Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (11 page)

Puzzled, I watched her hurry into an adjoining office.
What had gotten her so excited? Surely she was aware of the
old gentleman’s death. They’d sent a sympathy card.

Moments later the door opened. Heels clicking sharply on the terrazzo floor and her shoulder-length dark hair flowing
behind her, a slender woman in her late thirties who would
have had my vote as Miss America strode purposely toward
me. I glanced past her for podgy Miss Abigail. The only one
behind Miss America was the nervous secretary.

She stopped in front of me. Her dark eyes blazed fire.
“Mr. Boudreaux?”

“Yes”

Her light green eyes narrowed, and her well-defined jaw
hardened. “I’m Abigail Collins, and I can’t say that I am
pleased to meet you”

You could have knocked me over with Jack’s broken emu
feather. I had no idea what she was talking about. All I could
do was gape.

Her eyes blazed.

Finally, I managed to overcome my surprise and shock.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Miss Collins” I took a step
backward. “Obviously, you’re upset about something, but I
haven’t the slightest idea what”

“Oh, you don’t, do you? Don’t you represent John Wesley
Edney?”

“Represent?” I shook my head. “No. I’m a private investigator looking into his death”

The anger fled from her face, replaced with a puzzled
frown. “Investigator?”

I glanced over her shoulder at the curious young receptionist who was straining to hear our conversation. “Is there
someplace we can talk? Privately.”

She realized the receptionist was behind her. “Oh, yes. In
my office. Please. This way.” As she turned, she spoke to her
receptionist. “Hold any calls, Marsha”

“Impressive place you have here,” I said, following her
into her office. “I’ve never visited Monticello.” I gestured to
the windows that were set near the floor. “Is this what the
real place is like?”

A pleased smile dimpled her cheeks as she slipped into
her chair behind the desk and nodded to another in front of her desk. “Isn’t it beautiful? I wish I could say I was responsible for the idea, but the idea belonged to Wilson Jenkins,
the previous director of the society. I took his place when he
retired two years ago. He is such a wonderful man. I-” She
caught herself. Her cheeks colored. “I mean, we really miss
him around here.” She glanced appreciatively around the
room, her eyes settling on the windows. “Jefferson worked
on Monticello for forty years. He set the windows close to
the floor so that from outside, the house gives the appearance of a three-story building.”

I frowned.

With a warm smile, she continued. “Take a look when you
leave. In the other wings, windows are set higher, and those
in the dome create the illusion of three stories.”

The room in which we sat was impressive. I said as much.

With a soft laugh, she replied, “It wasn’t cheap”

“Jenkins must have had some generous donors”

Her smile faded into a frown. “He did. One in particular.
John Wesley Edney.”

I attributed her frown to his death. I pulled out the sympathy card. “I saw the card you sent his children. They
appreciated it very much” The last was a lie, but I figured
anyone who sent a -card should believe it was appreciated.

Her next remark almost knocked me out of my chair.
“Had I known then what I learned yesterday, I would have
saved the postage” The fire I’d seen earlier in her eyes
blazed once again.

I forced a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Miss Collins. I don’t
understand.”

Her eyes scrutinized me. Slowly, the anger faded from her
eyes. “You really don’t, do you?”

“I wish I did. What happened to upset you?”

“Upset?” She drew a deep breath. “How about infuriated,
enraged, outraged?”

I gave her a crooked grin. “Okay. I’ll go along with infuriated. I don’t know about outraged, but infuriated works for
me,” I replied flippantly.

She glared at me a moment, then a tiny smile ticked up
the edge of her lips. She gave her head a brief shake. “Please
excuse me, Mr. Boudreaux, but-”

“Call me Tony. Like they always say, Mr. Boudreaux is
my father. I’m just Tony.”

Her smile grew wider. “All right, Tony. I’m Abigail, Abby
to my friends.”

“Nice to know you, Abby. Now, fill me in on what’s going
on. What happened yesterday?”

She paused a moment. “I told you that Mr. Edney donated the funds for this building. You see, he and Wilson-”
She hesitated, and a slight blush covered her cheeks. “I
mean he and Mr. Jenkins had known each other for years.
Mr. Edney was one of our most generous benefactors. Then
yesterday, I learned that the offer of land he had promised
the society fora preserve had been withdrawn.”

“Promised?”

She nodded.

“Verbal or in writing?”

“In writing.”

“What’s the problem then? If it’s in writing, take it to
court”

She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but that’s another problem.
It was in his will. He gave us a copy of his will several years
ago just after he promised us the land.”

I frowned. “He what? Did you say he gave you a copy of
his will?”

“Yes.

“Why would he do that?”

She shrugged. “I had just started working here, and I
asked Mr. Jenkins that very question. He said Mr. Edney
wanted the society to know he was serious about his promise.” A crooked smile played over her lips. “It didn’t really
make much sense to me, but I didn’t worry about it. Then
yesterday, I learned he had changed the will. All the land is
going to his children.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Land. Children. “Are you talking about the riverside land south of
Vicksburg?”

She looked at me in surprise. “Why yes. How did you
know?”

“I read the will also.”

She grimaced. “It was to be a bird sanctuary. It’s the home
of three birds on the endangered lists, the Limnothlypis
swainsonii-” She hesitated when she spotted the confused
look on my face. “Sorry,” she said with a sheepish grin. “I
should have said a Swainson’s Warbler, Kentucky Warbler,
and Prothonotary Warbler. The Prothonotary is also known
as Golden Swamp Warbler.” She shook her head. “It is one
of the most beautiful birds I have ever seen. And,” she
added, “the land is also a stopover in the northern and southern flyways for a sanctuary like that. I was stunned when I
read the new will.”

