Aftermath Read online

  At the end of the tour, Conway and his management team stood in a half-circle facing me in the parking lot. When I’d played fast-pitch softball in high school and college, we’d cluster together that way and try not to yawn openly as our coaches rambled. Now, with everyone looking at me, I saw dread instead of boredom. The men seemed to be asking themselves just how terrible an owner I was going to be. I couldn’t think of anything to say at first because my usual go-to options—smart remarks, sharp retorts, flirty rejoinders—were inappropriate here. Those were the tools of the sassy sidekick, not the leader.

  The managers shifted and swayed and fidgeted and cleared their throats and waited for me to lead them. To some degree. In some way. Somehow. I cleared my throat, too, and said, “I appreciate your hard work putting together the presentations and the tour for me. Um, to be honest, what I want to tell you is, ‘I’ll be in my dad’s house— just call if something comes up.’”

  A few of them, including Conway, chuckled. Encouraged, I continued. “But I know I’m expected to do at least half as good as he did. The thing is, uh, I don’t even know what I don’t know, whereas you understand this business inside and out. You don’t need some dilettante putting on the captain’s hat and barking orders.”

  Some of their faces showed a new expression—hope—and I said with more confidence, “So here’s the deal: I’m going to do my best to learn at least a little of what I don’t know, a little at a time. And I’m going to rely on you to keep doing the great job you have been and to answer my endless questions…and be patient with me. Um, you’ve kept this place profitable for six months without the Stapleton in ‘Stapleton Enterprises’ calling the shots. You aren’t getting a Stapleton back, but I hope a Wright won’t be wrong for you.” They didn’t seem to get the joke, so I pointed at my chest and said, “Wright?”

  Most of them replied, “Right.”

  That was sort of funny, so I went with it. “Right,” I echoed. “I won’t take up any more of your time today, but, uh, happy holidays, and you’ll see me again soon as I go to school on this business. Okay?” I clapped my hands together once, as my coaches used to do when ending their pep talks. It worked. Some of the men actually jogged back inside as if taking the field. I felt great—they were my team, and I hadn’t disappointed them.

  Jeff Conway was the last to go. He pumped my hand and said, “That was really good—I think you’ve got everybody on your side. There’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the top of the building where the company name stood out in eight-foot-tall letters. “It’s Stapleton Industries, not ‘Enterprises.’ Merry Christmas, boss.” He grinned and headed in to work.

  Tim came over, checking his cell phone for the time, and asked, “How’d it go?”

  I continued to stare up at the company name. “Shit.”

  I did better at the wood pellet plant. The operation employed almost a hundred—again, mostly white males—and the plant itself looked more like an oil refinery with its towers, tubes, and scaffolding, than the sawmill I’d envisioned. There, my father had taken a declining timber industry and found a use for all of the treetops, limbs, twigs, and other parts traditionally considered waste. The plant churned out wood pellets about the shape and color of cigarette filters that energy companies worldwide snapped up as a cheaper and cleaner alternative to coal.

  After a good pep talk to that team, Tim and I had lunch in town. Though we had a number of upscale options, he chose the diner again. A few people left with cutting glances, but those seemed to have been directed at me as much as Tim this time. If I were back in the city, I would’ve snapped, “What are you lookin’ at?” but I managed to keep my cool for Tim’s sake. I think he preferred to eat there because Doris took such grandmotherly care of him.

  We then drove out to the pecan groves for the final tour, where I perfected the listen-and-compliment routine and nailed my speech. Unfortunately, this management hierarchy consisted of only two, and one of them had stayed home along with the rest of the crew, since the pecans were dormant for another month. Still, I was sure that Stapleton Pecans was in good hands and said as much to the lone man, who sort of gaped at me the whole time. Maybe he didn’t see many women on the plantation.

  Standing in the forest of leafless, skeletal trees with a guy who kept checking me out, I decided it was the perfect setting for one of David (Maybe You’ve Heard of Him) Stark’s horror stories. He’d have to add some threatening weather, since there was nothing scary about a balmy afternoon with blue skies, but I hoped to talk to him one day about where he found his inspiration, assuming I could arrange a meeting.

  On the drive to Mr. Pearson’s law office, while scrolling through the notes I’d taken on the tablet computer, I asked Tim, “What was your first thought when your boss told you I was coming to town?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Please.”

  “I thought, ‘I hope she’s not at all like her daddy.’”

  I turned to him in my seat. “Because he wouldn’t give regular people like you the time of day?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Any other reason?”

  “No,” he said. It was his usual soft way of talking, but there was a tremor there as well, a plea.

  Still, I pressed him. “Is your feeling connected in any way to the pariah thing you mentioned?”

  “I’d rather not say.” His hands gripped the wheel harder, as if I were trying to seize control of the car.

  I held my palms out. “Okay, fair enough.” Maybe Cade Wilson would give me some answers. I checked my watch: half-past three. “So, other than Mr. Pearson asking about my day and me asking about his and more dimes stacking up—sorry, that’s an inside joke between us—what should I hope to accomplish with this visit?”

