TheCart Before the Corpse (11 page)

“Hiram was nearly seventy, but that didn’t keep him from flirting. If you’re asking me whether he was capable of anything beyond that, for God’s sake, I’m his daughter. He’s unlikely to discuss his conquests or his Viagra prescription with me. Does that mean you think he was a man did it?”

“Or a strong woman,” he said, running his eyes down the strong muscles outlined by her turtleneck shirt. “Or a very small woman who had help.”

“How about an entire garden club?” she snapped. “Like
Murder on the Orient Express
? They got together and decided he’d become a menace to their sisterhood.” She stood up without using her arms as leverage.

That took strong thighs and belly muscles. Plenty strong enough to crush a man’s skull and then drop a heavy iron wheel over on him. Geoff made a mental note to find out whether all her time could be accounted for over the weekend. The drive from Chattanooga took less than three hours. She might have called her father, met him in the middle of the night, killed him, then driven back to Chattanooga. What time did she have to report for her duties as show manager? Had she spent the night in anyone’s bed? Her alibi might not be so airtight after all.

“If you want to speak to me later, give me a call.” She handed each man a business card. “That has my cell phone and email address. I’m on the road so much, nobody can get me at home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to drive to Bigelow to make arrangements for my father’s funeral.” She turned back as she reached the door. “If that nitwit sheriff decides not to release my father’s body after all, can either of you pull some strings?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Amos said. “Is Peggy going with you?”

Merry nodded. “I also have an appointment with Hiram’s lawyer.”

“To find out how much money he left you?” Geoff asked.

She sucked in a breath and snapped, “I’ve got four horses plus a jackass to feed and a hired hand to pay whether Hiram left any money or not. I’d really like to continue to feed myself too, but if one of us has to go hungry, it’ll be me. I need to find out whether I can pay the feed bill and still buy myself the occasional cheeseburger.”

“So you’re only interested in the horses.”

“In my world, the horses
always
come first. You know that old saying, ‘dogs have owners, cats have staff?’ Compare cleaning a litter box with mucking out a stall if you want to know the difference between acting as staff for a cat or groom for a horse. As a matter of fact, why don’t you come out to the farm this afternoon about four when I’m doing the afternoon feeds. I’ll show you some
real
manure, and not the stuff you’ve been shoveling at me.” She slammed the door behind her.

“Whoa!” Amos said. “I think that’s a point to the lady, Geoff. Reminds me of Ida.”

“If she did it, she won’t be easy to rattle. The only time she got upset was when I questioned her allegiance to those horses, which are not even hers.”

“I don’t think she killed him. You don’t seriously think she killed him, do you?” Amos said softly asked.

“Ask me after I’ve checked out her alibi and found out how much money he left her.”

Chapter 15

Tuesday Morning

Merry

“You turned off your cell phone,” Peggy said as she climbed into my truck in front of her house. “I’ve called you a dozen times.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want it to ring while I was talking to Amos and his tame GBI agent.”

“Everybody and his brother’s been calling me asking when Hiram’s funeral is scheduled. And a couple of reporters from national magazines called me when they couldn’t get you. I don’t know how they even found out that Hiram lived downstairs, much less discovered who I am and what my telephone number is.”

“People he worked with in the business, probably. Plus the internet.”

“They wanted to ask you about Hiram. I didn’t realize he was such a big muckety-muck in the driving world. Oh, I knew he’d had a career, but gold medals at the Driving Worlds?”

“Three times. But not recently.” I turned onto the highway leading to Bigelow. “It’s a very small world. Nobody outside of driving would so much as recognize his name, although he had enough silver cups and bowls and platters to fill the average jewelry store.” I glanced over at her. “Any idea what he did with them? Did he sell them for a down payment on the farm? Most of them are engraved. That must lower the value considerably. Still a lot of them were good quality sterling.”

“He didn’t bring them with him when he moved in. You saw what he brought. A couple of suitcases, a couple of black plastic trash bags of clothes, some harness and some books.”

