As usual when she awoke, a blanket of depression settled over her. She’d learned that if she lay still and emptied her mind, a ray of rational thought would eventually make its way through the gloom. This morning, the thought centered on why she’d decided to drive to Dallas a day early when she’d known that Carrie would be out of town until midafternoon Sunday, the time of Rachel’s planned arrival. But—as with everything else she’d set her furious energies to these past two months—she’d gotten her parents’ house ready for sale ahead of schedule and come on because she had nowhere else to go. Now she wondered what she could do to fill her time and endure her solitude in this igloo of a house without losing the rest of her sanity.
The telephone rang down the hall, and Rachel let it ring once before the simple need to hear a human voice prompted her to throw back the covers to answer it. She cleared her morning throat. “Hello. Carrie Sutherland’s residence.”
There was a surprised silence, then a familiar male voice that always reminded her of suspenders and flannel shirts said her name with delight: “Rachel? That you?”
She grimaced, regretting she’d answered the phone. Taylor Sutherland, Carrie’s father, obviously did not know that his daughter was out of town, enjoying the hedonistic delights of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas with her latest boyfriend. A straitlaced Southern Baptist, he would not have approved.
“Good morning, Taylor,” she said. “I came in early, but I’m afraid Carrie’s not here at the moment. Some… early morning appointment, I gather.”
“Uh-huh. She’s flown off somewhere for the weekend and left you to fend for herself, hasn’t she?”
“My fault. I wasn’t to have arrived until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well, I won’t put you on the spot and ask where she is or with whom. Will you be all right there by yourself in that icebox? Set the thermostat to your liking. Pay no attention to that hands-off warning she’s posted. It’s ridiculous how cold she keeps that place just to preserve those modern canvases of hers.”
Rachel smiled. There was no fooling Taylor Sutherland when it came to his daughter. He was referring to the PLEASE DO NOT ADJUST chrome plate affixed next to the thermostat. Carrie was a serious collector of valuable oil paintings, and her town house was thermostatically controlled to protect them from variations in room temperatures. He asked now in a voice of fatherly concern, “So what are you going to do with yourself all day?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Well, she doesn’t keep a damn thing worth reading, and I’m sure there’s nothing to eat in the refrigerator. Why don’t you come to the office? I’m here today doing some paperwork, and you and I can talk over whatever you planned to discuss Monday. We’ll have a couple of gin and tonics and then hit a hamburger joint. What do you say?”
Rachel sighed with relief. “I say that sounds great.”
“Then I’ll see you about eleven.” He gave her the address and easiest route to get to his office and advised before hanging up, “Come cool. They turn off the air-conditioning in this place over the weekend.”
Rachel had great respect for Taylor Sutherland. He maintained a country-boy-come-to-town persona—but behind the hayseed act was a brilliant legal mind that had led many a gullible opponent to his peril. He was a widower and Carrie his only child. Knowing him to be a stickler for punctuality, she had five minutes to spare before he bustled out in the warm Saturday quiet of his luxurious reception room at eleven o’clock. “Rachel, my girl! I won’t ask how you are because I believe I damn well know, but you look pretty good for a girl knocked off her feet as you’ve been.”
“You speak from kindness,” she said, returning his bear hug. “I wish my mirror were so kind.”
“You’re too critical. Come on in and I’ll put together a couple of G and T’s to cool us off.”
Taylor talked indulgently of Carrie’s “wild and woolly ways” while he mixed the gin and tonics, Rachel getting the impression the preliminaries were to avoid getting down to the reason for their meeting. Carrie had made the appointment for her, filling in her father on the dispensations of Aunt Mary’s will and explaining that Rachel had found incriminating papers that might be grounds for a lawsuit against Percy Warwick. She had a feeling he knew Percy.
Finally, the drinks served, he leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands across the tight midriff of his short-sleeved plaid shirt. “So Carrie tells me that apparently, without your knowledge, your great-aunt sold Toliver Farms right out from under your nose and left the family plantation that you’d expected to inherit to Percy Warwick.”
