Water's Edge (25 page)

“Do you believe this nonsense?” she asked.

“I don’t want to. But it’s clear what happened.”

“But why would my father ask your father for help?” She pointed to the memo. “If he was stealing money, he’d keep it secret.”

“I’m getting to that. Do you want to see what I have or not?”

Rose bit her lower lip. “Go ahead.”

The multiple instances of Harold Addington’s signature on documents related to the formation of the dummy companies and again on the forms used to open the account at the non-Pelham bank in Barbados were overwhelming evidence that Addington had engaged in a well-thought-out scheme. Tom clicked on the last slide, which gave possible reasons why Harold Addington asked John Crane to open the designated trust account.

“Most likely, the bank account was a way to launder the money,” Tom said. “A lawyer’s trust account is confidential, and my father would have been prohibited by the rules of professional responsibility from revealing its owner in the absence of proof that the money was connected to the commission of a crime.”

“Maybe he did.”

“What?”

“Knew the money was connected to the commission of a crime.”

“Nothing supports that,” Tom answered. “The memo from your father indicates he sought legal advice from my father to correct a wrong, not commit one.”

“So, you believe the memo when it’s convenient?”

“No,” Tom protested.

Rose pointed at the papers on the edge of the desk. “If my father was right about Pelham, I have no doubt the company could fabricate a bunch of fake documents to make him look like a criminal. Where are the names of the people who supposedly gave Papa money that he never transferred to Barbados?”

“The names were blacked out. That’s private information.”

“Which means there’s no way to prove it happened.”

Tom didn’t say anything.

“And you’re sitting here swallowing everything somebody at Pelham told you. Who did you talk to? I’d like to call him myself.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why? Because it will make Arthur Pelham mad at you?”

“Hold on,” Tom said angrily. “What gives you the right to come in here and lecture me?”

“You’re the one who prepared the fancy presentation,” Rose shot back. “It would have been a lot simpler to show me what you were given without dressing it up. I’m not a lawyer or an accountant, but I have a dose of business sense. I can understand this sort of thing and have enough spiritual discernment to know there’s more to this than some bogus papers Arthur Pelham sent you.”

“Arthur Pelham didn’t provide this information.”

“But one of his people did, right?”

Tom didn’t answer.

Rose ran both her hands through her hair. “Tom, we’ve been coming at this from opposite directions since the first time we talked about it, and I don’t see much chance of resolving it. My mum and I don’t know where the money in the trust account came from. My father was a frugal man, but he didn’t squirrel away millions of dollars in secret bank accounts. If you want to write a check to Pelham Financial for every penny you have in the trust account, go ahead and do it. But don’t ask our family to agree that my father stole it. That will never happen.”

Tom thought about Elias’s comment that a Christian like Harold Addington could compartmentalize his mind, reserving a dark corner for a secret sin that even a heathen person would see as wrong. Addington projected an image of honesty. His family was totally unaware of the darkness that crouched out of sight, and the opportunity for Harold to confess his deceit died with him. However, Rose’s last comment opened a door that might enable Tom to resolve the current impasse.

“Would you be willing to sign an affidavit releasing my father’s estate from any claims you and your family might have against the money in the designated trust account?” he asked.

“Yes, as long as that’s all it said,” Rose said with a sigh. “But before you draw up any papers, I want you to pray and ask God if that’s the right thing to do.”

“Pray about it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Tom shrugged.

Rose stood to leave. “When will I hear from you?”

Tom was tempted to tell her five minutes. “Soon,” he replied.

Rose put her hand on the knob and turned around. “Until proven otherwise, I’m going to believe there’s enough of the Lord in you to admit you’re wrong.”

Rose may have meant the remark as a compliment, but it stung like an insult. Tom didn’t answer. She opened the office door and closed it behind her. Tom counted to fifteen before checking to see if she’d left the building. He cracked open the door. Bernice was sitting at her desk. The reception area was empty.

“Did she say anything on her way out?” Tom asked the secretary.

“No. How did she take the news?”

“Denial. She’s a decent person who doesn’t want to think her father was a crook. Who can blame her for that?”

“You’re sounding more and more like your father.” Bernice sniffed. “He always tried to see the good part of a bad apple.”