“I don’t know where all his files are either. He kept notes on every horse he ever trained, every Coggins test he ever pulled, every shot or leg poultice. Are there any storage rental places in Mossy Creek?”

“I’m sure there are in Bigelow. Couldn’t he have left all but the essentials in Aiken when he moved here?”

That did make sense. I didn’t know how long he had wandered before he settled on Mossy Creek and went back to get his horses and belongings. He might have spent months looking for land before he found his forty acres.

“You said Hiram had been living in your apartment less than a year. Did he live somewhere in this area before that? Maybe camp out in that old barn while he and Jacob were putting up the new stable?”

“I think he may have, or stayed in some el cheapo motel, but I don’t know for how long or how many times he’d visited the area before he bought his land. He did say he commuted from Aiken for a few months.”

“That’s some commute. How did he find your apartment?” I asked.

“I had my basement finished last year in hopes of bringing in a little extra income. I put an ad in the
Mossy Creek Gazette
and the following Sunday, Hiram showed up on my doorstep. He was the first and only person to look at the place. He moved in a week later. We became friends almost at once.”

I looked over at her. I still wondered if they’d been more than friends, but there was nothing in her voice that said he was a lost lover. It was none of my business anyway unless it turned out to have something to do with his death.

“Turn left,” she said. “Mr. Robertson’s office is off the main square. I made a list of people you need to call back when we get home. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of others on Hiram’s answering machine.”

I wouldn’t be able to blow them off. I owed Hiram his obituaries. What I didn’t owe anyone was answers to probing questions about the way he died. Even if I’d had answers, which I didn’t.

We drove onto Bigelow’s main drag and parked in front of the Victorian house that had been turned into the offices of Kauffman, Hardwick, Smithson and Robertson.

“I recommended Frederick Robertson to Hiram. He’s been my lawyer since Ben and I moved down here and Ben died on me. Even in a really straightforward estate, there are things that need to be done, final tax preparation, probate . . . ”

“Please,” I begged. “I
so
don’t want to do this.”

Peggy left to do some shopping while I climbed the stairs to the offices where Frederick Robertson was a partner. I’ve never been to a lawyer’s office in Timbuktu, but they probably import antique wood paneling, furniture, and hunting prints on the theory that their clients expect it. This office was the prototypical southern lawyer’s office except for the secretary, who was a knockout redhead. She ushered me directly into Mr. Robertson’s office. He was chubby, cheerful, and seated me in a leather chair that probably belonged to his grandfather.

After the usual stuff about being sorry for my loss, he templed his fingers and leaned forward. “Do you want me to continue to act for you in matters pertaining to the estate?”

“Good grief, yes!” I reached for my handbag. “Do I need to give you a check as a retainer? I just assumed . . . ”

He waved pudgy fingers. “Don’t worry about the retainer. I’ll have Hiram’s will admitted to probate, with the attesting witness statements, put the notices about payment of debts in the legal notice section of the local papers, and have twenty copies of your letters testamentary made for you. You are his sole heir without bond as well his executrix. You’re also going to need at least twenty copies of his death certificate . . . ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That should do it for the immediate future. They’ll be sent to the funeral home for delivery to you. You’ll find yourself giving them out left and right to banks, the social security administration I’ll have Eleanor make you a list. I’ll file for an extension on his income taxes to give us time to file his final tax statement, although he’d already sent most of the information to his accountant.”

If my head could have physically spun 360 degrees, it would have. As it was, my brain was crashing around in my skull at Mach ten. At some point I managed to shut my mouth, but I’m sure my eyes were popping like a bush baby’s.

He stopped speaking and put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear. You’ve never done this before. I should have realized. I am a dumb old hound.”

“Never by myself.”

“This is simple as Simon.” He chortled. “Getting seven warring heirs to agree to sell Hiram his land that was difficult.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know anything at all about your father’s estate?”

I shook my head.

He took a deep breath and leaned back in his tall leather chair. His head didn’t quite reach the top of the back.
Mr. Pickwick Meets Law and Order.