Her optimism dived at the familiarity with which he spoke the name. “So you are acquainted with Percy Warwick.”
“I am.”
“Will that constitute a conflict of interest if—should I have a case—you decide to take it?”
“It’s too early to tell. Let’s put that aside for the moment and have you tell me why you’re here.”
“Before we get to that, Taylor, I’d like to know whether client-attorney confidentiality will apply to what I tell you, regardless of whether I have a case and become your client.”
He smiled benignly. “Of course it will, because I’m going to charge you a consultation fee that will automatically establish privilege—lunch on you at the Burger Den.”
“Fair enough,” she said, chuckling, then added seriously, “Because this has to do with Percy Warwick. How well do you know him? Are you friends?”
“Not exactly friends. Pathway-crossing acquaintances.” His tone grew serious as well. “And for my part, an admirer. He’s done more for the conservation of forestlands and prudent disposal of industrial wastes than any other man in the industry. What has this to do with Percy?”
Rachel took a bracing sip of the gin and tonic. “I believe he knowingly bought land from my great-aunt that wasn’t hers to sell. It belonged to my father, William Toliver. I have every reason to believe he died in ignorance of the fact.”
Taylor sat in noncommittal silence for a few seconds, looking like a man who’s heard a language he couldn’t identify. “What evidence do you have to substantiate your suspicions, and how did you come by it?”
Rachel succinctly related the events that had led to the discovery of the green leather box and described its contents.
“You have these materials with you?”
Rachel opened her purse and withdrew copies of Vernon Toliver’s will and the two letters. Taylor donned reading glasses, and she sipped quietly while he read. “Well?” she queried when he laid aside the papers.
There was a plush squeak of leather as he stood to return to the bar, pointing to her glass to ask if she wished a refill. She shook her head and observed the excessive time he took on the finer points of replenishing his own gin and tonic. She remembered that he fussed inordinately long over sweetening his iced tea, but now she suspected the act was a deliberate stall. “Come on, Taylor,” she said. “Do I have a case, or am I wasting your time and mine?”
“Well, I don’t know about yours, but certainly not mine,” he said with a fatherly twinkle that deepened his crow’s-feet. “I have a few questions first. One, did you find the deed?”
“No, it wasn’t in the box.”
“And in that green box of yours—did you find your grandfather’s death certificate?”
Rachel shook her head.
“What about your great-aunt’s guardianship papers?”
Surprised that she had never thought to wonder about them, she said, “No, I did not.”
“Your father was her ward?”
A crease formed between Rachel’s brows. “He always assumed so.”
“I ask because—as your father’s guardian—your great-aunt may have believed that selling the land was in his best interests. Of course, she would have had to secure court approval to do so. The problem I have with that, though, are these dates.” Rachel drew closer to the desk to peer at the dates he pointed out with t
he tip of a pen. “Your grandfather’s letter reads May 13, 1935; Percy’s, July 6. We can assume the title was transferred shortly afterwards. Even if Miles had died within days of having mailed this letter to his sister, she would not have been officially notified of his death until weeks later. The wheels of bureaucracy ground even slower in 1935 than they do now, especially since he died abroad in France.”
Rachel felt her eyes take over her face. ”You’re saying that even if Aunt Mary were my father’s guardian, she wasn’t at the time the deed was transferred to Percy Warwick?”
“That’s right.”
“If my aunt were appointed guardian after the land sale, would that make the transaction legal?”
“No. The court order would not be retroactive. The transfer of the title would still be fraudulent.”
Rachel reached for her now watery gin and tonic and took a sip to relieve her parched throat. Setting the glass back on the desk, she asked, “Does this mean I have a case for fraud?”
Taylor picked up her grandfather’s letter. “First, do you have another signature of Miles Toliver that would corroborate the one on this letter?”
