Aftermath Read online

  Dad never once paid a dime of alimony or child support, and he’d played no role in our lives. Because Mom had refused to talk about him—other than assigning blame for my smart mouth—I was confused back in July when the Graylee police chief called with news of his murder. In my mind, Brady Stapleton had been dead for years. My brother and mother were gone as well, and here I was, the sole heir, surveying the prosperity that had been denied us.

  The book I wanted to write was about Mom’s life, a tribute to her strength and fortitude. I would be writing fiction because she had seldom talked about her past, so I’d pieced together fragments over the years and had to imagine the worst parts, including her marriage to the man who had come to own Graylee. I hoped to learn more about both of them, so I could do her story justice.

  At the same time, I wanted to be anywhere else instead of dealing with the aftermath of Dad’s violent death. Except maybe back in New York, avoiding all of my favorite places for fear of running into Andy or any of my other former boyfriends. At least I was far from all of them.

  Settled in a porch rocker facing the courtyard, I finally answered the accumulated texts with as much positivity as I could muster and was moving on to Facebook when a Cadillac pulled up behind my rental car. Mr. Pearson, no doubt. He checked his wavy white hair in the rearview mirror, emerged from his Caddy, and smoothed his suit jacket. Good-looking guy, mid-sixties, with a trim build and a dedicated golfer’s tan.

  Out of habit, I clocked his ring finger and saw a thick gold band there. Pity, he was just my type: well-heeled and debonair, a mature gentleman. Not that I had refrained from dating a few unhappily married Baby Boomers in New York—which was how my relationship with Andy had started—but such risky behavior would be much harder to pull off in Graylee. New start, new habits, I reminded myself.

  The lawyer called, “First impressions of the homestead, Ms. Wright?”

  “It’s big even by New York standards.” I waited for him to get closer so I didn’t have to keep shouting. “Are you sure my dad lived alone? He could’ve stashed at least four women here, and they never would’ve seen each other.”

  Mr. Pearson frowned at me, apparently still not used to my sense of humor despite six months of phone calls about the estate. “Brady only dated one at a time,” he said, “for as long as I can remember.”

  He strode up the porch steps, cordovan wingtips glistening. When he shook my hand, I caught the flash of a chunky gold cufflink and matching watch. The lawyer was even more handsome up close, with Coke-bottle green eyes and a regal posture. I had to remind myself again to behave.

  “After your mother left,” he said, “Brady threw himself into his work, and then there was no time for marriage. The pressures were enormous—nearly everybody’s prosperity in Graylee was tied to decisions he made.”

  That got my attention. I asked, “Is everyone now counting on me to do the same?”

  “Not at all. I did not mean to steer us in that direction.” He inquired about my plane trip from New York and my journey by car from Atlanta. The gentleman chatted effortlessly, his Southern manners impeccable. Although his precise diction and refusal to use contractions made me self-conscious about how I sounded, I relaxed into my first non-hostile encounter since arriving.

  As the man continued to talk, however, I wondered if he charged by the quarter-hour and was padding his bill to the estate. And now the estate was mine. The image of a taxi meter scrolling out of control motivated me to get on with things. Interrupting him, I said, “Look, I know you’re a busy man, and we’ve got lots to do. How do we get started?”

  Mr. Pearson produced a large ring of keys from his pocket. “First allow me to give you the tour.” He unlocked the front door, opened it, and stepped back. “After you, Ms. Wright.”

  Afternoon sunlight bathed the interior, a huge open space with exposed stone and timbers, reinforcing the impression of a hunting lodge. The cool air smelled of recently applied lemon furniture polish, leather, and old cigar smoke. Oversized chairs and couches, upholstered in maroon, navy blue, and deep green, offered plenty of seating in the great room.

  Thank God there were no animal heads or taxidermied fish on the walls. Mounted there instead were large color and monochrome photographs of different portions of my dad’s domain, each rendered with genuine artistry: the little town of Graylee, a light industrial center, a timber nursery with its own plant and rail yard, and plantation-style pecan groves. He’d hired a shutterbug with a great eye for details and moody lighting. Still, the images were unsettling—as if Dad had wanted to survey his whole kingdom at all times.

