Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (23 page)

“His subdivision?”

“No, another tract … a key piece of property in Sweet Olive, filed through a company called Cotton Grove.”

Camille drummed her fingers nervously on one of the olive-drab file cabinets. “I’ve got to go,” she added abruptly. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

“Let’s figure this out together.”

She gave him a sad smile. “This one I’ve got to handle on my own.” With that, she dashed down the hallway.

“Camille!” he called out, but she did not look back.

Marsh slapped his hand against the file cabinet and walked directly to the records to be refiled. The clerk, frowning, stood next to the basket, his hands full.

“Wait,” Marsh said.

The man, who had worked in the office since Marsh was in law school, scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Gardner and I are working on a well together. No need for you to file the same files twice.”

The clerk handed the stack to Marsh, his expression dubious.

Sitting at the table, Marsh began to flip through the files. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but Camille’s behavior confirmed the hunch that had led him here in the first place.

The first few files revealed nothing, and, frustrated, he dove into the last one, records for well number 291928. The well had not produced in years and had been plugged and abandoned, routine in this region.

But as he flipped the file shut, Slattery’s name caught his eye, and he opened the folder once more and skimmed each page.

Slattery had been involved in the drilling of the well nearly sixteen years ago. But it must have been his partner’s signature that had caused Camille to leave in such a hurry.
Johnny Gardner.

W
alking quickly down a pretty boulevard, impatient to be back in running form, Camille twisted and turned, as if by retracing her steps in Samford, she could somehow make sense out of all of this.

Her shoulder and her head ached.

She had left the conservation office intending to face Ginny with the news that she didn’t own the mineral rights to her land. But she knew she was headed to Marsh’s house.

He had to be told that Slattery was undercutting his clients in Sweet Olive.

And that her father had been there when it had all started.

As she approached Marsh’s neighborhood, she drew back at the scene at the Richmond house. Outdoor floodlights illuminated trees, and the chandelier in the foyer glowed through the transom. Cars lined the circular drive and—

She halted.

People were playing croquet on the lawn.
Croquet?

Uncle Scott would have found this hilarious. She wished he
would return her phone calls so she could talk about it, about the whole mess.

With people on the lawn, she thought perhaps she should turn around and hope no one noticed. Cemented to the spot, she heard the jingle of a dog’s collar.

“Lovely home, isn’t it?” a white-haired woman said, the dog sniffing at Camille’s shoes. “Valerie borrowed my housekeeper for the evening. They’re hosting some big oil guy tonight.”

Camille gulped for air.

“Are you hurt?” the woman asked, studying her more closely.

Camille shook her head. “Catching my breath.”

The woman threw her a suspicious look and tugged on her dog’s leash.

Pretending to head the other way, Camille watched over her shoulder. The woman strolled up the walkway of a house across from the Richmond place. The dog sniffed at every inch of ground and the woman talked to him while he peed.

Camille took a quick inventory of the handful of cars lined up on the driveway, recognizing only Valerie’s. Her gaze moved on along the drive, and her heart plummeted. The little green MGB convertible was at the front of the line.

She heard the clack of a mallet when Valerie, with a sweater draped around her shoulders like it was February, hit a wooden ball. The shot must have been good because she threw up her hands in a touchdown sign.

Slattery sat in a brightly colored Adirondack chair, holding a drink. A waiter, wearing all white, was stationed at a portable bar.

Camille continued to scan the lawn, recognizing a couple of businesspeople. As casually as she could, she positioned herself to see better.

She’d almost given up when the door of the house opened, and Marsh’s tall body stepped under the porch light. She couldn’t read his expression but he turned to shake someone’s hand. The door swung open farther and a slightly stooped man stepped out, vigorously returning the handshake.

Camille stepped into the street to get a better look, certain she couldn’t be right.

Then she sank onto the curb, thankful for the cover of the shrubbery.

She’d never forgive Uncle Scott—or Marsh—for this.

Camille marched into the office tower a few hours later, liking the way her cowboy boots clicked on the tile entrance.

“Must be something important going on,” the weekend guard said. “It’s been like a parade through here. Unusual, especially for a Friday night.” He lowered his voice. “Even saw the big boss.”

Stepping onto the elevator, she looked down at the jeans she had changed into. Only six weeks had passed since she’d stood here in a smudged skirt and uncomfortable pumps, but she felt like a different person.