  “The mayor and city council will be there, too. They all want to meet you.”

  I tossed the tablet on the floorboard. “Hey, thanks for so much advance notice.” I slapped down the passenger sun visor, opened my purse, and began to repair, fortify, and freshen up in the well-named vanity mirror. Uncapping my lipstick, I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a mayor before.”

  “Mayor McBride was a big fan of your father’s. And vice versa, of course. If your dad didn’t like someone running for a seat, that person didn’t get in. Before each election, he sent an editorial with his picks among the candidates to the Graylee Gazette editor and that was about it. It was sort of funny: the following week, David Stark—” he paused and glanced at me.

  I rolled my eyes and flipped open my compact. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Grew up here. Sold a few books. What is it with you people?”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, David Stark would send in an editorial backing whoever your dad opposed. His open letter was always much better written, of course, but never made a difference to the voters.”

  “So the richest guy in Graylee,” I summed up as I reapplied powder, “gets trumped by the person who employs at least one member of nearly every family. And now that person is me. It’s like Paulina said: I pretty much own this town.”

  “Pretty much.” He stopped, signaled, and turned right onto Main Street.

  I whisked a brush through my hair and tried to pat down the renegade cowlick in back that I’d inherited from my mom. “Would Graylee be any different if my father and David Stark had been in each other’s shoes?” Tim frowned at my question, so I elaborated. “If Brady Stapleton had been the South’s answer to Stephen King and David Stark was the local captain of industry, how would the town be different?”

  “Lots of ways.” He signaled for another turn and parked in a diagonal space.

  I read the sign above the walnut-stained door for the Law Office of Philip P. Pearson, Esq., Member of the Georgia Bar since 1974. “Would you still be a pariah?”

  “Definitely not, but please don’t go there. You’
re making me really damn sorry I said anything.” He trotted around to my side so he could open my door—no doubt concerned his boss was watching. I climbed out and slowly got myself together so he’d have time to hurry to the outer office door and hold that for me, too.

  Passing him, I touched his hand and apologized for being pushy. I just couldn’t imagine why people would shun such a nice young man, and it made me sick to think my father had been behind it somehow. If I could gain an understanding of what had gone on, hopefully I’d be able to make amends. Assuming anyone would open up.

  The entrance led to a reception area where a middle-aged woman sat at a desk. Tim introduced me to his colleague and then held open a conference room door. Once I passed through, he closed it behind me instead of going in; as with the tours, he wasn’t included in the meet-and-greet.

  Six men and a woman, along with Mr. Pearson, rose from their seats around a long table when I entered. I’d envisioned politicos in off-the-rack clothes two decades out of style, but they all appeared to do their shopping in New York or, hell, maybe London or Milan. Styled hair and manicures all around, even the older guys. Instead of Old Spice and Chanel No. 5, I smelled subtler fragrances—smoked herbs and exotic fruits. They would’ve classed up the toniest stockholders’ meeting.

  Mr. Pearson, looking even more coiffed and smartly attired than the day before, introduced me to Mayor McBride, four councilmen, the lone councilwoman, and the city manager appointed by the council to keep Graylee’s services timely and efficient. They all greeted me with eager handshakes.

  Everyone deferred to the mayor, a solemn, older man who looked more like an expensive undertaker than a political boss serving his eighth four-year term. He waited for us to take our seats. Turning to me, he said in a twang that came out as slow and thick as sorghum molasses, “I’m ever so sorry we weren’t able to meet you under happier circumstances, Ms. Wright. Your father was a great man and will be remembered by countless generations to come. My dear friend Brady was responsible for building Graylee into a town that, for decades, has pleasantly surprised our state’s officials with the sizable income taxes and sales taxes we contribute, given our humble size. In the vernacular of today, we punch well above our weight class.”

  He smiled with a full set of gleaming choppers that couldn’t have been any more real than the cornpone accent he was laying on. “It’s certainly not an overstatement to say that everybody at this-here table owes his position—and hers—” he added with a nod in the direction of the councilwoman “—to the stalwart support of your father.”

  Given what Tim had said, that sounded dead-on.

  After giving him time to sit and smooth his suit and tie, I got to my feet and said, “Thank you, Mayor McBride. I didn’t really know my father, having left Graylee when I was five, but I’m eager to get to know you and the council and your team of administrators. Uh, I can promise that there’s absolutely no chance I’ll be as important as my father was—” I paused to allow them to smile at this as circles of anxiety-sweat dampened my underarms “—but I do hope I can contribute to Graylee’s continued success at least in a small way. I appreciate Mr. Pearson’s efforts to arrange these introductions, and, um, I thank you all for your condolences and best wishes. Also, I hope you and your families enjoy a merry Christmas and happy New Year.” Jeez, I’d given more speeches that day than in my entire life up to that point. I wondered if I’d have public-speaking nightmares for the next week.