  The central focus of the room was a gigantic pass-through fireplace, the opening roughly eight feet wide and taller than my five-and-a-half feet. Thinking about the seventy-degree temperature a few days before Christmas, I wondered if a hearth could be useful more than a handful of days each winter. Over the piled, fresh-looking firewood, I could see partway into the other half of the room—a dining area with a table fit for a CEO and seating for about twenty.

  As Mr. Pearson led me around and described the tons of stone and lumber and the Herculean efforts that had gone into the construction of the house, I verified the dining room actually sat twenty-four. I imagined the elaborate dinner parties held there while Mom worked two jobs and my brother and I babysat, mowed lawns, and did other after-school work to put a little more food on our secondhand table. It made me wonder for the umpteenth time since I was told of my inheritance why we couldn’t have enjoyed at least a little bit of his prosperity. Now I could immerse myself in the whole opulent lifestyle, but had no one to share it with me: a queen in a deserted castle.

  A guest bathroom, complete with walk-in shower, and an expansive kitchen took up the rest of the space on that side of the fireplace. The appliances and granite countertops looked pristine, without a smudge or any discoloring from usage. My mother’s blender had been held together with duct tape, and our refrigerator had looked like tornado salvage. As for my own belongings, due to arrive after Christmas in a moving van, nothing would go with what I’d seen so far. My stuff was urban shabby chic, not gentlemen’s club. How would I fit my life into this house?

  “There are east and west guest wings down here,” the lawyer said, “as well as two spare bedroom suites upstairs.” Near both wings, wood staircases led up to the second floor, where hallway doors opposite the guest wings allowed entrance to the master suite. Mr. Pearson led the way again, resuming his tour-guide patter.

  The master had the same dimensions as the huge room beneath us, with the stone chimney bisecting it. We stood in a study with bookshelves crammed full of hardcovers and paperbacks—including all of David Stark’s titles—a table-size TV with a manly leather recliner and a matching couch, and a computer desk that had a southern exposure, looking down on my father’s “boulevard” and the town beyond it.

  Mr. Pearson said, “The other side, Ms. Wright, is…well, um, I will give you a little privacy.” He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  I eyed the stonework of the chimney and imagined Dad’s bedroom on the other side of it. No doubt the furnishings would be über-masculine. On a moonless night in July, with Dad asleep there in blue silk pajamas, Wallace Landry had inched open the door from the hallway, stepped softly over the rugs and heart-pine planks, and shot my father to pieces.

  From local newspaper articles and TV reports I’d found online, I knew Landry had been twenty-six years old and roamed from town to town doing odd jobs. A big, fair-haired guy, handsome in a scruffy way, with a careless kind of smile. Probably a real charmer, in addition to being a homicidal maniac. I pictured how the gunfire would have lit up the dark room and revealed Landry in brief, intense flashes, the sounds echoing around the enormous space like the end of the world.

  Maybe Dad had flaunted his status in a town that depended on him for jobs. Maybe he had been a monster to Mom and totally unc
aring about my brother and me. Maybe I’d even fantasized over the years about what it would’ve been like to find him alive and punish him for the ways he’d wronged us. If nothing else, I wished I’d had the chance to confront him before Landry pulled the trigger.

  Likewise, I would’ve liked to ask the drifter why he had done it before he was gunned down in the same room. The police chief had not arrived fast enough to stop the crime, but at least he had executed the criminal.

  I wanted to continue dawdling, even if it meant torturing myself with further gruesome imaginings, but Mr. Pearson waited on the other side of the door. Rounding the chimney, I walked upon the murder scene.