“That was one of the big surprises in the will,” I replied.
“The boys, WR and Stewart, wanted Mr. Edney to sell the
property. He refused. No one knew exactly why, but his
housekeeper told us that she had the feeling he was going to
give it to someone.”

Abby frowned. “That would be us. But, why did he
change his mind?”

All I could do was shrug. I pulled out my copy of the new
will. “Here’s the new one. According to it, your organization
is included for a sum of ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thou-” She clamped her lips shut. Tears brimmed
in her eyes. Fighting the emotion threatening to sweep over
her, she sighed. “I suppose I should be happy for that, but the
preserve would have been a tremendous environmental asset
to the area, helping to preserve part of the ecology as well as
American wildlife.”

“And you say he gave the society a copy of the will?”

“Yes. Would you care to see it?”

“If you don’t mind.” To me, it was a little more than odd.
The old man must have not only been eccentric, but eccentric with a capital E. On the other hand, anyone worth $23 million could, like the six-hundred-pound gorilla, do just
about whatever he wanted to do.

Retrieving it from a desk drawer, she handed the document to me. “The date on it is in his hand.”

At an upward slant across the top left corner of the will
was the date, July 11, 1993. Eleven years ago. I skimmed the
will. It was identical to the new one with two exceptions.
Madison Parish Ornithological Society was beneficiary of
the thousand and ten acres, and Annebelle Edney’s name
was not mentioned.

I glanced at the new will and date on which it had been
signed, July 24, 2004.

“July twenty-fourth,” I muttered. “And the fire was on
the twenty-sixth.” I pursed my lips and studied the will,
hoping for some revelation, which never came. “Two days
later.”

“My secretary said you were here in regard to his death.
Exactly what did you mean by that?”

“One of his sons, the younger one, asked me to look into
the events surrounding his father’s death. That’s all I’m
doing. I found your sympathy card and saw your organization in his will, so I naturally wondered what he was doing
with a group of, of ah-” I hesitated, not knowing exactly
what to call them without offending her.

She chuckled. “Birdwatchers?”

I shrugged. “Yeah.”

She studied me a moment. “Why would his son want the
death investigated? I heard it was an accident.” She leaned
forward, an inquisitive frown on her slender face. A flash of
excitement flared in her eyes. “He doesn’t believe it was an
accident?”

I tried to sidestep her question. “He doesn’t know. He just
wants to be sure.”

A tiny grin curled her lips as her twinkling eyes tried to
search deep into my own. She went for the jugular. “Let me
ask you. If it weren’t an accident, but deliberate-would that
change the will?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. But I don’t see how.” I changed the
subject. “Apparently, Mr. Edney had given no indication he
was considering changing his will.”

“That’s right.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

She pondered my question. “At the last board meeting in
February.”

“He didn’t mention a new will?”

‘No.

“He have any close friends in the society?”

She shook her head. “Not after Mr. Jenkins retired.”

“How can I get in touch with Mr. Jenkins?”

She quickly sketched a map and jotted some numbers.
“His place is on the Louisiana side of the river across from
the land we were promised. Here are the directions and his
phone number.” She paused. A slight blush tinged her
cheeks once again. “He’s such a sweet man. Tell him I said
`hi’ and not to be a stranger.”

I pointed my finger at her like a pistol. “You got it.”

Outside, I paused to study the facade of the Monticello
lookalike before climbing in the Silverado. Abby was right.
The building did appear to be three stories.

I was never much of an historian, but in Louisiana
where I was reared, those of us with Acadian ancestries
always had a warm spot for Thomas Jefferson. After all,
had it not been for him, we might still belong to France.
“Perish the thought,” I muttered as I climbed into the pickup. I paused before starting the engine, chuckling over the
disclaimer French’s Foods had issued when the antiFrance sentiment swept across the country. The only thing
our mustard has in common with France is they are both
yellow

Thank you again, Thomas Jefferson.

Back on the interstate, I was too absorbed with my own
thoughts to see the eighteen-wheelers boxing me in.

When I’m working a case, I talk to myself as I drive. I
don’t mean I simply mull the situation. I actually talk, aloud,
asking questions and then answering them. Somehow the
spoken word creates a more solid impression in my peasized brain than a simple thought.

More than once as I’ve been driving, I’ve had the uncomfortable feeling someone was staring at me, only to look
around square into the laughing eyes of those in a passing
vehicle.

And that’s exactly what I was doing during the drive to
Wilson Jenkins’ home. I was deep into conversation with
myself about the motivations of my suspects-WR, Stewart,
and Annebelle-when I noted the eighteen-wheeler pulling
a car carrier ahead of me was slowing.

I glanced in my side mirror in anticipation of pulling
around the rig, but staring me right in the eye was the blunt
nose of a howling Peterbilt coming up on my left. I pulled
back to await his passing.

Except that when he drew even with me, he slowed.

I was uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to the
two large rigs, so I started to back away until I spotted the
snarling grill of a Kenworth coming up behind.

Muttering a soft curse, I maintained my speed. Then, to my alarm, I noticed the rig behind wasn’t slowing. He was
moving up on me until the shiny grill filled my mirror.

“All right, boys,” I mumbled, growing antsy. “Have your
fun, then let’s move on” My hands began to sweat. I flexed
my fingers about the steering wheel. I noted the Texas
license plate on the car carrier in front of me. They might be
just having fun with local yokels on the road, but this was
one local yokel who planned to report them. I committed the
license to memory.

The rig behind crept closer.

Then, as one, the rigs in front and beside me increased
their speed. I remained at sixty until the Kenworth on my
tail tapped my bumper. My head snapped back then popped
forward. I struggled to straighten the swerving pickup.