Aftermath Read online

  “That’s awful.”

  “I was nineteen, in college at NYU.” He probably knew that as well, but he continued to look at me with such sympathy, I patted his hand and forced out a laugh. “Hey, the last twenty-one years have been pretty good.” If you didn’t count having your heart broken by your fiancé and more than a dozen other men before him.

  Tim seemed to read between the lines. He toasted me with his coffee cup. “Here’s to surviving.”

  I clinked my mug against his and said, “Perseverance.” I took another drink, feeling much better about him. “Okay,” I said, “your turn. Do you plan to stay in Graylee forever?”

  His volume dropped even lower than normal, hard to hear over the clattering of plates and flatware and the conversations around us. “No chance. Even if I got a law degree and someday took over Mr. Pearson’s practice, it’s hard to imagine the locals coming to me to do their wills and such. Plus, the options are nil in the romance department.”

  “There have got to be some single women your age.”

  “We have fifteen black families in Graylee. The boys and girls paired off long ago. And this still isn’t the kind of place that encourages mixed couples. Besides—”

  “You’re a pariah.”

  “You got it.” He glanced at the time on his cell phone as Doris put our meals in front of us. I got my omelet, but it was swamped by buttery grits and half-covered by a giant biscuit that was so fluffy I could almost see the lard waiting to attach itself to my butt. I would’ve done better with Tim’s breakfast, which consisted of two hardboiled eggs and two strips of bacon. With a smile and a flourish, as if doing a magic trick for us, Doris pulled a bottle of sriracha sauce out of her deep apron pocket and placed it beside him.

  I thanked her and forked up a bit of steaming omelet on the side farthest from the grits and biscuit. Just the right consistency: tender without being too runny, and the mushrooms and bell peppers still had some chewiness. In spite of the fatty side items, I definitely was developing a major thing for Billy the Fry Cook. Tim set about peeling the eggs with his long, thin fingers. I gestured at his plate and said, “The hardboiled paralegal.”

  “Tough as nails.” He grinned and squirted a red pool of the spicy chili sauce beside the glistening egg whites.

  “Too tough to talk about the pariah thing?”

  “Too private.”

  “Okay, fair enough.” I took another bite. “Who are we meeting with first?”

  Tim dunked some egg in the sriracha. As he ate it, sweat popped out on his forehead but the burn didn’t slow him down. Tough as nails, indeed. He said, “We’ll go out to the light manufacturing site so you can meet the managers, get the tour. Then it’s over to the nursery and wood pellet plant, then check out the pecan groves, and finish with Mr. Pearson for a debrief.”

  “Do you have some paper and a pen so I can take notes? I ran through the pad your boss gave me yesterday.”

  “Sure, but there’s also a tablet computer in the car.” He grinned. “Mr. Pearson wants you to know Graylee is part of the twenty-first century.”

  I shook my head. “Does he really think I look down on you all?”

  He swirled an oval of crumbly egg yolk in the red sauce, chewed for a moment, and then chased it with a bite of bacon. “First, it’s ‘y’all,’ Miss Forgot-Her-Roots. Also, the second-richest person in town might want legal advice someday, and it’d be a good thing if she believes the local legal eagles aren’t some rubes in a hick town.”

  I pushed away my plate with the half-eaten omelet to play up my indignation, but really because of my diet resolution. “There’s no need for him to worry. Look around this place—half the customers are bent over the newest model of cell phones. It’s like any breakfast joint in Brooklyn, except for the lack of diversity.”

  “That’s where I come in,” he said, and then added apologetically, “I’ll quit the ‘second richest person’ thing if it’s annoying you.”

  “Are you kidding? I wasn’t the eight-millionth-richest person in New York. I had to live with two or more roommates when I wasn’t shacking up with minimally acceptable boyfriends—just so I could afford someplace that didn’t involve a two-hour commute twice a day.”

  “I thought you had a big-time Wall Street job.” Tim dabbed his last bit of bacon in the red sauce and gulped it down.