  CHAPTER 2

  The carnage in the bedroom had long since been cleaned up, of course, but that knowledge didn’t stop me from holding my breath and clenching my fists as I shuffled in. Morbid imagination still on overdrive, I wondered if the clean sheets and comforter on the massive bed concealed bullet holes in the mattress and box springs. Idiotically, I even checked under my feet for the drifter’s bloodstains, guessing I might’ve stood where Landry had been served justice by the police chief. Lightheaded and nauseated, I began to sway.

  I stutter-stepped forward, needing to sit, but then realized I was heading toward the bed. A lurching stumble to my left brought me close enough to a padded armchair that I allowed myself to fall into it. The chair legs screeched as the furniture slid under me, knocking over a floor lamp with a crash.

  Shattering porcelain from the torchiere shade brought Mr. Pearson trotting into the room. He steered well clear of the china shards. Before he could say anything, I brought my palm up and murmured, “Sorry, this is bothering me a lot more than I thought it would.”

  I was surprised to find myself holding back tears. Why would I cry for a man who had lived like a king while his children and former wife struggled to stay afloat? A man who meant less than nothing to me? Who had left me his entire fortune, though he had no idea what kind of person I was? I always had assumed I’d meant less than nothing to him as well. Yet he had entrusted me with his estate and the livelihoods of several thousand people because I was his only surviving child. Finally, I gave in and cried for the lost opportunity to get to know a man who, in my mind, had died twice.

  Mr. Pearson pressed a white handkerchief into my hand. Thinking about my now-soggy make-up, I rasped, “No thanks, I’ll ruin it.”

  “The least I can do.” When I still didn’t make use of it, he added, “To ease your conscience, I will bill you for it.”

  I snorted wetly, unfolded the white square, and dried my face with it, smearing what looked like ten dollars’ worth of cosmetics on the carefully ironed cloth. The lawyer pointed out the master bathroom on the other side of the room. I got up unsteadily, carried my purse there, and tried to repair the damage. If I focused on one detail at a time—cheeks, eyes, lips—I wouldn’t have to see my face as a whole, see my mother staring back at me as if trapped again inside the house she’d fled, with me and my brother in tow, thirty-five years before.

  That thought started me crying again, so the make-up process had to begin anew. When I finally emerged, I found a sliding glass door open nearby and joined Mr. Pearson on the balcony. We propped our forearms on the railing and gazed at the pine trees enclosing that side of the hill.

  “Will you be all right here?” The lawyer looked me over as if appraising my sobriety. “There is a motel out near the highway if you want someplace to stay while you reconsider living under this roof.”

  “I’ll get used to it. It’s not like I’m afraid of ghosts or anything.” I glanced back toward the bedroom. “I’m just not used to being in places where violence happens.”

  He smiled at that. “I thought you lived in New York City for most of your life.”

  “It’s not like it used to be, back in the day.” I leaned out and inhaled the clean air. It helped to clear my head a little. “Southerners are the worst about New York prejudice. You think we have to step over fifty bodies on our way to the bagel shop.”

  “Point taken. I guess it is not like in the movies.”

  “I have to admit that Graylee smells a lot better.” I eyed him, enjoying the sight of this mature, distinguished man. His presence relaxed me and even restored some of the friskiness I’d felt when I first saw him. I gave him a playful nudge with my elbow. “Besides, we don’t step over bodies in the Big Apple; we kick them out of our way.”

  His laugh was loud and hearty, a glimpse of how he was when he let down his guard. He was making it hard for me to restrain myself. The six months since Andy ended our engagement had been long and lonely indeed—a record drought for someone who used to excel at rebound romances.

  Before I could indulge in a little more flirtation, I saw movement in the trees, a fleeting glimpse of a figure who appeared to look up at me. Pale face, blond hair, a splash of color around the head that could’ve been a red and blue bandana. Then whoever it was stepped back and vanished.

  “Did you see that?” I asked, pointing too late.

  He frowned. “See what?”

  “A teenager or maybe young man in the trees. I don’t know—he was far away and it happened so quick. Anyhow, somebody was watching us.”

