Killertrust (23 page)

After the services, Woody and
LuEllen returned to the office, while Randolph and Rhetta aimed Streak for
home.

“I wish I’d had a chance to
know Frank.” Rhetta fingered the folded flag that lay alongside her on the
seat. “I have absolutely zero memories of him. I remember my mom sobbing late
at night, but she never really said much about him. Just that he had left us,
and would never be back.”

“Did your mom ever have any
relationships after him that you recall? Did she ever find anyone to love after
your father?” Randolph adjusted the heater controls. Rhetta had been shivering.

“You know, I don’t think my
mother ever stopped loving my father. I remember a couple of nice men that she
dated off and on, but she never got serious with any of them.” Rhetta turned
down the heater a notch. The Trailblazer had warmed up, and her hat was making
her head itch.

“I thought you told me once
that your father said that he and your mother were never divorced. So how did
he marry Rushia Coughenour?”

“I don’t know. He said he
kept up with me, so he probably knew that my mother had died. Frankly, since
everyone is dead and gone, I really don’t care. Obviously, my father needed
someone, and if Rushia was there for him, who am I to question?” Rhetta pulled
the hat off. She couldn’t stand wearing it any longer. She ran her fingers
through her hair. Her bruised head was tender but definitely healing.

“You’re right. I guess we’ll
never know and it doesn’t matter. They didn’t have any children, so where’s the
harm?” Randolph turned off the gravel road and into the driveway. This time,
Mrs. Koblyk didn’t greet them.

Rhetta frowned. “I guess we
need to plan the trip, although I wish we were going to the Mediterranean for a
more pleasant reason, like a vacation.” She turned to Randolph. “Why was Evan
at the funeral? He doesn’t go to the support meetings that Woody goes to, and
he sure doesn’t know me well enough to attend my father’s funeral. Why would he
come?”

Randolph eased Streak into
the garage. “Do you think he may have known your father during the Vietnam
War?” He put Streak into park, and turned off the motor. The garage door
rumbled downward. None of the cats had sneaked into the garage. Rhetta stared
about, looking for anything out of place, a habit she had developed since the
break-in.

“He outright said he didn’t
know my father. Maybe Evan was only there because he heard that my father was a
Vietnam vet, too. But you know,” she placed her hand on Randolph’s arm just as
he was opening the SUV’s door, “as far as he knew, my father was already dead.
I remember telling him that when we talked. That’s when he claimed he didn’t
know my father.”

They both got out, and went
into the house from the garage. “Oh well, I’m not going to worry about it. I’m
sure Woody told him about my father, and he decided to pay his respects. I know
those Vietnam vets are all close, even if they don’t know each other.”

Randolph nodded. “I’m sure
you’re right. Poor old guy, I feel sorry for him.”

“So do I. He doesn’t have a
home anywhere. Who knows what problems he might have? It’s very kind of Jeff to
give him a job and a place to stay.”

She trotted to the bedroom.
“I’m going to freshen up, then go into the office. I have a closing this
afternoon. I should be home at a decent time. I’ll fix some grilled chicken
breasts and rice, and a nice salad.

“Sounds great,” Randolph
said, as he headed out the back door toward his studio. Rhetta watched him as
he descended the deck steps. Four felines followed him. She loved that man so
much.

Rhetta guided Streak into the last remaining parking slot
out front. The cable television company must be having meetings again, since
there were little “bug fart” cars in all the slots in front of the office. She
labeled those small economy cars, “bug farts” because when they accelerated,
the noise they emitted sounded like a bug passing gas. Not, in her opinion, the
way a real car sounded. Bug farts included small Kias, Hondas, Fords, Chevys.
She wasn’t prejudiced against any car, but she found the little square ones
with baby stroller tires particularly offensive.

I
never thought I was a car snob
.
I don’t understand why these
younger guys, especially if they’re the greenie conservation gas-economy types
can’t opt for a little exercise and park farther down the parking lot and walk.
All of our offices suffer with no customer parking while they’re in here for
their rah-rah meetings.

To Rhetta, sales meetings
were a lot like cheerleading camp.

She spotted Philip Corini
sitting in his white car just as she parked. She wasn’t sure if it was an
Impala or a Taurus or even a Camry. All of the cars looked too much alike, and
the majority of them were white. Back in the sixties and seventies, cars had
looks, colors and personalities.

She assumed he was getting
ready to leave. He glanced in the rear view mirror then looked around before he
even started his car. He sat in it a moment, his head swiveling around. Then he
opened the car door. He wasn’t leaving after all. He stepped out and walked
over to a dark blue truck parked two spaces down.

