Money To Burn (14 page)

“With Franklin Cosgrove’s help,” Talbot continued, “I am confident that we will be able to complete the circle of innovation T&T needs to lead the tobacco industry into the twenty-first century!”

This stirring statement was met by predictable applause and, judging by the enthusiasm of the crowd, almost everyone had enjoyed the filet mignon as much as I had.

“In conclusion,” Talbot ended, “this evening is a celebration. Drink up,” he ordered the crowd. “I positively command you to eat, drink and be merry!”

As the crowd laughed obediently, I searched for Lydia among the many faces. I found her at one end of the family table and our eyes locked across the room.

God almighty, how cold-hearted could the girl’s father possibly be?

Randolph Talbot had barely waited two weeks to capitalize on Nash’s death. It didn’t say much fop;T say mur his sensitivity, not to mention his innocence.

Lydia’s glance dropped and she suddenly looked very small, hunched over the long white tablecloth with her eyes fixed on her wine glass. She was sitting between her youngest brother and a man I immediately pegged as her other brother, Jake.

He was in his early twenties and had the same high cheekbones and slender mouth as Lydia. But his most prominent feature was one of those skinny, long noses you only find on rich people: it seemed to start in the middle of his forehead and not stop until it had fallen off his chin. Roman nobility run amok. He had black hair that was slicked straight back with gel and gleamed in the reflected glare of the chandelier above. Even from a distance, I could tell his eyes were very dark—and fixed on Lydia.

What I couldn’t figure out was why he had a satisfied smirk plastered on his face. All he lacked was a mouse tail twitching from one corner of his too-pretty mouth. Maybe banging someone else’s wife behind his grandmother’s sofa was his idea of the ultimate thrill, but I suspected that his gratification was fueled by an even darker motive. I think Jake Talbot was enjoying his sister’s discomfort—which meant that yet another person had known of Lydia’s secret engagement to Thomas Nash.

With family like this, who needed enemies?

Suddenly, I just wanted to be back home in my own cheap apartment between my own threadbare sheets. I was sick of all the Talbot’s money. I was sick of their selfishness. I hated the doting crowd and I hated all the glitter. None of it was worth a single second’s worth of the pain I saw on Lydia’s face.

There she sat, surrounded by her entire family and dozens of fawning strangers. Yet she was—except for me— completely alone in the world.

I woke the next morning with a rancid champagne hangover that symbolized my disgust at ever having been awed by the Talbots’ money. If I hadn’t been so intent on sucking up all the expensive bubbly I could hold, I’d be feeling like myself instead of a coroner’s leftovers. And for all I knew, I’d been swilling Andre and not Krug. It wasn’t like I could tell the difference. When you grow up drinking moonshine, it’s all uphill from there.

I arrived at the office to find Bobby D. munching on breakfast burritos—the foulest invention in gastronomic history and, in the hands of someone like Bobby, a public safety issue.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted mspae cheerfully, as black beans dribbled down his chin. “You look like you lost a fight with a pole cat.”

“Hung over,” I explained. “And sick to death of people who have money.”

“Then you’re in the right place,” he said, sliding open his desk drawer. “Seeing as how we are poor.” He rummaged around and produced a small orange vial of pills. “Take two of these. They’ll help.”

“What is this?” I asked, examining the label.

“Tylenol-3. Prescription only. Works like a charm.”

“What are you doing with them?” I asked.

“Doc gave ‘em to me the last time he lanced a batch of my boils.” He bit off half a burrito and chewed with a contented sigh.

“I had to ask,” I muttered, shaking out three of the pills for good measure.

“Have a Pepsi,” Bobby offered sympathetically, sliding a cold one my way. I washed down the pills, savoring the sugar water that flooded my veins.

“Hair looks good,” he offered. “I got a soft spot for redheads.”

“Keep it soft,” I advised him.

“You gonna dye your cuff to match the collar?” he asked.