Rachel thought of the ledger books signed by her grandfather back in the study on Houston Avenue. “I know where I can get corroborating samples of his handwriting,” she said. “That takes care of that problem. What’s the next?”
Taylor hesitated, and Rachel wondered if he was struggling with an unwillingness to bring legal action against Percy Warwick. “You’ll need to make certain the deed was transferred, and if so, that the land described on it is the section Percy bought. You do that by going to the Howbutker County Courthouse and checking the deed index records for a land transaction between your great-aunt and Percy Warwick around the date on his note. Then we’ll talk some more.”
“But if I do find that such a transaction did take place, will I have enough evidence to prove fraud?”
Again, Taylor took his time answering. “Even though Mary DuMont’s name is on the deed, her brother clearly instructed that she was to hold it in trust for his son until he reached the age of twenty-one. If Mary DuMont sold the land as her own, without the formalities of court approval, then that’s fraud.”
“Is there a statute of limitations on fraud?” she asked, and held her breath.
“Yes, but the statute would commence from the time of the discovery of the fraudulent transaction. Where is this land along the Sabine? Is there anything on it?”
She exhaled slowly. “My guess is that Warwick Industries built a huge pulp mill and paper-processing plant on it as well as a large office complex. There’s also a housing development nearby.” She expected Taylor to show surprise, but his only reaction was to rotate his glass on its damp napkin. “What exactly would I be entitled to if fraud is proven?” she asked.
With an eye now slightly narrowed, Taylor replied, “If the title was improperly conveyed, as your father’s heir, you would be entitled not only to the land, but to all existing improvements and buildings on it. The housing development might be an exception.”
Rachel closed her eyes and clenched her hands. Yes! It was more than she could have hoped. For the first time in a long while, she felt a reason to live. She raised her lids to gaze directly at the lawyer. “How would you feel personally if I sued Percy Warwick for what is mine?”
Taylor frowned. “You… don’t literally mean the land, do you?”
“Oh, but I do. I’m not interested in a monetary settlement.”
The lawyer studied her for a long moment, then rocked back in his chair and linked fingers again over the bulge of his stomach. “Remember you asked,” he warned, “so here it is. Despite your justification, I’d be very disappointed in you, Rachel. Your legal action could seriously damage the most efficiently run and economically essential operation in that part of the state, not to mention impair the final years of one of the truly great men of Texas.” He paused to give her time to rebut, but when she remained calmly silent, he continued. “I know of the money you’ll be inheriting, Rachel, first due to the generosity of your great-aunt and then”—he wagged his head sadly—“through the awful, untimely deaths of your father and little brother. I don’t know, of course, why Percy Warwick entered into such a contract with Mary DuMont in 1935—if, in fact, he did—but I suspect he had good reason. Those were very difficult times, and it could have been that the sale of that land prevented financial disaster for your great-aunt and subsequently for her heirs, of which you are one.” He picked up his glass, his eyes no longer warm and fatherly over its rim. “I believe that should answer your question. You’re off the hook for lunch, by the way.”
Rachel returned an undaunted stare. “We’ll see,” she said. “Thanks for your honesty. It satisfies me that I’ve come to the right man to handle my suit, if I have a case.”
Taylor lowered the glass. “Say what?”
“I don’t want to hurt Percy Warwick or take from his grandson his birthright. What would I do with a pulp mill and paper-processing plant? I want to effect a trade—my family’s plantation of Somerset for Percy’s industrial complex along the Sabine.”
Taylor regarded her silently, then his face broke into a smile. “Ah,” he said, “now that I believe I can stomach.”
She glanced at her watch. “Which reminds me. It’s past twelve. I imagine you’re ready for that hamburger—on me.”
He rose hastily. “Not only a hamburger, but French fries, onion rings, a malt, and a double chocolate brownie à la mode for dessert.”
Rachel slung her purse over her shoulder. “And you worry about Carrie’s eating habits.”