Rhetta leaned over the
passenger seat and pretended to look for something on Streak’s floor. She faked
a search in hopes of discovering what Corini was doing. She still didn’t trust
him. He was much too slick talking to suit her. And why was he going toward the
blue truck?
Blue
truck!

Her heart began jittering.
When she eased upright, she spotted the back of Corini as he aimed his keys at
the truck. The lights flashed, and Corini returned to his car. As he bent over
to retrieve something off the floor of the car, his suit jacket parted at the
slit in the back. It closed up again as he slid behind the wheel. He closed the
door and started up the car. But not before Rhetta spotted his waistband
accessory. A 9-millimeter "Baby" Glock 26, if she was not mistaken.

After Corini left, Rhetta ran
up the sidewalk and burst into the office. She stopped at Woody’s desk. “You’ll
never guess who I just saw with a Baby Glock tucked in his waistband.” She
panted. “And who has two vehicles here, one of them a blue truck!”

Woody turned away from the
computer and stared at her. “I give up. Who?”

“Philip Corini,” Rhetta said,
her heart still thumping wildly. “I’m going to call the police.”

Woody placed a hand on her arm.
“Wait a minute. What are you going to tell them? It’s not illegal to carry a
weapon. If you have a concealed carry permit, you can hide it in your
waistband. It’s also not illegal to have two vehicles.”

She shook off Woody’s hand.
She drilled a stare into Woody. “I know that, Woody. I have a concealed carry
permit, and we have more than two vehicles. It’s just that one of his is a blue
truck, for heaven’s sake. Maybe he’s who ran over George Erickson.” She ran to
her desk, and grabbed the phone.

“Corini drove his pickup in
the day we had the bad weather. So what are you going to report? ” He followed
her and stood alongside her desk.

Properly soothed about the
truck, Rhetta muttered, “Maybe I’ll just call Randolph first, and tell him. He
can call the police in Columbia.”

“Hold on, Rhetta, I haven’t
the first notion of what you’re talking about.” He shook his head, then rubbed
it. “I’m missing something. What about Columbia?”

She threw her coat on the
back of her chair before plopping down into it. Woody dropped into her customer
chair. “I think you better tell me what happened in Columbia.”

She did.

When she finished telling him
everything that happened on the trip to get the Camaro, Woody stood and began
to pace. He rubbed his head. Then he sat again.

“So, do you think the dude
who robbed you and messed with the Camaro in Columbia are one and the same? And
that he may have been who ran over George Erickson?”

“I definitely do. Maybe it’s
Corini” She shook her head. “Now, I don’t know what to think, for sure. I’m
really freaking about all of this.” She fingered the cord of the phone until it
tangled. She spun it the other way, then returned the headset to the cradle. “I
guess I don’t need to call anyone.”

She opened the drawer,
glanced at the envelope still inside. “I stopped this morning on my way here
and put the VIN plate into my safe deposit box, along with the thousand dollar
bills.”

“Good.” He fingered his chin
whiskers. “When are you going overseas?”

“It depends on how long it
will take to get the death certificate back.”

Rhetta got up, went to the
kitchen and retrieved a very large cup of coffee. She brought it back and sat
at her desk, both hands clutching the oversized mug, grateful for the warmth.

Woody rose, then sat again.
“I don’t understand this. If your father was already dead according to records,
how come you need another death certificate?”

“The Tontine Trust was
established after they all supposedly died. Their rule for inheritance meant
that each time someone really died, my father, who was custodian, had to
provide proof of death. Makes sense.” She sipped the hot liquid carefully.

“I get it. So now that he’s
the last, and he’s gone, you need his death certificate.”

She nodded. “I need the
official death certificate as proof positive. I have George Erickson’s.”

“Who do you think is after
the money or the car?” Woody got up and returned to his desk. He sat, then
swiveled around to face her to continue the conversation.

“I don’t know. I can’t figure
this out. My father said for sure he was the last survivor. So who’s left that
thinks he’s got a claim? I just can’t fathom any of it.”

“What were those men’s names
who belonged to the Trust? If you want, I’ll try to find out if they had any
families.” He turned to face his computer and opened a browser window.

 “Do you really think you can
find these people?” Rhetta wrote down all the names on a piece of paper, then
walked to his desk and handed it to him.

“It’s worth a try.” He turned
to his monitor and began typing furiously.