  “Sorry, I never was an eagle eye—your father always made fun of me when we went hunting. Perhaps the person you saw is a hunter, too, someone who became accustomed to trespassing here. I suppose he had not yet heard the news that Brady Stapleton’s heir is in town.”

  I said, “Probably the only one in Graylee who hasn’t.” Scanning the woods again, I didn’t see anyone and began to doubt whether I had in the first place.

  The attorney glanced at his gold watch. “In order to become the actual heir, Ms. Wright, you first must get through a pile of paperwork.” He returned the nudge I gave him earlier. “I have so many documents for you to sign that you are going to want to kick me soon enough.”

  I followed him downstairs and then sat at the head of the landing strip my father would’ve called the dining room table. Mr. Pearson went out to his Cadillac and returned with a cordovan briefcase that matched his shoes. He took a seat on my right and withdrew a sheaf of paper. About a hundred “Sign Here” Post-it flags jutted from its sides.

  Over the next three-plus hours, he detailed each deed, lease, account, security code, password, and what seemed like every possession bequeathed to me, including 100% ownership of three separate, profitable businesses. I took a ton of notes on a legal pad he provided, making him pause occasionally so I could flex my cramped fingers. Just thirty minutes into the litany, I thought I would need a full-time CPA to keep up with the quarterly taxes and bills I would owe. By the end, I knew an entire accounting office would be required. Fortunately, Dad had long-since retained such a firm in Atlanta.

  With relief, I signed and dated the final sheet, set down Mr. Pearson’s heavy silver pen, and massaged my hand again. Glancing at the stacks of papers—a set for me and one the lawyer would file at the county courthouse—I said, “Either I’ve inherited a fortune or a lifetime worth of debt. Which is it?”

  “Some of both.” He capped the pen and clipped it inside his shirt pocket. “The good news is that the assets outweigh the liabilities.” From his suit jacket, he withdrew the large ring of keys. “These now belong to you.”

  I flipped through them, the grip of each one tagged with color-coded plastic and labeled in tiny but neat writing: keys for the house locks, the cars in the detached garage, the industrial and timber-processing plants, a separate house that doubled as an office near the pecan groves, and on and on, down to file cabinets and foot lockers. The ring of keys felt heavy as hell, in more ways than one.

  My first impulse was to fling it onto the table and tell Mr. Pearson to sell everything and give me a check for the net profits. I was in way over my head. All I wanted was a quiet place in the country where I could try writing Mom’s story, ge
t over my heartbreaks, and start doing something that mattered.

  As I made a fist around the keys, though, I considered how much work and achievement they represented. My father had competent people running all three of the businesses—they could maintain their present course. If I were called on to make any strategic decisions, I would lean on the advice of those managers, at least until I learned much more about the industries.

  I’d bounced around various Wall Street firms for years, chasing raises and promotions, trying to stay ahead of the ever-soaring cost of living. As a result, I could analyze financial statements, knew a lot of business lingo, and had a good BS meter. Maybe I could avoid getting snowed, but the responsibilities of even an absentee owner seemed overwhelming. My feelings circled back around to fearing I was in way over my head.

  “Any questions?” Mr. Pearson asked.

  I laughed. “Only a few thousand.”

  He made a show of checking his watch. “It is your dime, Ms. Wright.”

  “I wondered what your fee is.”

  “Well, it works out to a dime every second or so. What is your first question?”

  “Doing anything for din—” I clamped a hand over my mouth as my cheeks burned. I’d been on autopilot, seated close to my kind of guy and feeling vulnerable and lonely in an unfamiliar place. “Sorry,” I said, and wiped away the shame-sweat that had sprung out above my upper lip. “I hardly ever hit on attorneys.”

  “How unfortunate for the profession,” he said, smiling at me. “I am flattered, of course, being noticed by a beautiful woman who also happens to be the second richest person in town. However—” he patted my hand that still clutched the keys “—I also am very married, very old, and very interested in seeing you make a positive start in your hometown.”