Returning to the office, Tom stared at the memo from Harold Addington to his father. Rose had created a new problem. Should Tom give a copy of the memo to Charlie Williams? There was no doubt it was covered by the scope of the subpoena. Tom slowly opened the top drawer of the desk and slid the memo inside.

chapter
TWENTY-ONE

B
ernice left the office around 3:00 p.m. Alone, Tom decided he should give at least token service to Rose Addington’s request that he pray about the situation with Pelham Financial. Grabbing a Bible, he positioned a blank legal pad close at hand on the desk. After a couple of minutes of sterile silence, his mind drifted to Tiffany. He pushed that thought aside and glanced down at the Bible in an effort to refocus. It was opened to the book of Ephesians. He began to read. When he reached chapter 5, he read verses 11 through 14, then read them again:

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for it is light that makes everything visible.

That was it. Tom knew what he had to do. He wrote the reference on his legal pad. Regardless of the reaction by Rose or anyone else, he had to expose the deeds of darkness perpetrated by Harold Addington. Tom turned on his computer and typed out a simple affidavit for Rose to sign as executrix of her father’s estate and sent it to her as an e-mail attachment. Within a few minutes, he received a reply.

I’ll sign the affidavit and return to you as soon as possible.
Rose

Tom called Owen Harrelson with the good news. “I met with Rose Addington, and she’s not going to oppose release of the funds to Pelham Financial. All I’m waiting for is an affidavit confirming her agreement.”

“Excellent. Did she admit the embezzlement?”

“No, she vehemently denied it, even in the face of the evidence I showed her. But I assured her no one had any interest in embarrassing her or her family.”

“That’s one hundred percent true. What’s the next step?”

“Once I receive the affidavit, I can schedule a hearing in front of Judge Caldwell. I’ll show him the information you sent me and ask him to sign an order authorizing me to disperse the funds to Pelham.”

“Do I need to come to the hearing?”

“Isn’t there someone in Bethel who can verify the business records?”

“Not at this time. The need-to-know loop within the company about this situation is small, and Arthur is the only person with the authority to expand it. He’s out of the office until early next week, but I’m sure he wants this taken care of as soon as possible.”

“I do too.”

“You have my cell phone number. Call me, and I’ll fly down the next day.”

Later, as Tom was checking his e-mail, a message from Tiffany popped up. A tingle ran through him as he opened it. It was short but filled with meaning.

Hi, Tom,
I’ve been thinking about you. Have you been thinking about me?
Tiffany

Tom stared at the screen. The safest thing to do would be to ignore the e-mail, return to Atlanta, and wait to see what happened between Tiffany and Rick. However, that’s not what he wanted to do. He hit the Reply button and typed one word:

Yes
Seconds later a reply came:
Say no more. I understand. I am deleting both these e-mails before logging off the computer. You do the same. Sweet daydreams.

Tom closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers. How did Tiffany know his thoughts drifted back to her several times a day? The bond between them ignored space and distance. The question in Tom’s mind was not if, but when they could be together. Coming back to Bethel, he’d discovered a lot more than he expected.

______

Saturday afternoon Tom decided to take Rover for a walk to the top of a ridge that skirted the north boundary of Etowah County. He invited Elias to come along.

“Walking on flat ground for half a mile to Austin’s Pond is my limit,” Elias replied. “And are you sure Rover is going to enjoy climbing up to the ridgeline? That’s a steep hike.”

“If I bring enough water for both of us, and he doesn’t trip over his tongue, I think he should be fine.”

Elias’s concern about Rover proved accurate. The dog used his nose as an excuse to lag behind and lingered to sniff fallen logs before moving on. Tom sharply pulled on the leash a few times, then gave up. It would be easier to wait for Rover than drag him up the mountain.

Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the few that remained clung stubbornly to the branches like brittle brown fingers. It was a cool day, but even the slow pace of their climb kept Tom warm. He stuffed his lightweight jacket into a small backpack. Taking out a plastic bottle of water, he took a long drink, then poured the rest into a plastic bowl for Rover. The sight of the water caused Rover to trot up the hill for a drink. Tom watched as the dog noisily lapped up the water until the bowl was dry.

“That’s it until we reach the top,” Tom said.

