moved around the coffee table and sat next to me. For a moment I was afraid he’d meant to get down on one knee. Now his face was too close. His breath smelled like coffee and mint, which merely muted an underlying metallic smell. I willed myself not to flinch. After all, Simon is a good, well-meaning man.
“Bryn,” he exhaled nervously. “I found out something else. Something that could be–big.”
“What?”
He took my hand. His felt like a cold, raw oyster wrapping around mine.
“Promise me you’re coming to dinner.”
“Simon. Promise. What?”
He leaned even closer–was he going to kiss me? I had to lean back. He whispered, oyster tightening– “One hour after Marcie left after signing the farm back to Cade, the Takeurs walked into Gaspachio and Ligitoni and purchased the property.”
“What!” My voice climbed to a shriek. “They violated the Agreement to Purchase they had with Marcie?” Agreements to Purchase were binding for ninety days unless there were extenuating circumstances, like the buyers suddenly couldn’t afford the property because of a job loss.
“Apparently, but maybe not entirely. If he really lost his job, he would legally be out of the loop.” To my relief, Simon sat back slightly. The oyster slithered from my hand.
“What! And he got another job a day later! Simon, you’ve got to believe that’s a bunch of hooey! This looks like some kind of conspiracy–Cade, Delon, the Takeurs. Maybe Marcie was killed because she’d figured out they were all illegally scamming her property from her…But that’s–hideous! How did Cade even know the Takeurs?”
“He shouldn’t have known them,” answered Simon. “Do you think Marcie would be so naïve she’d tell a shyster like Pritchard who her buyers were? She had to know he’d cut her out in a heartbeat.”
A picture flashed in my mind from the tape. Marcie riding her stallion, erect in the saddle, a strong woman.
No.
“Watch the tape, Simon, the one you just found on my TV. It tells more about Marcie’s real personality than anything I could ever say. I really don’t think there was anything dumb about Marcie. Soft, yes. Beaten down and depressed–for sure. Unfortunately, though, she was also nice, and maybe that was deadly. But no. She wouldn’t tell him. Had to be someone else. Which strongly suggests to me that Cade, Anton and Mr. Fil were all in cahoots.”
The energy of these revelations got Simon to his feet pacing. “There’s this issue of the appraisal, Bryn. Tuan found two different appraisals in her file cabinets. Don’t know how we ever overlooked them, but these things happen. Anyway, we have them now. I went over there last night, to her farm. Bryn, I turned on the central air conditioning. You know what? Works perfectly.”
“I knew it! The house just needs a paint job, that’s all. That house is livable! More than livable–it’s a small palace!”
“My office is going to check on the appraiser.”
“Right.” I made a note, looked up at the nervous man in my living room. “This is terrible, Simon. I feel bushwhacked.”
“So did Marcie.”
“She was. For real,” I said. “She signed the farm back to Pritchard via his sister–my God! That’s
giving
him hundreds of thousands of her own dollars, all her improvements–”
“Perhaps she didn’t want the stain of foreclosure on her credit record.”
“Yes, but what about the stain of losing a couple hundred grand? It’s a huge loss! Gosh–it’s like having your–intestines jerked from your living belly! And besides the money–her horses. Her breeding program was her life! I talked with Theo, you know–”
“You sly girl…”
“No. He showed up here a couple of mornings ago, unannounced, just like you have.”
Pain, confusion, frustration and a helpless anger erupted in me. I stared at Simon, then spoke slowly. “And the Takeurs
lie
then walk in the next damn day and
Buy. The. Farm.
And that same day Marcie, really ‘bought the farm.’ Eternally. Does someone have a sadistic sense of humor in all this? Is there paperwork filed on that Act of Sale or Assumption or whatever it was?”
“It wouldn’t have had time to get to the courthouse yet. It’ll be public record though.” He glanced at my grandmother clock above the television. “Ten thirty! I have to run. If you have any visions promise you’ll tell me right away?”
But I sat there, stunned. I had emotions that were rightfully Marcie’s: outrage, betrayal, despair. It’s a wonder she didn’t commit suicide. Instead, that grotesque death.
“Of course, Simon.”
“Okay. Remember our date.”
“Of course, Simon.”
He moved toward me, but then stopped himself. He made a limp little wave at me and then he left.