Chapter Sixty-five
Rachel followed the arrow signs pointing to the county clerk’s office in the Howbutker County Courthouse. It was midafternoon of the Monday following her meeting with Taylor Sutherland. She had chosen the time as the best part of the day to slip in and out of Howbutker unnoticed. It was October, but the enervating heat still hung, and few townspeople were about. Most were napping, sleeping off their lunch, or behind their shop counters, trying to keep cool. She had booked a room for the night at a motel in the next county in case she felt too tired after her mission to make the return trip to Dallas, three hours by the time she was back at Carrie’s door.
Rachel had never laid eyes on the county clerk, but she was certain the clerk would recognize her. If the woman hadn’t passed in one of the receiving lines during the days of the funeral, she had only to glance behind her at the hanging portrait of her great-aunt at the 1914 dedication of the courthouse to guess her identity. She wished for anonymity. Matt would come looking for her when he heard she was in town, the reason she’d exchanged her green BMW, familiar to Amos, for Carrie’s black Suburban and reserved a motel room outside the county. She couldn’t risk what seeing him would do to her resolve. If her suspicions proved correct, there was no hope for them anyway. She’d never feel the same for Percy, and Matt would never forgive her if she dragged his grandfather into court and exposed his complicity in committing fraud. She was sure it wouldn’t come to that, but the threat alone would destroy what they’d had. She must get her business over before he or his grandfather or Amos should happen to wander in.
The middle-aged woman in a summer dress behind the counter observed her with curiosity as she approached, clearly struggling to place her gaunt face and figure. “May I help you?” she inquired, checking her left hand as she placed it on the worn pine surface.
“I’m sure you can,” Rachel said. “I’d like to see the record of a warranty deed transferred to Percy Warwick from Mary Toliver DuMont in 1935. The date would be around July eighth.”
The clerk’s eyes brightened in recognition. She patted Rachel’s hand. “Miss Toliver, on behalf of Howbutker, please accept our deepest condolences for all your losses,” she said, the stressed all plainly including her expectation of inheriting Somerset.
“Thank you. You are very kind,” Rachel replied in the monotone she’d adopted to d
iscourage further commiserations.
“Just a moment, and I’ll check the grantor/grantee index for that period.” In a short while, during which Rachel kept checking the entrance, she returned with a heavy-bound volume. “Page 306,” she said. “If you need any help…”
“Thank you, I can manage. Page 306.”
She took the volume to a table away from the clerk’s prying eyes and found the answer to her search immediately. Page 306 revealed that on July 14, 1935, Mary Toliver DuMont had transferred by deed a section of land to Percy Matthew Warwick. The legal description designating the location of the land corresponded with that from Vernon Toliver’s will. The attached plat map defined the layout of the section along the Sabine. It abutted the boundary of a property that Rachel recognized as Somerset.
She looked up from the book, a sour taste in her mouth, possessed by a rage that shook her in her seat. Percy… and Aunt Mary, robbers and deceivers… staying silent while the lie ate up her mother, wrecked the family peace, made it impossible for her ever to go home again. How different it all could have been if only her father had known the truth. Her parents and little brother might still be alive….
She took the open volume back to the counter and pointed to the map. “Is there a record that would show what, if anything, is built on this parcel of land?”
The clerk lifted her glasses a fraction to scrutinize the plat map through her bifocals. “The tax records would reflect that information, but I don’t have to check. That’s the site of a pulp mill and paper-processing plant belonging to Warwick Industries.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Our house is… about there.” With her finger, the clerk pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s in a housing development Warwick Industries built for the workers. My husband’s a foreman out there.”
“Really?”
Rachel’s tone provoked a sharp look. The woman withdrew her finger, clearly wondering why she was interested in her husband’s place of employment with its job security, benefits, and pension plan. Was she about to tinker with all that because she no longer had a place here? “May I ask why you’re interested?”