“Soon as my racing stripe grows in,” I confided.

He greeted this lie with an enthusiastic wiggling of his eyebrows.

“How was the gay bar?” I asked as my blood sugar began to climb, bringing sweet relief. “Gonna switch teams?”

He shrugged with a full mouth. “My client’s husband never showed, but the bartender says he’s a regular. I’ll catch him there sooner or later.”

“Did you enjoy the show?” I asked, knowing it had been amateur drag night.

Bobby nodded. “Some of the guys were prettier than a lot of my dates.”

I kept my mouth firmly shut.

“They could sing, too. Sounded just like Whitney Houston and whats-her-name, that French-Canadienne dame.”

“Celine Dion?” I offered.

“Yeah, just like her. This guy came out in a sailing cap and evening gown, then did this whole Titanic thing. Made you want to cry. And you couldn’t hear the difference between him and the real thing.”

“He was lip-synching, Bobby,” I explained patiently.

“Oh,” he said, unfazed.

“Anyone hit on you?” I asked nosily.

He shook his head. “Naw, I think it’s pretty clear I’m a straight shooter. But I did pick up a new client.”

“You’re kidding.”

Bobby shrugged. “What do I care what two people do to each other in the privacy of their bedroom?”

“True,” I agreed, “so long as they eventually cheat on each other and hire us to prove it.”

He slid a business card across the table toward me. “I met this guy. He thinks his boyfriend is cheating on him with a health club instructor. He hired me.”

“You’re going undercover at a health club?” I asked skeptically. Bobby D. couldn’t go undercover with a circus tent.

“Naw,” he said, slurping down his Big Slam. “I’m gonna nail him the old-fashioned way. I’m gonna hang out at the gay bar and nab them together.”

“Good for you,” I told him. “It’s time you got back to work.” I examined the business card. “Hey, this guy is an investment banker.”

“Sure,” Bobby answered with newfound liberalism. “A lot of those guys look perfectly normal. More respectable than you or me, even.”

That wouldn’t be too hard. “Think you could call him up and ask him a few questions for me?” I asked. “There’s some business dealings I don’t quite understand that might help me with the T&T case.”

“Sure,” Bobby said expansively. “We shared a couple of brews. Nice fellow. Older than his boyfriend. He’s being taken advantage of, sounds to me. I feel kind of bad for him. How come ma”m. How I never feel bad for the husbands whose wives are cheating on them, but this guy gets to me?” He looked to me for an answer.

“Maybe he reminds you of the son you never had,” I said with a straight face. Then I outlined what I needed to know from his newest client.

When I was done, Bobby stared at me thoughtfully. “What is it, babe?” he asked. “You seem more bothered than usual about this case.” Despite his disgusting personal habits, Bobby is not without his insightful moments.

“I’m having trouble putting my finger on a motive,” I said. “I feel like I’m being fed false information, but I can’t figure out what.”

“Money,” Bobby said firmly. “How many times I got to tell you to follow the money? Forget the rest of the crap and look for the bucks.”

“That’s the trouble,” I said. “The money motives are screwed up. Randolph Talbot was no longer being sued by Nash, and the Hargett case was no longer an issue. So there goes that motive. And if and when Talbot ever makes money off Nash’s death, it’s going to be a long time down the road, which doesn’t make sense for someone who already has as much money as Talbot. And while there’s no one I’d love to put in a Central Prison cell with a horny convict for a roommate more than Nash’s partner, Franklin Cosgrove, he lost big bucks because of Tom’s death. I just don’t think he did it.”

“So who inherits Nash’s half of the business?” Bobby D. asked. “Because now they’ll get half of the purchase price Talbot pays for King Buffalo, right?”

I looked up, surprised. “Of course. Pretty stupid of me.” Bobby has an admirably sneaky mind and I sometimes forget to take full advantage of it.