Never mind the concussion, now for certain I didn’t feel like going anywhere. The stain of this murder, like blood seeping into a paper towel, was bleeding wider and wider. I remembered a line from the
Tao
, “Before events can contract, they must expand.”
Everything was expanding.
Chapter Twenty Six
May 27, 9:38 PM
François was at the wheel of Madame Maigrèt’s blue Mercedes. Lights off. The car hummed softly, soothingly, counterpoint to the punches connecting with Cade Pritchard’s paunch in the dark, garbage-strewn underpass. Madame Maigrèt sat silent in the back seat.
“
Assez.
” Enough. “Go now to Breen’s,
s’il tu plâit,
François.” Silently the youth backed from beneath the towering black-shadowed archway of the I-10 in New Orleans East. Just as he was about to accelerate there was a distinct bang! And another
Bang!
“Proceed. Vite!” said Madame Maigrèt. François drove away. Soon the car was on the I-10 heading for Absinthe Wells and Bryn’s place.
Bean stood for only a second, one glance at the writhing body of Cade Pritchard sprawled on the littered concrete, just two blocks from a notorious street of twenty-dollar hookers. He shoved his gun into the waistband of his well-tailored pants and walked to his car. He got in and drove away.
Chapter Twenty Seven
May 27, 11 AM
I was exhausted, too tired even to eat lunch since Simon’s unpleasant departure. Because of the no-sleeping ban with my concussion, I’d spent most of the night hazily watching movies on TV. I curled up on the loveseat and despite myself, fell asleep.
8:38 PM
I woke up feeling mugged. Again. I sat up and looked around. It was dark outside. The French fries were entirely thawed and mushy. I’d been using them as a pillow. Well, these at least, would be going into the trash and not onto my hips. I picked up the phone and checked for voice mail. One call. The vet’s. Lulu was doing fine, pick her up tomorrow. Amazing, I had slept right through the phone’s ringing. I stood and there was a whinny from the stable. Amethyst had heard movement and was summoning me to feed him.
I walked to the kitchen and let myself into the stable. Am nickered more politely at me. “I’m coming, guy,” I said. For a moment, I stood quietly. I was full of fears and nervousness. A sense of doom lurked on my personal horizon. I knew it was the concussion, and guilt that I’d slept during the daytime, but bothersome all the same. I breathed the humid night air. Listened to the good luck crickets singing in the hay. Let my jangly anxiousness subside. The back door was open to the oak and the fields beyond, a fan hummed in front of Amethyst’s stall. I could see a three-quarter moon rising. It silvered the tops of the trees at the rear of my eight acres and backlit my oak tree. The leaves looked as black and as shiny as a phonograph record. I walked to the narrow slot that held my grain storage bin, lifted the lid and scooped up a ration. I went into Amethyst’s stall. He stood with his nose poised over the feed tub. I dropped the grain and molasses mixture in for him, stroked his shoulder as he ate and leaned my cheek into his neck. He smelled sweet, a healthy horse. No doom in his mind. He cleaned up the grain and swung his nose around to me. I put out my palm and he licked salt from it. I reached up and took hold of a hank of mane and led him into the aisle.
“Let’s go outside, boy.” I put a halter and a lead shank on him, then using an over-turned bucket as a mounting block, climbed up on his back. I rode him from the barn, his hooves plonking on the concrete aisle, then crunching on the pea gravel outside, then vanishing utterly as he trod over the grass of the pasture. The gate was open and I sat bone-loose on his broad back. There was a creek, almost dried up now, in a cleft between the gentle undulations of my acreage. Wildflowers grew there. I felt Am’s silken sides through the thin flannel of my pj bottoms. My bare ankles gently touched his sides as we moved at a slow walk downhill, the way lit by the moon. My buttocks lifted and fell with his motion. He swished his tail. Yet thoughts raced through my mind.
Was Anton the killer?
Given that he had once had millions, would he murder for a mere ten thousand? Apparently he bashed his wife around, verbally and in semi-public as at the AA meetings, and he bashed her around physically to the extent that she needed sheltering herself. Why didn’t she leave him? But I knew why. The brainwashing, the toxic abuse was so carefully doled out over time, the torture increasing only as the victim became de-sensitized to each level of hurt. Then the next degree of pain was applied. Eventually the severity was meaningless, the victim had so lost any ability to make a decision, the concept of leaving didn’t exist. Add to that the usual threats of killing her, her children and anything else she cared about, and the victim stayed, to spare others harm.