I stifled a giggle. He really would think I was brainless if I laughed. I’ve been cursed with the
Chuckles the Clown
syndrome all my life. Remember the old Mary Tyler Moore Show? At the somber funeral for Chuckles the Clown, Mary breaks out in hysterical laughter. That’s me. Give me a disaster and I’ll get the giggles. Except for the time I hurt my mother.

“Basically, Mr. Robertson,” I said as I drove my fingernails into the palms of my hands, “I need to know if there is any money available right this minute so I can pay the feed bill and Jacob Yoder’s salary.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Take a copy of the death certificate and a letter testamentary to the Mossy Creek Bank and transfer the funds in your father’s checking and savings accounts to your name. Should be enough money for running expenses. If not, we can advance you money from the estate. We’ll check with his accountant about his brokerage accounts and other savings and money market accounts, so you can have those transferred to your name as well. Have you considered what you plan to do with the property?”

The words ‘sell it’ froze on my lips. “Not yet.”

“Should you decide to sell it, I have already received at least one discrete inquiry to sell at a profit. In this market that’s amazing.” He leaned forward and propped his two chins on his fists. “My advice is not to sell. Don’t do anything major for a year. That’s standard lawyer advice. At the moment the real estate market is in the tank, but at some point Hiram’s land is going to be worth a great deal of money.”

“I may not be able to afford to keep it. I’m sure the mortgage is astronomical . . . ”

He frowned at me. “I keep forgetting you don’t know anything. I’m getting old. When a man Hiram’s age buys a valuable piece of property on which he plans to make a substantial investment, even in the crazy mortgage market we had before the sub-prime crash, lenders demand a complete physical, including some questions about mental stability.” He glanced up at me to see if I understood.

“They wanted to see whether or not he had suicidal tendencies.”

He nodded. “Or incipient dementia or Alzheimer’s. They also require mortgage insurance. Hiram folded the cost of the new stable and arena into the mortgage. Standard operating procedure at the time, although not strictly Kosher. He’d never get away with it now. The moment Hiram died, the mortgage insurance kicked in. The property is yours free and clear. Or will be, after I shepherd the paperwork through the insurance company and file the deed.”

“Free and clear?” I couldn’t believe that. I’d expected to be saddled with a load of debt I wouldn’t have been able to make the first payment on.

“Oh, the insurance company may make a bit of a fuss, but there’s no possibility of suicide. So, unless you actually had something to do with his death . . . ”

I shook my head. “I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t. They may try to delay the payment, but I won’t let them get away with that. You do realize that no one can profit from a crime he or she commits?”

“I have an alibi.” In the space of two minutes I had gone from surprise to elation to sheer terror. Suddenly, I was the obvious suspect in my father’s death. That GBI agent already thought I’d done it. How perfect was my alibi? I wished I’d accepted the proposition from that Argentinean polo player I’d met at the horse show, even if he was fifteen years younger than I am. As it was, I’d spent the night in bed alone at my motel.

Now I
had
to find out who had actually killed Hiram. And fast. I sure couldn’t trust Agent Wheeler to look any further than his long snoot, and Sheriff Campbell would snap the cuffs on me just to keep the governor happy.

Chapter 16

Tuesday Afternoon

Merry

When Peggy picked me up in front of Robertson’s office, I carried a stack of blue legal folders containing letters testamentary. Despite the warm April day, my teeth were chattering.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” Peggy asked. “Shall I turn on the heater?”

I managed to stammer my way through most of it while she kept the car idling.

“Good,” she said and put the car in gear. “Hiram told me about the mortgage insurance. I assumed you knew. He bitterly resented having to pay it, but knew he couldn’t buy the property without it. I told him that Ben took it out when we bought our house in Mossy Creek. Otherwise on my retirement income I might not have been able to keep it after Ben died so suddenly.”

“Mr. Robertson seems to think Hiram also had brokerage accounts and money market accounts as well as standard bank accounts. Where did he get the money?”