“While you’re doing that, I’m
going to try to make flight reservations. Mr. DeBrock said he should have the
death certificate in seven business days.” She stared at her computer. “But
first, I have to figure out how to even get to Vera Mardola.”

After feeding the cats, then
finishing the grilled chicken breasts and brown rice she fixed for supper, she
sat at the kitchen counter and opened her iPad. Randolph loaded the dishwasher.

“I made flight reservations
for Friday, February first. We leave from Cape airport on Cape Air at two
o’clock to St. Louis. Then at six, we board a non-stop American Airlines
overnight flight from Saint Louis to Barcelona.”

She glanced toward Randolph,
who was neatly arranging the last of the dirty dishes on the lower rack, then
tapped her screen. “That’s almost four thousand miles. Anyway, since we can’t
fly directly to Vera Mardola, once we get to Barcelona, we’ll take the train to
Cadaqués, a little Catalán hamlet. Then we’ll take a ferryboat to Vera
Mardola.” She scrutinized the tentative schedule. “Does that sound all right
with you?”

“So if we fly out of Cape we
have about a two-hour wait in Saint Louis?” Randolph asked, pushing the buttons
to start the dishwasher.

“Yep. Unless we drive to the
Saint Louis airport and leave Streak in the long-term parking, which I don’t
want to do. The two-hour plus drive to the airport going won’t be too bad, but
coming home, we may be really tired, and then we’d still have two more hours to
go before getting to the house. I’d rather park in the long term at the Cape
airport. At the end of a long trip, fifteen minutes of driving home in no
traffic beats a minimum of two hours, or probably longer, if there’s snarly
Saint Louis traffic to deal with.”

“I agree,” he said. “You’re a
better trip planner than I am. I’d have just booked from Saint Louis.”

Rhetta scanned her e-book
app. “Once we get settled in at our gate, we can catch up on our reading. I’m
bringing my books electronically. We can’t take much luggage, so I’m not packing
any real books. Mine will be on my iPad.”

“That doesn’t necessarily
mean that your suitcases will be any lighter,” Randolph said as he sidled to
the counter, putting his arms around Rhetta and peering over her shoulder to
peek at her iPad screen. “Do you think you’ll have room in your carry-on for at
least one book for me? I haven’t got a fancy e-reader yet.”

“I’ll squeeze a book in for
you, don’t worry.” She turned and gave him her evil eye. “I’ll have you know,
my suitcases definitely won’t be over forty-five pounds, because I’m not paying
extra freight for them.”

He smiled. “I have never gone
anywhere yet with you that carrying your suitcases wasn’t a major workout.
Somehow I don’t think this trip will be any exception.”

She made a face at him, then
turned back to the screen and pointed, resuming her travelogue. “We’ll be
arriving at Barcelona around ten in the morning, local time. We lose about six
hours. We can only reserve passage on the boat once we’re there. I figured we’d
want to stay overnight in Barcelona, then go to Vera Mardola the next day.
We’ll be pretty tired unless we can actually sleep on the flight over.”

 “I think it’s a good idea to
have a base hotel in Barcelona. That will be a perfect place to leave our
luggage. We don’t want to lug it all to Vera Mardola. Plus, if we are just
totally exhausted, we know we can rest a day before tackling the problems at
the bank.”

“I agree, Sweets. I doubt
whether either of us will sleep much on the plane. Once we arrive we can get a
good meal, rest up, and be fresh when we visit the
Banc Réal de
Santo Domingo
.
” She said it with the best Catalán accent she could
fake. Since she’d never heard any spoken Catalán, she tried for semi-Spanish.
She closed the iPad cover and plugged it into the charger. “Why do you think
we’ll have problems at the bank? You’re making me nervous.”

He tilted her chin to him.
“My darling wife, do you think this trip will be uneventful given all that
you’ve been through recently?” She shook her head.

“Right,” she said, as he
pulled up a stool to sit next to her. “I sure wish I could take my .38 with
us.” Randolph gave her his judge look.

The phone rang. An excited
Woody was on the line. “Guess what I just found out?”

“I have no idea, Woody. Spill
it.”

“One of the members of the
Tontine has a son named Stanton Worthington.”

“Okay. Am I supposed to know
who that is?”

“He’s an actor. And according
to the cast list, he’s coming to Cape Girardeau next spring when they film that
movie.”

“Holy smokes, I know who that
is. He was in
Chasing
Charlotte
a couple of years ago. I
bet that’s who we saw at the airport.”

“Right. Quite a coincidence.”

Exactly
.
“Wonder
what he’s been doing here?”