Roses (61 page)

Bertie squinted up at him as if she had more to say before she saw him to the door. “You’re the boy Rachel first told me about
years ago when she came back from Howbutker, aren’t you? She was about ten years old then, and mercy! She wasn’t the kind
to wax on about anybody, but she did you. A while ago you said you were here to take her back to those who care about her.
Are you one of those?”

“I’m at the top of the list.”

“I can see that. Well, you go find her, young man, and make her understand that… despite all her losses… she’s still got everything.”

“I plan to do just that, Bertie,” Matt said, a break in his voice. He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket,
then laid a hand on her shoulder. “Stay seated. I can let myself out, and you have my word, one way or the other, you’ll hear
from me.”

“I hope it’s a wedding invitation,” she said.

He threw her a smile. “If I can help it.”

He hit pay dirt with the second realty company but was unable to cash in. The Realtor handling the Toliver house was on her
way to put up the for sale sign when Matt walked into the two-desk office. He’d guessed it would be against company policy
to give out a seller’s out-of-town telephone number and address, but he’d use his considerable charm to worm the information
out of somebody. He smiled at the woman and explained that he was friends with Bertie Walton, and she’d told him the house
was for sale. Could she contact the owner at once? He was interested in making an offer before he left town.

Chagrin flashed across the Realtor’s face. Wouldn’t you just know it? she said. Less than two hours ago, he could have spoken
with the owner right here. Now she was on her way out of town—where, she didn’t say. It was really very strange. She’d left
no telephone number where she could be reached, saying that she’d be in touch when she got situated. However… if he’d like
to make an offer, she could draw up the contract and present it the minute the owner called.

Did she have any idea when that would be? Matt asked.

The Realtor’s face lengthened. Unfortunately, no.

He smiled his regrets, saying that wouldn’t be convenient for him, but he’d take her card.

Outside the Realtor’s office, he sucked in a long, frustrated breath of bone-dry air. He was fairly certain Rachel was headed
to her friend in Dallas, the zany blonde in jodhpurs and boots who’d driven in the night of the accident. Carla or Cassie,
or something like that. Her name had not registered in the emotional turmoil. Amos might remember. Once he had the friend’s
name, the rest would be easy. He’d go through the operator for her address, get a flight plan cleared to Dallas, and be in
there tonight.

In the van, he dialed his home phone number on the portable phone he’d brought along. When his grandfather answered, he asked
for Amos, knowing he’d be at Warwick Hall. Without delay, Percy handed the receiver to Amos. “What can I do for you, Matt?”
he asked when he came on the line.

“Rachel has put her house up for sale and left town without telling anyone where she was headed, but you may be able to help
me find her, Amos. Do you remember the name of Rachel’s roommate at Texas A and M—that female dynamo we met the night of the
accident? I think Rachel’s gone to stay with her in Dallas.”

Matt could hear his urge to kick himself. “I’m sorry, Matt, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch her name either.”

Matt struck the steering wheel with his palm and hissed a silent curse, but he said as if it didn’t matter, “Don’t fret about
it, Amos. Maybe Sassie or Henry can tell me.”

But Henry did not recall the name either. “Miss Carrie is all I know,” Henry said. “Last names of strangers don’t stick with
me. Maybe Aunt Sassie remembers. She’s staying at my mama’s. Want to call her?”

“Give me the number, Henry.”

But he hit a dead end there, too. Sassie had been so overcome with the events of those awful days she hadn’t known whether
she was pitching or catching, she told Matt.

A detective, then, he decided, putting the van into reverse. They’d contact a detective agency to track her down. He punched
in the numbers of his office in Howbutker, picturing Rachel up on the roof of her house, attacking the nails with a vengeance.
Was that her purpose, the driving force keeping her together—vengeance? Against whom? And why? In his heart, he believed he
knew. He had the chilling feeling his grandfather was the target.

“Nancy,” he said when his secretary answered, “put everything else aside and find me the name and number of a reliable detective
agency in Dallas, then call me back with the information. I’m heading home.”

