“What?” The folder held an endless correspondence between Landry Properties, Inc., and its insurance carrier, dating back several years. Even letting weekend warriors play paintball on your mountains was apparently a potential pitfall of litigation.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just another misunderstanding.”
“Huh,” she said, trying to decipher the arcane agreement that had BWI paying a portion of Peggy’s insurance on the land not leased for the spa. Statements for January, February, March…then something different in April.
“Russ. Come take a look at this.” He knelt beside her. She laid the paper on the rug and they both bent over it. “If this says what I think it does, Peggy’s share of the BWI insurance was canceled in April.”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Would that include that provision Opperman told me about? Where she gets paid out of insurance money if the project didn’t go forward?”
“I’m guessing so.” She flipped through another few pages. “Look at this. Her insurance company writes her that they’ve been refused payment because BWI’s dropped her policy.” She underlined the words with her fingernail. “Hugh Parteger,” she glanced at him, “a financier I met at Peggy’s party, he told me BWI was overloaded with debt and looking for cash.”
“Her insurance situation wouldn’t be that big a deal so long as the construction was going through,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “But if she thought Ingraham was going to pull the plug on the project…”
“She’d be left with nothing except a hunk of cleared land and a reputation as someone who had a major deal drop through her fingers. She’s spent years trying to make something of that property.”
He nodded. “Could be she decided that if Bill Ingraham was out of the way, the spa could be built without him. Opperman said pretty much the same thing to me. With the design all in place, all Ingraham was doing at this point was acting as the lead contractor. Could be she thought she could safeguard her investment.” He shook his shoulders. “Remind me to stay away from real estate speculation.”
There was a screeching noise outside, and the sound of flying gravel. Someone shouted from the main floor.
“What the—” Russ was on his feet and pounding down the hall before Clare had a chance to get up. She followed him, two steps at a time, up the stairs to the main floor, guided by the shouts and slamming doors. The elderly Woods were huddled beside a grandfather clock in the foyer. “Which way?” Clare said.
Cyrus Wood pointed to the front door. She burst outside in time to see both the squad cars gunning down the sloping drive, wheels spinning, stones
The passenger door unlocked with a sharp click and she fell into the seat, clutching at the oven-hot leather as Russ spun the vehicle around and slammed on the accelerator. She couldn’t believe he had actually fallen for it and let her get in.
“What is it?”
“The nephew pulled right into the driveway. He saw our black-and-whites and backed out of there, but not before Kevin spotted him. Hang on.”
They took the turn onto the road on two wheels. His hand twitched where the radio would be in his squad car. She could hear the sirens wailing, the sound shifting, growing higher and fainter as the lightweight cars drew farther and farther ahead of Russ’s heavy truck.
“Will they be able to catch him?” she asked.
“Eventually.” His focus was all on the road as he leaned into his accelerator.
“What if he drives through town like that? That fast?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. It was a stupid question. She could picture the tourists jaywalking across the streets, the kids biking. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed the best she knew how, scarcely coherent, all her fear and belief laid out in the open.
The sirens cut off. Russ swore. The truck flew over the road, heading toward the intersection, lofting over bumps and jarring high and wide over asphalt patches filling last winter’s potholes.
“Hang on!” The two black-and-whites were catercorner across the intersection, blocking a Volvo sedan that had, from the skid marks, spun around in the turn and nosed into a ditch thick with daylilies and Queen Anne’s lace. Russ jammed down on the brake, throwing both of them forward until her shoulder belt caught and bit into her neck. The back end of the truck danced across the road but stopped safely in the breakdown lane. Great, she thought. Now I’ll have matching bruises on both shoulders.
The uniformed officers spilled from their cars, taking protective stances behind their open doors. Russ opened his own door, drawing his weapon at the same time.
She nodded.
Officer Entwhistle was yelling at Malcolm Wintour to get out of the car with his hands showing. She couldn’t see any movement inside the sedan. Lord, what if he was dead, too? The awful toll of human life and pain was already too high. And for what? To get a lousy piece of land developed. To make more money for a woman who already had more than anyone really needed.
Russ closed in on his men, staying low, his gun out in front of him. She saw him signal Noble Entwhistle, who ducked behind his own car and edged around toward the back of the Volvo, which was angled up so that the tires were barely touching the asphalt.
“Wintour,” Russ bellowed. “We’ve got your aunt. We’ve got Waxman. We know everything. Get out of the car.”
The door on the driver’s side shuddered, opened a few inches, and then stuck fast in the side of the ditch. Clare rolled her window down. She had to hear what was going to happen. A hand emerged from the opening. “It wasn’t my idea!” The thin, frightened voice she heard was not at all like the one she had heard from the bathroom. “She made me do it!”
“Get out of the goddamned car!”
