The Real MacAw (13 page)

Randall smiled and leaned back against the shed.

“He started out wanting one of those beautified buildings,” he said. “He figured the only way to keep his store going was to go upscale. No way he could do that a couple blocks from the bus station. So he made a list of the buildings that would do for his fancy new store, and then he started digging into who owned them. And the more he dug, the less he liked what he found. Nearly every one of those buildings in the beautified section of town is owned by a Pruitt or someone who’s thick as thieves with the Pruitts.”

“And that surprises you?” I asked.

“No, but it surprised Parker, and he was going to blow the whistle on the low-down scam Mayor Pruitt pulled—putting the county up to its eyeballs in debt for a bunch of expensive civic improvements that never benefited anyone except for a few dozen property owners that he happens to share a family tree with.”

“Wait a minute—up to its eyeballs in debt? I thought the beautification project was done with federal funds and private donations. That’s what he said in that newspaper article last year.”

“And he wasn’t completely lying. He did get a small federal grant or two, and a few rich locals kicked in a few hundred dollars here and there.
With
federal funds and private donations, yes—but not entirely with. Not by a long shot. Most of the money came from borrowing. And they lied to the county board about it, or they wouldn’t have gotten approval. That’s what Parker figured out.”

A lot of what had been happening in recent weeks was all starting to make more sense. Caerphilly wasn’t an impoverished area. In addition to the college, the town had a small but thriving high-tech industry, with Mutant Wizards, my brother’s computer gaming company, as its centerpiece. The county was full of farmers who had adapted very successfully to the world of modern agriculture, mainly by providing organic or boutique meat and produce to the high-end restaurants and markets in the nearby cities. Like everyone, I’d assumed that a little belt-tightening would get the town and the county through the current financial hard times. The news of Terence Mann’s draconian service cuts had taken everyone by surprise, and most of us were still alternating between wondering if he was overreacting and fretting over how it could possibly have gotten so bad so fast.

“So that’s why the county financial situation suddenly got so dire?” I asked aloud.

“Yeah, we probably could have trimmed our sails a bit and weathered the recession,” Randall said. “It’s Pruitt stupidity and Pruitt greed that’s bringing us down. And maybe a little old-fashioned Pruitt profiteering. I know construction costs, and in my opinion we should have gotten a hell of a lot more for our money than we did.”

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“What usually happens when someone doesn’t pay a debt?” Randall said. “Swarms of lawyers should start showing up soon. And if the county can’t pay, the lenders are going to want their collateral.”

“Collateral? What collateral?” I asked. “You think they’re going to repossess all those overpriced cobblestones and wrought-iron streetlamps?”

“The collateral’s all the government buildings in town,” Randall said. “The courthouse. The library. Even the police station and the jail.”

I was stunned.

“It’s okay,” Randall said. “Odds are they won’t actually take over the property. After all, what’s a New York bank going to do with a Reconstruction-era courthouse, a beat-up Carnegie library, and a small-town jailhouse? Parker said they’d probably just rent them back to us.”

“They might,” I said. “Or they might try to cut a deal with the mayor. What if they offered to trade all the town buildings back if he got the county to seize some property that the bank really wants—some waterfront property and a few hundred acres of prime farmland. A tract of land one of their other customers might find useful—say a real-estate developer who’s been hankering to build fancy condominiums and a golf course in Caerphilly County and has been beating its head for years against the county’s antidevelopment stance.”

Randall frowned and pondered for a few moments.

“Can they do that?” he asked finally. “Seize private property to give it to a developer. Seems … un … un…”

“Unconstitutional?”

“I was thinking just plain un-American. Can they really do it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It has worked in some places. And even if it doesn’t work, you can bet fighting it will cost the moon and take forever.”

“And the whole time that sneaky bastard of a mayor will be doing everything he can to help out his developer buddies. Okay, the first thing we have to do is figure out what land they’re targeting and make sure the owners are ready to fight.”

“I already know that,” I said. “I found the surveyors working on Michael’s and my land and Mother and Dad’s farm.”