As the door glided open, she stepped off, bumping into Slattery Richmond. He reared back. “Camille … What are you doing here?”

“This is my office. And you?”

He gave a nervous chuckle, shuffling a brown accordion file under his arm. “Got off on the wrong floor. Must be getting old.” He punched the button three times and lunged into the elevator when the doors opened.

But Camille stuck her boot in, jamming the door open.

Slattery looked startled and moved to the rear.

“Did you used to work for J&S?” Camille asked, her voice cold.

He leaned forward and punched the button, but she didn’t budge.

“Do I need to call security?” he asked.

She shrugged with her good shoulder. “Your choice.”

His look shifted, almost admiring. “Scott knew what he was doing when he sent you here. Would you ever consider coming to work for me?”

“Not if I were stranded on a street corner with nowhere else to go. Maybe I should rephrase my question.
When
did you work for J&S?”

Slattery smirked. “It’s old news that I worked as a roughneck with your uncle and your daddy in college. My father thought that job would encourage less drinking and more studying.”

“That would have been in the early days of J&S,” Camille said, this time her voice less certain.

“Very early. Those guys weren’t much older than me.” He grinned, showing a hint of the younger man he had been. “I lost more money playing cards than I made on the job.”

“So you knew J&S from the beginning.”

“Johnny and Scott,” he said with a nod. “But I moved on to the law business after that. Thanks to Louisiana’s screwed-up mineral laws, I make a living without working in hundred-degree weather.”

“Does Scott know you were running side deals with my father?”

Slattery calmly punched the button again. “Thanks to your friend Marsh Cameron, he does now.”

She stepped back and watched the doors glide shut.

Walking to the J&S office, she tugged on the glass office door. She half expected it to be unlocked, but it held firm.

Sliding her badge, she opened it and the smell of Slattery’s cologne hit her nostrils. “Hello? Valerie?”

She headed into the hall, but the offices were dark, other than the glow of computers. Flipping on the light, she half turned to push the door shut.

“Working late?” Scott’s voice said from over near the conference table.

Camille shrieked, her legs almost giving way. She steadied herself, trying not to give her uncle the satisfaction of seeing how unnerved she was.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked.

“No,” she said, her voice higher pitched than normal. “Although it would have been nice of you to turn the lights on.”

“We were in a bit of a rush. Thanks to you, Slattery and I had business to take care of.”

“After your garden party?”

“Word travels fast.”

“Not fast enough,” Camille said. “Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

He sat in the chair where Marsh had sat during that first Monday morning meeting. “I heard you were getting a little too chummy with that clan of artists.”

From across the room, she scanned the maps and other files she’d left out as she spoke. “They’re good people.”

He rolled his eyes and then gestured at the table. “Despite your soft heart, you’re an ace. By letting that lawyer in on Slattery’s shadow ownership, I struck a much better deal with Slattery. Needless to say, he doesn’t want his legislative buddies—or
the IRS—to know what he’s up to.” Scott grinned. “Although it would have been interesting to put a well right in the middle of his fancy golf course.”

Pulling out one of the heavy chairs, Camille sat, her legs shaky.

Scott, chewing on a toothpick, walked over to the window and looked out at the skyline. “What a miserable town. I don’t know what your father saw in it.”

“My father?”

Scott turned and gave a hollow laugh. “He planned to settle here, but that fire got him.” For a moment, she thought she saw regret on his face.

“If he’d have stayed with us, he wouldn’t have been killed.” Camille said the words she’d told herself so many times through the years.

“He didn’t want to leave you, but I didn’t have anyone else to send.” Scott’s words sounded defensive.

“Daddy always wanted to go. Wherever there was an oil well, wherever he could find a six-pack.”

“He hated the travel.” Scott strolled to the table and pulled out the chair at the other end. “The booze—and his love for a good poker game—made him easier to manipulate.”

“Booze didn’t get him burned to death.”

Scott looked away.

“He was drinking, and you sent him anyway.”

“I was needed elsewhere,” he said. “I swore he could stay put if he’d just handle that one last crisis for me.”

Camille ran her fingers through her hair, not surprised that they were trembling. “All these years you were my hero,” she said. “You made me believe my father was the bad guy.”

“You take after him. He was a dreamer like you, and he had
the best instincts of any oilman I ever knew.” Scott’s voice was nostalgic. “We were a heckuva team.”

