“A navy-blue windbreaker with attached hood,” I raged to Kidd Chapin. “Remember how you thought last night’s prowler was wearing a hooded jacket? The lying bastard! Pulled a muscle jogging for his newspaper this morning, did he? Too bad he didn’t break his goddamned leg last night.”
“Now hold on,” said Kidd. “Just because he broke into your place doesn’t mean he was the one you chased. Think about it. Why would he look for the papers over there if he thought they were here?”
“Because he didn’t know they were here till this morning. Jay Hadley discussed it with Alliance members at Andy’s funeral, but Chet was talking to someone else when they went into their huddle. Barbara Jean told him at breakfast that I had Andy’s papers, and I bet he worked the conversation around to find out naturally so she doesn’t suspect a thing. He must have searched the trunk of my car at noon and when he didn’t find them there, he rode his boat over here.”
I was furious when I thought of Chet’s nice helpful offer to look over the papers for me because, quote, “I know most of the players.”
Didn’t he just, the bastard?
“Well at least he saved me some time,” I told Kidd. “I was going to start with Linville’s latest deals and then work back to the earliest. Now I’ll start with the Ritchie House transaction.”
While I retrieved the relevant documents from their hiding place between the newspaper sections and started laying them out in chronological order on the kitchen table, Kidd puttered quietly between refrigerator and sink and fixed me a shrimp salad.
It was delicious. “I didn’t know I’d brought lettuce,” I said.
“You didn’t,” he answered. “You also didn’t bring the green peppers or the tomatoes. Or the pint of ice cream in the freezer.”
“Ice cream?”
“Fudge Ripple.” He cocked his long homely face at my interest. “If you’re nice to me, I may let you have a spoonful.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I said, feeling oddly comforted.
• • •
An hour later, I knew why Chet had tried so desperately to steal those papers.
It wasn’t hard to find once I knew what I was looking for, although I still might have missed the significance if Andy hadn’t practically drawn an arrow.
Twelve years ago, Linville Pope had bought from Ritchie Janson the waterfront property that later became the Ritchie House. She had put up her husband’s dilapidated Morehead motel as part of the security. The rest was secured by the title to the
All done with a wink and a nod, no doubt.
“What’s illegal about that?” asked Kidd.
“The thing is, he had a fiduciary interest in the property because he was also Ritchie Janson’s attorney. Even if he were scrupulous about the actual sale—which, in point of fact, he wasn’t—that would certainly get a jaundiced look from the Bar Association if it came out, although he does seem to have made Linville pay a fair price.”
“How was he unscrupulous about the sale?”
“Look at the date Ritchie Janson’s supposed to have signed the bill of sale.”
“December fifth. And?”
“Now read his obituary notices from the local newspaper.”
“Died December twenty-second after a lengthy hospital stay. Oh, so he let her take advantage of a really sick old man?”
“Not just sick, Kidd. Look at this letter to the editor where somebody wrote an appreciation of his life. See where she says that he lingered a month after his last stroke, but never regained consciousness? Not too many unconscious men sign bills of sale that I know of.”
Kidd gave a low whistle. “Judge Winberry forged his signature?”
“He wasn’t a judge back then.” I leaned back in my chair, fitting all the pieces together. “What really must be tying a knot in his tail is that he used Barbara Jean’s boat to start Linville Pope on a fast track that eventually threatened the things Barbara Jean values most.”
“He must have been sleeping with her,” said Kidd.
“Yes,” I agreed slowly. “But he’s so crazy about Barbara Jean.”
“Not always a contradiction,” he reminded me wryly.