  “No, I just worked at some big-time Wall Street firms. One after another. The jumps in cost of living usually stayed ahead of my pay. Thus, the roommates and the boyfriends.”

  “Ever get serious about anyone?”

  I was tempted to continue with my “it’s so tough in the big city” shtick, but he looked genuinely interested, so I confessed, “Yeah, I almost got married earlier this year.”

  “You get cold feet?”

  “He did,” I lied. The truth was much more painful. Instead, I said, “We had a big fight. Unfortunately, I lived with him, so I had to find someplace new to stay that same night.” I shrugged, keeping up my other shtick: the tough big-city woman. No point in going into the agonizing details that would leave me bawling like a small-town girl whose heart still ached. “I had a couple of girlfriends looking for a third roommate, but what sucked most of all was that my new digs added almost twenty blocks to my walk back and forth to work.”

  He shook his head. “It’s crazy, living in a place where having to change to a less-convenient address is worse than getting dumped.”

  “You get pragmatic, living at the center of the universe.” I slugged down some coffee. “Romantic notions suffer a fast, mostly painless death.” It was a good line, but I didn’t think I sold it well—I definitely hadn’t convinced myself.

  Doris refilled our coffees, and Tim asked for the check. As they conversed, the diner door opened, and a guy came in. Everything about him was in the middle of a range, and I immediately thought of him as the Medium Man: not tall or short, not thin or thick. Even his straight, medium-brown hair wasn’t cropped or worn too long. Medium Man sported a dark blue uniform shirt with a badge pinned above the left breast pocket and a black plastic name plate above the right, dark slacks, black dress shoes. An equipment-laden belt fit snug against his trim—but not too skinny—waist, including a holstered pistol on his right hip. Even the gun was medium-sized. I wondered if it had been used to kill my father’s murderer.

  I turned back to Tim. “Is that the chief of police?”

  He nodded as he drank his coffee. “Cade Wilson.”

  “He called me back in July with the news about my dad.”

  “Chief questioned you?”

  “I guess—it didn’t seem like much of an interrogation, though. There were a bunch of things I should’ve asked him, too, but they didn’t occur to me until much later.” I drained my mug. “It was all such a shock. I hadn’t thought about my father in years.”

  I looked Cade over again as he took a seat at a table beside the festive front window. He wasn’t a bit like I’d pictured him during our brief phone conversation. No wedding ring and only early middle-aged, maybe five years older than me. My girlfriends would say that made him too young for my tastes, but they’d always been jealous because my Baby Boomer boyfriends had lived in nicer apartments than their Gen-Xers did.

  Turning back to Tim, I asked, “When’s the debrief with Mr. Pearson?”

  He glanced at Medium Man and then back at me. “You should be done by four.”

  “And when do we need to leave here?”

  He consulted his cell phone. “Five minutes.”

  I touched up my lipstick, walked over to Cade Wilson, and said hello.

  The police chief glanced up from a coffee mug Doris had filled. “Ms. Wright?” He stood and held out his hand. His grip was medium strength and warm—not too hot or cold—and his Southern drawl was noticeable without being redneck-broad. “I’d heard you were in town,” he said, takin
g me in with a quick down-and-up glance. Sounding far sincerer than Paulina O’Shea, he added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  It was the same way he’d ended our phone conversation in July. Prior to his call, I hadn’t heard another Georgia voice since my mother passed away twenty-one years before. I remembered how at ease I’d felt listening to him, even though he delivered shocking news and quizzed me regarding my whereabouts on the night of the murder and my relationship with one of the two deceased men. A voice from home.

  “Thank you,” I replied. Before I could stop myself, I added in a rush, “I know it’s not proper to also thank you for killing Wallace Landry. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and I wanted to tell you how grateful I am. He got what he deserved.”

  He frowned at me, apparently needing a little time to process my comment. Finally, he said, “I just wish I got there in time to stop him.” He gestured at the chair across from him. “Please have a seat.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast.”

  Cade tapped his coffee mug. “This is all I’m having, and it’s still too hot to drink.”