  Following polite applause, they filed out, each shaking my hand again and promising to invite me to their holiday party. After they’d gone, Mr. Pearson called Tim inside, closed the conference room door again, and complimented me on my speech. I rocked in my chair and said, “Looks like I’m going to be the toast of Graylee, at least until everyone gets re-elected.”

  Tim smiled and said, “All the council seats come up for a vote next November, so you’ll have a lot of parties to look forward to in the next eleven months.”

  “Cynical, cynical,” Mr. Pearson chastised, shaking his head with a mock-stern expression. “How did it go today?”

  I described my experiences and went out of my way to compliment Tim for his help. I still regretted making him feel bad. The least I could do was praise him to his boss. I checked my watch and saw I had about seven minutes to get over to the police station or whatever the town provided for Cade Wilson and his deputies. I asked, “What happens now?”

  “Now you live your life however you see fit, Ms. Wright. It sounds as if you have a good plan for learning about the businesses you inherited. I hope you will retain this office to provide legal services and call upon us if you have any questions or need additional advice.” After I promised to do so, he added, “If you are free sometime during the holidays, I would like to have you over to the house.” The mischievous smile that made him look decades younger reappeared. “My wife would love to meet you.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him and then stood and shook his hand. “Thanks for everything. Would you mind if I borrowed Tim a final time, to drive me home?”

  “Certainly—he is all yours for the rest of the day. See you around town.”

  When Tim and I were settled again inside his car, he asked, “What was that all about, with the meet-the-wife thing and you making a face?”

  “Just something between us, like the dimes stacking up.”

  “Damn, you sure make good use of your time. Maybe it’s another thing y’all do better in New York. I’ve worked for him for six months, but we don’t have a single inside joke yet.” He checked his phone. “You mentioned me driving you home—I thought you had an appointment with the chief in a couple minutes.”

  “I do, but I felt weird about Mr. Pearson knowing I was going to visit Cade, like I was snooping behind his back or something.”

  He reversed out of his space, and we headed farther down Main Street, with its mix of hanging flower baskets, upscale shops, and tinsel wreaths. “Oh, but you don’t mind embroiling his paralegal in your madcap schemes.”

  I laughed and said, “We’re a good team: you with the moxie and me with the New York superpowers you keep pointing out. Anyway, I need a friend in this town, and you’ve shown yourself to be an able confederate.”

  “Whoa, ‘Confederate’? Them’s fightin’ words.” He held up one dark brown hand for my inspection. “Didn’t they teach you anything in those Yankee schools about the Civil War?”

  We hooted together until he pulled to a stop in front of the courthouse. It was a two-story building that took up the modest block between cross streets. “Go in through the front door,” Tim instructed, “and turn immediately to your right. You’ll see marble steps that go down into the basement. That’s where the police station is. And the jail.”

  I wondered if that last bit was connected in some way to the reason Tim considered himself a pariah, but I didn’t dare ask. We’d been having too good a time for me to spoil the mood again.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cade Wilson had another cup of coffee cooling in front of him when I walked into the basement police station. A sharp disinfectant odor overwhelmed the aroma from the old-fashioned percolator chuffing on a small table near the entrance. As in the diner, Cade stood the moment he saw me, a tipoff to his upbringing. While that marked him as sexist in my mind, I also was touched he’d made the effort. It was like Tim’s deal with holding open every door: I really wish you hadn’t bothered, but thank you for being so sweet.

  The police chief had a paper-cluttered desk at one end of the large room, with just enough additional space for his mug, a laptop, and a phone. Two other desks in similar disarray faced each other in the middle of the room—probably for his absent deputies—and the far end held three empty jail cells, their barred doors open. I found that tableau scary for some reason, as if the doors were arms extended toward me.

  “We don’t have many ‘guests’ during the week,” he said, as I
stared at the open cells. “Come a Friday night, we usually host one or two rowdy types who have too much to drink and get disorderly. An occasional public urination, some larceny, people trying to sell narcotics.” Still standing, he took a sip of coffee and set his mug down. “Saturday night and early Sunday morning are the worst: domestic violence, a fistfight that turns into a stabbing, a shooting maybe once a month, fueled by alcohol or drugs. Sometimes both.”

  He invited me to use the straight-back wooden chair facing his desk. Before I sat, I turned it at an angle, putting my back to the cells to break their frightening spell. “Paulina O’Shea told me there hadn’t been a murder in years.”

  Cade resumed sitting. He shrugged, tilted back in his office chair, and tucked his thumbs in his belt. It was a regular black number—he must’ve stowed the equipment belt with holstered gun because he was in the station. “Maybe she doesn’t read the Gazette or listen to any gossip. More likely, though, she’s making a distinction between an incident where someone happens to get killed and a first-degree homicide.”

  His discussion of violent death was so emotionless that I shuddered. What did a job like this do to a person over time? I asked, “How many first-degrees have there been?”

  “Just a handful in the eight years I’ve worked here.” His voice had thawed a bit. Then he seemed to catch himself, and the flat tone returned. “But you didn’t come by to chew over Graylee crime stats. You said you had some questions about what happened to your daddy?”