On the crest of the hill was an oblong exposed rock. The rock was multicolored, the result of countless layers of paint. A fresh area of yellow paint was emblazoned with a marriage proposal from Michael to Janine. Whether Janine accepted or not wasn’t recorded. Other parts of the rock announced birthdays, the scores of high school football games, crude artworks akin to prehistoric cave etchings, and the names of people who’d climbed the rock and wanted to prove it by signing the massive open-air guest book. Somewhere beneath the layers of paint on the east side of the rock Tom had once written, with high school ardor, “Tom + Tiffany.” Beside their names they’d made handprints that overlapped. They’d walked to the top of the rock one summer evening and stayed until the moon came up. The memory made Tom’s heart ache.

Leaving Rover tied to a tree at the base of the rock, Tom scrambled to the top. He could see Bethel to the south, Lookout Mountain to the northeast, and Rover stretched out in a sunny spot below him.

Tom had brought a small Bible with him. Pulling it from the backpack, he held it in his hand while he enjoyed the vista. He’d read so much during the past few days that parts of the book were becoming familiar. Recently the gospel of John had been a favorite destination. Not stopping at the mind, it spoke to the heart. Tom opened the Bible to John 17. He’d always assumed the only prayer of Jesus recorded in the Scriptures was the Lord’s Prayer. Then he discovered John 17, an entire chapter devoted to Jesus’ praying. Tom read the chapter out loud. The words on the page echoed through the centuries. On top of the rock he felt close to both God and Tiffany.

Walking down the trail, he didn’t have to drag Rover along. The dog knew he was heading toward a car ride.

“How was your walk?” Elias asked when they sat at the supper table.

Tom nudged Rover with his toe. The dog, whose stomach was comfortably full after a big meal, groaned slightly.

“You were right about Rover,” Tom said. “He’s not a candidate to hike the Appalachian Trail.”

______

The following morning Elias wanted to return to the Rocky River Church. Tom hesitated. He didn’t want to run into Rose and Esther Addington.

“I think I’ll stay here,” he said. “Or I might go fishing. The disciples spent as much time hanging out with Jesus at the lake as they did going to meetings at the synagogue.”

“Every fisherman in the churches I’ve pastored reached the same conclusion. Often, that also meant buying an expensive bass boat. They believed you could get to Jesus a lot faster if you had a 200-horsepower outboard pushing you forward.”

“There’s no bass boat in my future.” Tom smiled. “But I may go back to Austin’s Pond.”

“Take an extra handkerchief.”

“I’m not going to cry.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If I remember, you didn’t have a lot of control over that the other day.”

After Elias left, Tom went to the garage. His father’s fishing poles rested neatly in a vertical row on hooks on the back wall. Multiple tackle boxes were lined up on a wooden table beneath the poles. John Crane loved to fish. Although he enjoyed fishing as a boy, Tom never developed an adult passion for the sport.

Each fishing pole had a specific function. There were fly-casting rods for mountain trout, stiffer poles for largemouth bass, long poles for crappie, slender ones for bream, and thick ones for surf casting at the beach. Tom selected one of the bass poles. The next task was finding the right tackle box. There were five to choose from, each stocked with lures, line, sinkers, and appropriate accessories. Tom checked a couple of boxes before finding the one that contained the combination of artificial minnows and plastic worms used for largemouth bass. The bass box didn’t contain a pair of the special pliers used to extract a hook from a fish’s throat. Tom leaned the pole against the bench and opened another one.

It didn’t contain a pair of pliers. In fact, it didn’t hold any fishing tackle at all.

chapter
TWENTY-TWO

I
nside the tackle box he found a bundle of folded papers. Taking them out, he opened the one on top. It was the original memo from Harold Addington to his father. Even though he knew what it said, Tom read it again. The presence of the memo in the tackle box certainly answered the question he’d raised with Rose about whether his father received the information. Tom took out the next sheet of paper. It contained columns of dates and figures going back five years. The numbers ranged from 500,000 to 2,000,000. The last entry caught Tom’s attention. It was 1,750,000, dated less than a week before that of the memo. He opened another sheet on which his father had written across the top “Harold Addington—Notes from Fishing Trip on Gilbert Lake.”