  Glancing back at Tim, I saw him hold up four long fingers. I sat and then the police chief did the same. “I only wanted to say hi,” I told him, “and make an appointment to see you late this afternoon, maybe 4:30?”

  “Sure—assuming I’m not out on a call. What’s on your mind?”

  “I want to talk to you more about my father’s murder. Back in July, I guess I was too stunned to think clearly and then, when I finally could, it seemed better to do this in person.”

  He nodded to himself and stared into his coffee for a long moment before meeting my gaze. “I reckon you’ve got a right to ask, but I always counsel family members that it’s better to move on than hear things that’ll haunt you.”

  I’d expected a little speech, but his words touched me. Now that I got a closer look, Cade Wilson appeared a bit haunted himself, which made him less average and more intriguing. “Just a few questions, promise,” I said.

  “See you at 4:30, Ms. Wright. Tim there can show you where to find me.”

  I thanked him and stood. He stood as well, but hesitated as I offered my hand again. When he shook it, looking into my eyes, I felt a connection. I wondered if he did, too. Not romantic necessarily, but at least simpatico on some level. He let go before I did.

  Tim climbed to his feet as I approached our table. I asked, “Did he watch me walk back here?”

  “I could tell you were putting a little something extra into it, but it was wasted. He just went back to staring at his coffee.”

  I joked, “It wasn’t wasted—you noticed.”

  He laughed. “Damn, you New York women know how to flirt. Maybe I need to get up there.” He set down money for the bill and what looked like a hefty tip for Doris. After returning his wallet to his pocket, he touched my arm. “Hey, now the chief is looking.”

  I did a quick check as I slung my purse over one shoulder, but Cade was drinking his coffee and looking at the yuletide scene painted on the plate glass.

  “Gotcha,” Tim said in his soft voice.

  “You’re officially fired as my wingman.”

  He was smiling as I let him get to the door first and hold it open. Looking back into the diner, I caught Cade Wilson watching me. Maybe he’d felt that connection after all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thank God my Wall Street training had made me fluent in data-speak and business jargon.

  I had no problem following the presentations by Stapleton Industries managers and even got in a few zingers to make it clear I wasn’t some bubble-headed heiress they could snow.

  The boardroom didn’t seat as many as Dad’s dining room table. Every manager at each level was a white man somewhere between forty and sixty-five. I checked out of habit, and only two didn’t wear wedding rings, but even they had a married look about them: well-fed and mellow but a little bored.

  Unlike my encounter with Paulina, I didn’t sense hostility from the men seated around me, but they did give off an aura of wariness. Whenever I hit them with a probing question, they cut their eyes at one another as if to say, “This isn’t going to be as easy as we thought.”

  I asked the CEO, a fifty-something named Jeff Conway, “Why not reinvest more of the profits in the business, instead of giving out such fat bonuses every December?” Especially to yourselves, I didn’t add. He spluttered about how my father had made it part of the company culture and reveled in distributing those bonuses each year during the week before Christmas. I had an image of Dad dressed as the bruiser of all Santa Clauses passing out four- and five-figure checks from a huge sack.

  “There’s another thing,” I added, and flipped through the thick handout given to each of us at the start of the dog-and-pony show. “According to Exhibit AF, revenues in June were almost non-existent and that carried over into July.” I pointed at the bar graph on the screen, which showed each month of revenue with the usual fluctuations but no huge swings. “That tracks the exhibit exactly but only through May, and then nothing matches. If the exhibit is right, we actually did better than usual after a really rough mid-year; if the graph is right, we did about normal throughout. Somehow, the year-end tallies line up, but what’s the story?”

  Conway made notes on his copy of the handout, not looking at all pleased. “It’s my fault,” he said, “for not reviewing the reports as thoroughly as I should have. This was sort of a rush job—Phil Pearson called me last week with news you’d be coming down before the holidays, earlier than expected, and asked that we put a briefing together.” He stared at the CFO, who also was taking notes and chewing the inside of his cheek. “The accounting department will correct the errors in Exhibit AF and provide all of us with the amendment after New Year’s. Sorry, it’s the old ‘garbage in, garbage out’ scenario.”