“You sent him to his death,” she said, her voice cold. “What kind of team is that? And then you used me just like you used him.”

“Don’t get dramatic on me. I’ve helped you out plenty through the years, just like I helped Johnny.”

Scott pulled one of the survey maps to him. “I knew sending you here was a risk.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“When I heard there was a group of people who were willing to walk away from oil money, I knew there was only one person who could make them change their minds.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Thankfully I had Valerie to help. She was able to work with Drew Cross and one or two others. It’s a start.”

“Valerie is the kind of person you want working at J&S?”

Scott chuckled. “Ironic, isn’t it? Slattery’s and Johnny’s daughters squaring off in the same deal. She’s the kind of clever person we need on our team.”

Camille choked. “Someone you can’t trust?”

“
I
trust her. You have to learn how to work with people like Val. They’re invaluable.”

“Like my father learned to work with Slattery?”

Scott scowled. “That was a brief misunderstanding—and a poker game that got out of hand. Slattery could tie Johnny up in knots.”

“Imagine my surprise to see the Gardner name on that lease,” Camille said. “I wonder what happened to the money those wells paid after Daddy died. Did you pocket the royalties before that well quit producing?”

Scott shook his head. “Slattery got all of that,” he said. “Your dad was a front for him.”

“You two are despicable.”

“I tried to teach you to look beneath the surface.”

“My part in this stops tonight. Now.” She pushed the heavy chair back. “That first interview I did was just the beginning. I’m calling every reporter I can find to let people know what you and Slattery did.”

“I look forward to watching them,” he said calmly. “You should have a good time telling how your father illegally fronted for those leases, that your family business is neck deep in all of this, that you’ve traveled around for years and talked people out of their mineral rights.”

He stopped, and the silence thickened.

“Yep,” he said, popping his knuckles. “You’ll look every bit as bad as me and Slattery.”

“I very well may, but I’ll take my punishment—unlike you and that coward Slattery Richmond. I did nothing illegal.”

“You try to make things black and white.” He leaned over the table. “I am, however, willing to make a deal if you’ll help me out.”

“Why would I possibly help you?”

“For those goofy artists, of course.”

She jumped to her feet, her boot toe catching on the carpet as she headed for the door.

“Camy, slow down and think.”

Had he deliberately chosen the same words he’d used when she ran to his car all those years ago at Trumpet and Vine?

“You can make this right with everyone,” he continued. She did not miss the satisfied look that moved across his face. “I’ll honor your wishes for Sweet Olive.”

“You don’t know the meaning of honor,” Camille said.

“Easy now. I’ll only put up with so much.”

She wavered. “What about the location of the wells?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where do you recommend?”

She moved toward the table, her mouth set. “Away from the row of artists’ homes, Ginny Guidry’s included.” Leaning over, she pointed to a map on the table. “Put them here, or I’ll see that every deal gets killed.”

“If you kill the deals, your precious landowners won’t get their money.”

“Do you think J&S is the only company interested in Sweet Olive land? If it weren’t for me, they’d have gone with Bienville long before.”

“You sound like their attorney.” Scott arched his brow. “You probably know he crashed our gathering this evening.”

Camille’s legs felt weak and her wrist ached.

“Marshall Cameron was mad as all get-out when he found out what was going on,” Scott said, his mouth twisted, whether in anger or respect she couldn’t tell. “He demanded a community grant for some art center—something you had suggested.”

“Did you agree?”

“I told him you’d take care of it. Wrap this up, and do whatever you want.” He swatted his hand at her, his gold-and-onyx ring shimmering. “I suspect Johnny would say you’re doing the right thing.”

Before Camille could reply, Valerie strolled into the office. In tight corduroy jeans and a knit top, she held a leather computer case. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Mr. Stephens.”

“Perfect timing, Val,” Scott said. “I was about to tell Camy that you’ve been promoted.”

Camille studied the two, impassive.

“Valerie has agreed to head up a new community division in Houston.”

“But …” Camille stopped.

“Val has a range of experience that will come in quite handy,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Valerie said and gave a mock curtsy.

“And she’s convinced Jason Dinkins to move over to our side. He’ll run this office, where we’ll be able to keep a close eye on him.”

“Are you firing me?” Camille asked.

“I’ll let you finish off the Sweet Olive deal,” he said, “but we both know it’s time you moved on to something else.” He paused.

“I get my bonus,” she said. “And I keep the pickup.”