D
ALLAS
, T
EXAS
, S
ATURDAY

R
achel awoke the next morning to find with a start that the enameled clock on the bedside table read nine o’clock. She propped
herself up on an elbow in the cold, all-white room, looking about her in confusion until she realized she was in the guest
room of Carrie Sutherland’s starkly modern town house. She contemplated getting up, nudged by the farmer’s inherent guilt
about lying abed while the day was wasting. Not since Saturday mornings in grade school had she slept so late. After a moment,
though, she lowered herself back down. There were no fields to tend anymore.

As usual when she awoke, a blanket of depression settled over her. She’d learned that if she lay still and emptied her mind,
a ray of rational thought would eventually make its way through the gloom. This morning, the thought centered on why she’d
decided to drive to Dallas a day early when she’d known that Carrie would be out of town until midafternoon Sunday, the time
of Rachel’s planned arrival. But—as with everything else she’d set her furious energies to these past two months—she’d gotten
her parents’ house ready for sale ahead of schedule and come on because she had nowhere else to go. Now she wondered what
she could do to fill her time and endure her solitude in this igloo of a house without losing the rest of her sanity.

The telephone rang down the hall, and Rachel let it ring once before the simple need to hear a human voice prompted her to
throw back the covers to answer it. She cleared her morning throat. “Hello. Carrie Sutherland’s residence.”

There was a surprised silence, then a familiar male voice that always reminded her of suspenders and flannel shirts said her
name with delight: “Rachel? That you?”

She grimaced, regretting she’d answered the phone. Taylor Sutherland, Carrie’s father, obviously did not know that his daughter
was out of town, enjoying the hedonistic delights of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas with her latest boyfriend.
A straitlaced Southern Baptist, he would not have approved.

“Good morning, Taylor,” she said. “I came in early, but I’m afraid Carrie’s not here at the moment. Some… early morning appointment,
I gather.”

“Uh-huh. She’s flown off somewhere for the weekend and left you to fend for herself, hasn’t she?”

“My fault. I wasn’t to have arrived until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, I won’t put you on the spot and ask where she is or with whom. Will you be all right there by yourself in that icebox?
Set the thermostat to your liking. Pay no attention to that hands-off warning she’s posted. It’s ridiculous how cold she keeps
that place just to preserve those modern canvases of hers.”

Rachel smiled. There was no fooling Taylor Sutherland when it came to his daughter. He was referring to the
PLEASE DO NOT ADJUST
chrome plate affixed next to the thermostat. Carrie was a serious collector of valuable oil paintings, and her town house
was thermostatically controlled to protect them from variations in room temperatures. He asked now in a voice of fatherly
concern, “So what are you going to do with yourself all day?”

“Tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

“Well, she doesn’t keep a damn thing worth reading, and I’m sure there’s nothing to eat in the refrigerator. Why don’t you
come to the office? I’m here today doing some paperwork, and you and I can talk over whatever you planned to discuss Monday.
We’ll have a couple of gin and tonics and then hit a hamburger joint. What do you say?”

Rachel sighed with relief. “I say that sounds great.”

“Then I’ll see you about eleven.” He gave her the address and easiest route to get to his office and advised before hanging
up, “Come cool. They turn off the air-conditioning in this place over the weekend.”

Rachel had great respect for Taylor Sutherland. He maintained a country-boy-come-to-town persona—but behind the hayseed act
was a brilliant legal mind that had led many a gullible opponent to his peril. He was a widower and Carrie his only child.
Knowing him to be a stickler for punctuality, she had five minutes to spare before he bustled out in the warm Saturday quiet
of his luxurious reception room at eleven o’clock. “Rachel, my girl! I won’t ask how you are because I believe I damn well
know, but you look pretty good for a girl knocked off her feet as you’ve been.”

“You speak from kindness,” she said, returning his bear hug. “I wish my mirror were so kind.”

“You’re too critical. Come on in and I’ll put together a couple of G and T’s to cool us off.”