  The CEO looked at me hopefully, and I realized I’d asked him the question mostly to score another point. Conway had run the company since long before my father’s death and seemed to be doing a great job. Did I see him as a threat? It never occurred to me before that I might’ve developed an inferiority complex—and if I didn’t have one, I sure was acting like a person with something to prove: Look upon my MBA and despair.

  It would’ve been smarter to listen more, talk less, and keep some surprises in store. Now they would expect me to actually pore over every spreadsheet and map out short- and long-term strategies for the damn business. Worse, they really could apply themselves to the task of buffaloing me. I practically had challenged them to do just that, which was plain stupid.

  “Okay, got it,” I said, letting Conway off the hook. I stayed quiet during the remaining presentations except to compliment the managers on their successes. As they spoke I began to realize what clever manufacturing niches my father and his men had carved out. The company specialized in customized—therefore expensive—orders with computer-aided design and manufacturing tools and 3D printers that kept their efficiencies high and minimized waste.

  When Tim had parked us in front of the nondescript metal building, I’d expected sweatshop conditions inside, with unskilled, uneducated men and women plodding away in bleak, filthy conditions. On the contrary, my dad had maintained a spotless plant, trained his employees well, and paid them much better wages than they could get anywhere else in rural Georgia. Even Atlanta probably couldn’t compete in terms of pay for similar work. And then throw in the annual Christmas bonus? Fuhgettaboutit! Instead of a company town where everyone scraped out a meager living, full of hatred toward The Man, Dad had bound his workers with golden handcuffs.

  Not to say my father had created an industrial Garden of Eden. During the plant tour that followed the presentations, I was struck by the homogeneity of the workforce: mostly white males, with a few black men and Latinos and a couple of white women. In fact, when I asked to take a bathroom break, Conway and th
e other managers traded eye contact again. He said, “Uh, this way,” and led me to a door simply marked “Restroom.” Conway asked me to wait a moment, went inside, and came out a minute later trailing a guy still wiping his hands with a paper towel who apologized for the delay. “All yours,” Conway said and held the door for me.

  I supposed the few women who worked there had to do the same thing: send a man in to usher out any other guys. The women all probably went together at set times to avoid too much of this idiocy. At least the restroom didn’t look as bad as I’d pictured it. I actually found one seat nobody had peed on. In January, I decided, the company would cough up the capital to add a women’s lavatory.

  As I walked the well-swept floor, smelling the sharp tang of hot plastic, sheared metal, and cutting oil, and flinching occasionally from a screaming drill or sharp bang, I met the employees at welding stations, fabrication hubs, and customizing pods. Watching them observe me in return—and nudge and whisper to their colleagues when they didn’t think I was watching—I kept reminding myself it all belonged to me to some degree. I could do what I felt was right. If I decided to actively oversee Dad’s businesses, I would make diversity a major goal.

  Halfway through the tour, the shift supervisor introduced me to yet another white guy in a building full of them. The worker put aside his drill and wiped his fingers on a clean rag before shaking my hand. He said, “I hope you run this place even half as good as your old man—that’ll still make it twice as good as anywhere else I’ve ever worked.”

  The supervisor clapped the man on the back and said, “Ol’ Greg here has offered more money-saving suggestions than anybody else at Stapleton in the past decade. It’s Greg and folks like him that make those Christmas bonuses possible.”

  A chill overtook me. I kept my face frozen in a smiling mask while I cussed my arrogance. I knew nothing about this business other than it was more profitable than I’d assumed a light-industrial plant in Nowhereville, Georgia could be, especially given that the people who worked there made more than unionized labor in the high-salary North. I thanked Greg and wondered if the person I’d envisioned in his place—a Latina or African American woman—would’ve been as good at his job and so knowledgeable about operational efficiencies. If I wasn’t careful, I could destroy a good thing with hasty decisions and unintended consequences.