“I reckon you aren’t interested in selling, as much money as you’ve put into the place.”

“You’re right.” Randall, of course, had a very good idea how much we’d spent, since Shiffley Construction had done most of the work. “They probably want Seth Early’s sheep farm, too, and I hope the surveyors steer clear of him, or they’re likely to see the business end of his shotgun. And they’re talking about waterfront condos. I can’t remember who owns the farms on either side of the road between us and the creek, but they’re very nice farms, and I doubt the owners want to sell.”

“That would be my cousins, Orville and Renfrew on the east side of the road,” he said. “And you’re right. Likely as not they’d join Seth’s shotgun brigade at the mere mention of building condos and a golf course on their land. And the farm on the west side of the road belongs to Deacon Washington of the New Life Baptist Church. Just try to pry him off that land—I think his family’s been there since just after the war—and this time I do mean the Civil War. Okay, we know who the developers are after—now we need a lawyer.”

“I already called one,” I said. “Festus Hollingsworth. One of Mother’s cousins.”

“No offense, but we probably need a pretty high-caliber lawyer,” Randall said. “You think your mother’s cousin is up to it?”

“Cousin Festus is pretty high caliber,” I said. “He specializes in making life miserable for sleazy developers and their corrupt friends in local governments. Makes a very good living at it. Wait till you see this year’s Jaguar. If anyone’s up to it, he is.”

“You have a useful kind of family.” His cell phone rang, and he reached for it automatically. “Now what we need to do is— Hang on a minute. I need to take this. Yes, ma’am?”

I watched Randall’s face as he listened to his caller. His expression went from one of cheerful respect to shock.

And clearly whoever had called him had a lot to say. Randall did a lot of listening, interjecting an occasional “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am.”

“I’ll have them there as soon as possible,” he said finally. “Yes, ma’am. You bet!”

He hung up and stared at the phone for a few seconds.

“It’s starting,” he said. “That was my aunt Jane.”

“Judge Jane?” I asked.

“The same. She just called up and ordered me to bring as many of my trucks as possible down to the courthouse. That financial company gave notice that they’re seizing their collateral Monday morning and kicking everyone out.”

“And she’s going?”

“She’s hopping mad, but she says so far she can’t see a clear legal way around it, and she’s damned if she’s going to give them grounds to cause trouble, so she’s moving. Looks like anyone who wants a warrant or needs to pay a traffic ticket will have to go out to her farm for the time being.”

“Are they starting with the courts, or have they given everybody notice?”

“Everybody,” he said. “Whole town’s in a tizzy. Aunt Jane called to make sure she and the courts had first dibs on our trucks. I’d better get moving.”

“By the way, on this developer thing—”

He turned and tilted his head as if asking a question. Probably whether my question was important enough to keep his aunt waiting.

“Rob’s looking it up, but he thinks in Virginia you can’t seize land for economic development unless it’s blighted. Michael and I might need you to do a little work around the place to make damned sure no one in their right mind could call it blighted.”

“Good call,” he said. “And once we’re sure where else they’re targeting, we can make sure they’re all showplaces.”

“One more thing,” I said. “When did you find out about all this? I didn’t know anything until just now, when I ran into the surveyors.”

He frowned and clenched his jaw.

“I first heard about it Thursday,” he said, finally. “Parker told me. But it sounded so loony I thought he had to be wrong. Then yesterday, after I heard someone had killed him I began to think about it, and it didn’t sound nearly as loony. And then I started asking a few people some questions, and the more I asked, the saner Parker seemed.”

“Where were you when he told you?”

“On the sidewalk outside Geraldine’s bakery,” he said. “And before you ask, I have no idea if anyone was listening in. It was just past eight
A.M.
Thursday, and lots of people were coming and going, getting coffee and pastries. I suppose any one of them could have heard what he was saying. I didn’t get the idea he was trying to keep it a deep dark secret. Sorry; I know that’s no help.”

He turned and strode off, dialing his cell phone as he went. Rallying the family troops? Shiffley trucks from all over the county would soon be converging on the courthouse.

