“Here it is,” she said, flipping the folder open. She picked up a photocopied sheet of paper. “Josephine Holtzclaw?”
“That’s her.”
“She died in September. This is her obituary. She was ninety-two years old.”
“Let me see that,” Riley said, reaching for the paper.
“I only met Miss Josie a few times, but I remember even as a kid knowing she was a pistol. This says she’s survived by her son, Porter Jr., of Malibu, California. Kind of sad.” She looked up. “You know which house is theirs, right? That big spooky old wood-frame house with the partially collapsed dock at the mouth of Fiddler’s Creek.”
“Miss Josie doesn’t own it anymore. According to this deed, the house and the land it sits on is now owned by Fiddler’s Creek Enterprises. Wendell apparently bought it from the son not long after the old lady died. That must be some house, because he paid four and a half million for it.”
Riley’s jaw dropped. “That’s crazy. Four and a half million for that dump? Dad used to say the only thing holding it together was spit and termites. Nobody’s lived there for years and years. He used to bitch and moan because he had to have the driveway mowed and cleared every year, just to keep it from being a fire hazard. At first he used to bill Miss Josie, but since she never paid, he just kept doing it as a public safety precaution.”
“Wendell probably didn’t care about the house,” Parrish said. She stood in front of the master plan and studied it closer. “Show me where the Holtzclaw house is.”
Riley slid her finger along the glassed-over map. “Okay. Here’s Fiddler’s Creek, and here’s where it widens into the bay, right at the edge of the nature preserve.” She tapped the juncture between river and bay. “This is about where the Holtzclaws’ place is. How much land did you say came with the house?”
“Quite a bit. Fifty acres. Which explains why Wendell paid the price he did. That tract looks like it sits right in the middle of his planned phase two.”
“If you were going to build a marina and some hotels and another golf course, you’d definitely need that chunk of land,” Riley said.
“What were those other names you mentioned? The holdouts?” Parrish asked, opening the folder again.
“Um, the Funderburkes and the Milbanks.”
“Yep,” Parrish said. “They’re not holdouts anymore. Wendell bought their land, too. Let’s see. Looks like he paid two-point-six-million dollars for a house and nine-acre tract owned by the Funderburkes, and just under two million for the Milbanks’s property, which was only three acres.”
“Unbelievable,” Riley said. “My grandfather used to love to tell how his father and uncle only paid eighty thousand for this whole island. And the locals in Southpoint thought it was hilarious how much they’d overpaid.”
“Who’s laughing now?” Parrish said.
“Not me.” Riley yawned widely. “I don’t know about you, but my brain is about fried. And there’s still so much that doesn’t make sense. So Wendell sets up all these dummy companies and talks one bank into loaning him over nine million dollars? Shouldn’t somebody at that bank have realized they were being scammed? I mean, the two of us figured it out, and we’re not exactly rocket scientists.”
“Maybe somebody at the bank was in on the scam,” Parrish said.
“Somebody like Melody Zimmerman? I just can’t wrap my mind around her and Wendell—together. Why would she take a risk like that?”
“That,” Parrish said, snapping off the desk lamp, “is probably what the FBI wants to know, too. Come on, let’s get outta here. I’m dead on my feet.”
32
Scott opened the spice cabinet and sighed heavily. He’d designed a state-of-the-art kitchen for the old firehouse during the extensive restoration, and laboriously labeled every drawer, shelf, and cupboard in the room.
But labels were only a suggestion as far as his chronically disorganized partner was concerned. The spice shelf that he’d spent hours alphabetizing during his last stay a month earlier was a jumble of jars and bottles. Now the allspice was shoved in next to the dill weed, the mustard seed next to the cinnamon and the tarragon—where was his tarragon? And the white peppercorns?
This was supposed to be a lazy Sunday morning on the island. He and Billy had most of the day ahead of them before he had to catch the 3:30 ferry back to the mainland.
Although Scott was a much-in-demand commercial kitchen designer, the truth was that he was rarely home long enough to cook, so Billy had assumed that role. Fortunately, Billy brought the same creative flair and sense of inventiveness to his cooking that he’d developed with his music.
But Billy was still lounging in the living room with the Sunday New York Times that he’d picked up at the Mercantile, and Scott was craving an omelet. Easy enough—if he could just find the damned tarragon.
Scott padded down the long hallway to the living room in his stocking feet, stopping short of the doorway when he heard Billy’s voice.
“Yeah, Kenny, I know I told you no gigs this summer, but I’ve changed my mind. Why? Money, of course. Now, we’ve sublet the place in the Village until September because Scott’s gonna be mostly on the road so, ideally, any jobs would be within driving distance of here.”
Kenny, Scott knew, was Billy’s longtime booking agent. It was news to him that Billy had decided to go back to work.
“Jesus, Kenny. Here is the coast of North Carolina. Don’t you have a map? Okay, yeah. Just about anyplace in the South would work, but if the job pays air travel, I’d be okay with that.”
Billy listened for a moment. “Uh-huh. Yeah, I know those guys. I filled in for their piano player at a New Year’s gig in the city a few years back. Corporate work? I guess if that’s the nearest thing available. Exactly what kind of convention are we talking about? So, let me get this straight. The job’s in Charlotte, first week of July. Easy-listening cocktail music, two hours. My regular rate? Plus gas and hotel, right?
“Okay, so that’s set. You can fax me over the contract. What else have you got for me?”
“Yeah, yeah. Like I told you, I’m willing to lower my standards. Weddings, deb parties, bar mitzvahs. Road shows? Yeah, I sat in for West Side Story in Atlanta a couple of years ago. The money’s not bad. So you’ll let me know? Thanks, man.”
“Billy!” Scott yelled, walking into the living room just as his partner was putting his phone down. “Where are my white peppercorns?”
“In the cabinet, right next to the black ones,” Billy said, picking up the Arts section of the paper.
“Were you on the phone just now?”
Billy lowered the paper and looked at him. “You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”
“Maybe a little,” Scott admitted. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go back to work?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t seem all that important. You’re gone so often, and there’s not that much going on here, I just thought it might be a good idea to keep my name out there, you know, so my public won’t think I’m dead or retired.”