failed to mention such an important fact, I wondered out loud? It was the first thing I was going to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
Max Renoir made his fortune in the oil rich marshlands along the coastal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The family home was in Gulfport, Mississippi. After the deaths of Max and his wife, the estate had to have been handled by an executor, as the girls were too young. Guy Robins, a close friend and attorney in Gulfport may be of some help in finding out that information for me. Guy's secretary put me through to him immediately. He knew nothing about the Renoir estate, but promised to check around and let me know tomorrow.
The Principal of the private academy in Wiggins, where Rene taught, agreed to allow me access to their personnel file on her. He had no problem with me talking to the staff if Lynn called and gave the necessary permission.
At seven o'clock the next morning, I was in the office clearing my desk. Guy called at nine a.m. The Renoir estate was currently being handled through Joe Glossman's bank in Ocean Springs, specifically by their attorney, Bill Moran.
Glossman and Moran were quite a team. Glossman owned most of Biloxi and Ocean Springs. He was into banking, oil and gas, trucking, and the fishing industry, owning a fleet of shrimp boats. The bank financed a great part of the shrimping fleet along the gulf coast.
Glossman started with nothing and built a vast empire on his own. He sent Bill Moran to college and law school, then hired him upon graduation. Moran became a loyal friend and was now CEO of the company.
Picking up the phone, I called Glossman's office and asked for Bill Moran. His secretary said he'd already left for the day, a court appearance in New Orleans. I asked if Glossman was there. She transferred me to his office.
'Mr. Glossman is in a meeting. May I have him return your call?'
When I told her my name, she said, 'Ah, Mr. Leicester. Wait just a moment.'
Joe Glossman came on the line. 'Jay, how in the world are you, my boy? It's been a long time, two or three years. What can I do for you?'
'Hello, Mr. Glossman. Guy Robins told me you handled Max Renoir's estate. I'm working on a case involving the two daughters and I need all the background on them, including their financial status.'
Glossman was silent for a moment. 'Jay, that's about the only thing on God's green earth I can't talk about. It's complicated and has to do with a lot of legalese. I'm sorry.'
'One of the girls is missing. I need all the help you can give me.'
'Missing? Which one?'
'Rene, the younger one. Teaches school in Wiggins.'
'Yes, yes, I know.' He paused. 'Bill is in court today. Be in my office at ten o'clock in the morning. I look forward to seeing you, Jay.'
Joe Glossman and I went back a long way. I taught him to fly years ago. He decided to buy a company aircraft and wanted to learn to fly in order to better understand aviation and airplanes. It was smart business. He went on to set up an aviation department in his company, hiring me as a consultant to procure the aircraft, hire the flight crew and maintenance personnel, and see that they were trained. One of those pilots is now a vice-president in charge of all transportation for the company that includes a fleet of seven jets, twenty-one pilots, and eight mechanics. He makes more money in a day than I do in a month.
It would be good to see Glossman again. He is a good man, well respected by all who know him. Many a fisherman on the coast owed their livelihood to Glossman. Without his help, they would not have made it.
Lynn Renoir was not at the bank when I called. There was no answer at her home. If she went to Nassau, I'm off the case. As I hung up the phone, she walked through the door of my office.
'I came by to see if you'd have lunch with me. There are some things I want to tell you about Rene. You didn't call last night, like you promised.' Her face had an accusing smirk, but enough of a smile to let me know she wasn't mad.
'Your billing will start today.'
Over lunch, she described Rene. Two years younger than Lynn, they had not gotten along all that well as young girls, at least up until about a year ago. Rene began to make an effort to develop a close friendship with her. Lynn said it had been a wonderful experience, for the first time in ten years they acted and felt like sisters.
When asked why two siblings who lost their parents so young wouldn't be close, Lynn became vague. She said it was too personal to talk about and, in any case, was a long time ago.
After lunch, we went back to my office that is located in a one-story row-shopping complex. It was a small office, but it was in a good part of town and the rent was free.
The owner of the complex allowed me the space in payment for some extremely embarrassing work that I had done for him and keeping it out of the local papers and away from the police. It involved a very married lady and a big, mean, jealous, ugly-tempered husband. The man was grateful.
Lynn called the Principal of the school in Wiggins from my phone. He agreed to help any way that he could.
Typing up a letter giving me permission to see the personnel file on Rene, I had Lynn sign the document. It's always nice to have things in writing.
There was no reason to mention that I talked to Glossman or the fact that a meeting was scheduled with him in the morning.
'Let me go to Wiggins with you. It might help with both the Principal and the school staff.' Her sea-blue eyes and upturned nose formed a look of alertness, of eager interest. A look that expected affirmation.
Shaking my head from side to side, I said nothing.
Her face paled white, so that even her lips became a sculptured feature against her skin, but she showed no anger.
'I'm flying down tomorrow morning, and don't have room in the plane, it's a single seat, open-cockpit, noisy little bird.'
'How convenient.' Her mouth formed a tight little crescent, the petulant mouth of a child. The expression was unflattering on an adult woman. She got up and left without saying goodbye.
This lady had a temper.
There were several concerns about Lynn Renoir for which I needed answers. How did she know so much about the Bahamian police and how they worked? Why did she react so violently to the remark about tall blondes? Why was she working in a bank when she obviously could own it? Why was she so insistent on working with me? Why didn't she ever knock before she came into my office? Then there was still the omission of the inherited fortune.
Picking up the phone, I called the Miami police department. An assistant Chief in charge of the Cuban sector is an old friend. Steve Henderson was a Navy pilot at the outbreak of the Vietnam War, but he kept sliding off carrier decks in expensive jet fighters until they made a civilian out of him. We met while we both were flying for the same airline, before Steve decided to go into law enforcement.
The desk sergeant said Steve was on vacation. He was due to call in this afternoon, and he promised to give him my message.
Calling the airport north of town where I kept my little airplane, I asked the line personnel to check the fuel and oil and to put me up front in the hangar as my planned departure was early in the morning before the Fixed Base Operation opened for business. No one would be there to help me move aircraft around. They promised I would be the first out.
There was nothing else I could do on the Renoir case until meeting with Glossman. My plan was to stop in Wiggins on the way back to Jackson.
Outside the office, rain began to fall mixed with sleet. The clouds were low and scudding along the treetops. Dialing the local Flight Service Station brought a forecast of frontal passage by midnight with clear skies and a