I wondered what the other three judges were doing. Two of them were Pruitts, and the other was a long-time business partner and golfing buddy of the mayor, so I wouldn’t want to bet on their chances of finding anyone willing to haul their stuff.

Then again, if the lender was one of mayor’s buddies, maybe the other three judges weren’t being evicted.

And how many other offices would be affected? And was it just offices? What other services would have to close down or relocate? We had well water and could get along without trash collection for a while, but what about the people in town?

At least Timmy would have a classroom to go to on Monday. Back in the fifties, Mayor Pruitt’s grandfather had closed Caerphilly’s schools rather than integrate them, never expecting that the county would rebel and build a new central school system just outside the town limits.

And what should I do about Randall’s theory? I’d forgotten to ask Randall if he’d already shared it with the chief.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the nonemergency number for the police station.

Chapter 11

“What’s up, Meg?” Debbie Anne.

“I know the chief is pretty busy,” I began.

“You have no idea.”

“Ask him if he’s heard Randall Shiffley’s theory of why Parker Blair was murdered,” I said.

“Is it a good theory?” she asked.

“Beats me,” I said. “I’ll leave that to the chief. But it was news to me, and I just wanted to make sure Randall had told him. Gotta run!”

I didn’t particularly have to run, but now, with any luck, Debbie Anne’s curiosity would be roused, and she’d nag the chief till he interviewed Randall.

And I should tell Cousin Festus about what I’d learned from Randall. I called his number and got voice mail. I hung up. I didn’t want to leave as long and convoluted a message as this would take. E-mail would be better. I hung up and headed for the barn to use the computer in my office.

The barn was quiet. A little too quiet. I saw no one—no humans, anyway—on the way into my office, and when I came out again, I saw only Clarence, feeding a bottle to one of the beagle puppies.

“Meg!” he exclaimed. “Great! I could use the help.”

I glanced around. Still no other Corsicans in evidence. I didn’t like the looks of this. Less than forty-eight hours and already they were deserting the ship.

“Could you possibly keep an eye on things here, just for a little while?” Clarence asked. “I need to go figure out a proper outfit for the funeral.”

“The funeral? You mean Parker’s? They can’t possibly be having it already.”

“Not yet, but the chief says they’ll be releasing the body before long, and once he does, there’s no use waiting around, is there?”

“Won’t that depend on Parker’s family?”

“He doesn’t have any.” Clarence shook his head as if the lack of family to bury him was as much a tragedy as Parker’s death. “And I’m his executor, so I guess it’s up to me, and I say the sooner the better. The longer we leave him unburied, the more time people have to gawk and gossip.”

I wasn’t sure about the gawking part, which made it sound as if Parker’s unburied body would be on display in the town square instead of safely ensconced at Morton’s Funeral Home. And if he thought burying Parker would cut off the gossip, he was more naïve than I thought.

But I guessed from the uncharacteristic frown on his face that the weight of his executor’s responsibilities weighed heavily on him.

“So you need to go clothes shopping,” I said. “Does it have to be right now?”

“I don’t mean for me,” Clarence said. “I have a dark suit. Or I could wear my uniform.”

“Uniform?” I was eyeing the battered biking leathers that were his usual daily wear. I couldn’t remember seeing him in anything else. Was that what he meant by a uniform? If so, I hoped he had a newer set at home that he kept for funerals. One that hadn’t yet encountered quite so many sick cats, piddling puppies, and incontinent macaws.

“I was a Marine, you know,” Clarence said, drawing himself up to his full six feet six. “I could wear my dress blues. Out of respect. Of course it’s been a few years since I’ve had them on.”

More like twenty years, I suspected. He was eyeing his belly dubiously. I had a feeling it wasn’t the years so much as the beers, along with quite a few pizzas, that might prevent him from squeezing into the uniform.

“But I can worry about that later,” he went on. “What I meant is that I just got another call from Maudie down at the funeral home.”

“Ah,” I said. Clarence’s curious haste to select Parker’s burial clothes suddenly became more understandable. “She’s fretting?”