“Trust me,” he said. “Look into his family to see who inherits his half of the business, or any other money he might have had, for that matter. Not to mention insurance. Trust your gut on Randolph Talbot if you don’t think he did it and look somewhere else.”

“I can’t afford to do that completely,” I told him. “My assignment is to find out positively, once and for all, if Talbot had anything to do with Nash’s death. But the only way I can do that is to find out who did cause his death.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “Check out the whole Talbot family finances,” he advised. “You say Nash was marrying into the family. Maybe that threatened someone’s inheritance.”

“How?” I asked, not following.

“Maybe Nash would have gotten a piece of the pie automatically, as Lydia’s husband,” Bobby suggested. “Or, sometimes, peextometimeople skip generations when they bequeath. For tax purposes. And if there is no third generation, they leave it in trust for when one comes along. After a period of time, the money reverts to the second generation if no grandchildren are born.”

“Meaning what?” I asked. “That rich people are better at evading taxes?”

“Meaning that knocking off Nash guarantees he ain’t ever gonna have children with Lydia Talbot. So maybe someone else gets a lot of money.”

Comprehension dawned. “Dull,” I said.

“I know someone down in Wake County probate,” Bobby offered. “Let me look into it for you. She’ll know someone in Durham County she can call. Who died recently in the Talbot family?”

“How recently?”

“Last twenty years?” he suggested. “Greed’s got no statute of limitations.”

“No one,” I said, thinking hard. I looked up. “Maybe the mother. Lydia’s mother died eleven or twelve years ago. She had money of her own.”

“That’s good,” Bobby said, taking notes on his ancient legal pad. “I’ll look into Nash’s will and finances while I’m at it. It’s probably been filed pretty recently. Anything else?” He waited, pen ready, my obedient servant.

I stared at him in surprise.

“Come on, babe,” he said, irritated at my expression. “You said you wanted me to get back in the saddle. You gonna take me for a ride, or what?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“It feels good to be back in charge,” Bobby replied. “Maybe work will revive my appetite.”

Oh, well—there’s a downside to everything.

Thanks to extra, extra-strength Tylenol, my pounding headache soon dulled to a minor throbbing. I forced myself to drink two cups of coffee, which banished the problem entirely, then set about deciding what the hell I should do while Bobby did my work for me. I remembered my conversation with the Talbot family lawyer the night before and decided I needed to speak to Nash’s civil attorney as soon as possible for more information on the defunct harassment lawsuits. If anyone knew the details of the harassment, it would be him.

I checked my notes, then traighes, thecked down a lawyer named Harrison Ingram III, who had an office in Brightleaf Square. When a secretary answered, I decided that a confident approach was called for. I introduced myself as a private detective investigating the death of Thomas Nash and asked to be put through.

“Wasn’t that awful? Tom was the nicest man,” the secretary said, confirming that Ingram had, indeed, been Nash’s lawyer. “I felt just terrible about it. So does Harry. We both went to the funeral and cried like babies, especially when his parents and brother came down the aisle. And the brother—well, he was so upset. It was just tragic.”

Too bad I’d missed it. You can learn a lot at funerals, if you can keep your eyes open. Oppressive heat seems to be a requirement for services in the South.

“Then I guess Mr. Ingram will be ready, willing and able to assist me?” I suggested, hoping to move things along.

“I’m sure he will,” she chirped back, “but he’s not here right now. He had a case over in Hillsborough this morning and then he has to drive out to Alamance County to see some new clients. I don’t even think he’s going to be in all day.”

“Will you let him know that it’s urgent we speak?” I asked.

She promised, took down my information and hung up with a chirpy farewell. She was clearly a member of the Stepford Secretaries Club.

I heard an impatient cough. Bobby had contacted his new client who was an investment banker and now stood in my doorway, his portable phone in hand.

“The guy says the sale of King Buffalo was quick but not impossible. Want the inside dirt?” He handed me the phone.

“Hello?” I said grumpily, since I hate it when other people decide I should get on the phone and then stick one in my face.