Taylor talked indulgently of Carrie’s “wild and woolly ways” while he mixed the gin and tonics, Rachel getting the impression
the preliminaries were to avoid getting down to the reason for their meeting. Carrie had made the appointment for her, filling
in her father on the dispensations of Aunt Mary’s will and explaining that Rachel had found incriminating papers that might
be grounds for a lawsuit against Percy Warwick. She had a feeling he knew Percy.

Finally, the drinks served, he leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands across the tight midriff of his short-sleeved
plaid shirt. “So Carrie tells me that apparently, without your knowledge, your great-aunt sold Toliver Farms right out from
under your nose and left the family plantation that you’d expected to inherit to Percy Warwick.”

Her optimism dived at the familiarity with which he spoke the name. “So you are acquainted with Percy Warwick.”

“I am.”

“Will that constitute a conflict of interest if—should I have a case—you decide to take it?”

“It’s too early to tell. Let’s put that aside for the moment and have you tell me why you’re here.”

“Before we get to that, Taylor, I’d like to know whether client-attorney confidentiality will apply to what I tell you, regardless
of whether I have a case and become your client.”

He smiled benignly. “Of course it will, because I’m going to charge you a consultation fee that will automatically establish
privilege—lunch on you at the Burger Den.”

“Fair enough,” she said, chuckling, then added seriously, “Because this has to do with Percy Warwick. How well do you know
him? Are you friends?”

“Not exactly friends. Pathway-crossing acquaintances.” His tone grew serious as well. “And for my part, an admirer. He’s done
more for the conservation of forestlands and prudent disposal of industrial wastes than any other man in the industry. What
has this to do with Percy?”

Rachel took a bracing sip of the gin and tonic. “I believe he knowingly bought land from my great-aunt that wasn’t hers to
sell. It belonged to my father, William Toliver. I have every reason to believe he died in ignorance of the fact.”

Taylor sat in noncommittal silence for a few seconds, looking like a man who’s heard a language he couldn’t identify. “What
evidence do you have to substantiate your suspicions, and how did you come by it?”

Rachel succinctly related the events that had led to the discovery of the green leather box and described its contents.

“You have these materials with you?”

Rachel opened her purse and withdrew copies of Vernon Toliver’s will and the two letters. Taylor donned reading glasses, and
she sipped quietly while he read. “Well?” she queried when he laid aside the papers.

There was a plush squeak of leather as he stood to return to the bar, pointing to her glass to ask if she wished a refill.
She shook her head and observed the excessive time he took on the finer points of replenishing his own gin and tonic. She
remembered that he fussed inordinately long over sweetening his iced tea, but now she suspected the act was a deliberate stall.
“Come on, Taylor,” she said. “Do I have a case, or am I wasting your time and mine?”

“Well, I don’t know about yours, but certainly not mine,” he said with a fatherly twinkle that deepened his crow’s-feet. “I
have a few questions first. One, did you find the deed?”

“No, it wasn’t in the box.”

“And in that green box of yours—did you find your grandfather’s death certificate?”

Rachel shook her head.

“What about your great-aunt’s guardianship papers?”

Surprised that she had never thought to wonder about them, she said, “No, I did not.”

“Your father was her ward?”

A crease formed between Rachel’s brows. “He always assumed so.”

“I ask because—as your father’s guardian—your great-aunt may have believed that selling the land was in his best interests.
Of course, she would have had to secure court approval to do so. The problem I have with that, though, are these dates.” Rachel
drew closer to the desk to peer at the dates he pointed out with the tip of a pen. “Your grandfather’s letter reads May 13,
1935; Percy’s, July 6. We can assume the title was transferred shortly afterwards. Even if Miles had died within days of having
mailed this letter to his sister, she would not have been officially notified of his death until weeks later. The wheels of
bureaucracy ground even slower in 1935 than they do now, especially since he died abroad in France.”

Rachel felt her eyes take over her face. ”You’re saying that even if Aunt Mary were my father’s guardian, she wasn’t at the
time the deed was transferred to Percy Warwick?”

“That’s right.”

“If my aunt were appointed guardian
after
the land sale, would that make the transaction legal?”