Toni L.P. Kelner - Laura Fleming 06 - Death of a Damn Yankee Read online

  Death of a Damn Yankee

  Copyright © 1999 by Toni L.P. Kelner

  All rights reserved.

  Published as an ebook in 2013 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. Published as a paperback by Kensington Books in 1999.

  Cover art by Tiger Bright Studios

  ISBN 978-1-625670-45-8

  To my sister,

  Connie Perry Spencer:

  “I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted.”

  —Measure for Measure

  Act I, Scene 4

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank:

  My husband Stephen P. Keiner, Jr., for his able assistance, constant support, unfailing respect, and eternal patience.

  My daughter, Magdalene Keiner, for taking long naps.

  My new daughter, Valerie Keiner, for not arriving early.

  Signe Spencer, for supplying Marshall Saunders.

  Max Levine, for inspiring Max Wilder.

  Eric Bergemann, for teaching me that passwords aren’t always safe.

  Elizabeth Shaw, for proofreading the manuscript in record time.

  Amy Solano, Anne Solano, Rachael Solano, and Victoria Walker, for keeping Maggie happy so I could work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Also by Toni L. P. Kelner

  Chapter 1

  I didn’t want to drive by the old warehouse, but I couldn’t seem to help myself, and from the amount of traffic on that dusty back road, I wasn’t the only one. Normally, the only ones who go that way are the handful of folks who live around Walters Lake or optimistic fishermen. Today, there were two cars ahead of us and three more behind us.

  “The vultures are circling,” I muttered to Richard.

  “We’re not vultures,” my husband said. “We can go back if you want to.”

  “We may as well keep going,” I said, as if it didn’t matter to me. “There’s not a good place to turn around until we get to the lake anyway.” It was a lousy excuse, but Richard didn’t argue.

  After a few more yards, we passed the last of the scraggly pine trees and could see what was left of the warehouse. There was actually more of it still there than I’d expected. Aunt Maggie had told me the place had burned down to the ground, and I’d never realized how much wreckage remains after a building “burns down.” Misshapen beams reached up toward the roof that wasn’t there anymore while timbers tilted against the remnants of the wooden floor.

  The stink of the place sneaked into the car, despite the rolled-up windows. It wasn’t the clean smell of burnt wood, and even though I tried to convince myself that it was from the paint on the walls or maybe asphalt shingles from the roof, my imagination supplied a more gruesome reason for the stench.

  The fire had leached the color away, leaving nothing but black. The only bright spot was the yellow police tape flapping in the breeze. Police Chief Junior Norton must have put that up as soon as she realized that the building wasn’t the only thing to burn. There’d been a man’s body inside.

  I’d only met Marshall Saunders two days before, but I’d liked him, despite the furor he’d caused in town. Though I wasn’t convinced his motives for coming to town had been pure, I was sure that he hadn’t deserved this.

  “He should never have come to Byerly,” I said softly to Richard. “And we shouldn’t have come back.”

  “Laura, you know this wasn’t our fault.”

  I nodded, but it was going to take a lot more than that to convince me that Marshall’s death had nothing to do with the reason Richard and I were in Byerly. How could I be sure that I wasn’t responsible for a murder?

  Chapter 2

  It was Tuesday evening not quite a week before when we were talked into going to Byerly. When the doorbell rang, I was sprawled on the couch reading the newspaper while Richard looked through the mail. We weren’t expecting company, but our apartment is in Boston’s Back Bay, meaning that friends on the way to Symphony Hall or shopping on Newbury Street sometimes drop by. I got up, pressed the intercom button, and said, “Hello?”

  “Laurie Anne?”

  I certainly didn’t expect that. My friends up North call me Laura—only my family and the other people in Byerly call me Laurie Anne. The thing was, I didn’t recognize the voice, and I sure as heck hadn’t been expecting anybody from Byerly to drop by. “Yes?” I said hesitantly.

  “Laurie Anne, this is Burt Walters. I was wondering if I might speak to you and your husband.”

  I was so surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather, but I pushed the buzzer, and said, “Come on in.” Richard looked just as mystified as I was as I opened the door to our apartment so Burt would know to climb up to the second floor.

  I just couldn’t imagine why Burt Walters would be in Boston, any more than I could imagine Byerly without the Walters. They owned the mill and the bank, and had a finger in every pie in Byerly that included money. With Burt’s daddy Big Bill Walters in charge of the city council, they came close to running the town, and their social life reflected that. Though they occasionally received guests at their pseudo-antebellum mansion, complete with columns and a veranda, I’d never known them to visit normal people like my family.

  My first thought was that something awful had happened. Aunt Nora’s last letter had mentioned the spate of accidents at Walters Mill. Could one or more of my cousins have been hurt? But Aunt Nora or one of her sisters would have called me if that were true.

  What about that fire she’d written about? Could there have been another—one so bad that all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins had been injured, leaving only Burt able to give me the news? No, that was even more ridiculous. Burt would have called or sent a telegram, not hopped on a plane to Boston. Besides, I’ve got too much family—you’d have to burn down the entire state of North Carolina to get them all.

  There was no time for any other crazy ideas before Burt got upstairs, which was just as well.

  Burt said, “Good to see y’all,” and shook Richard’s hand and then mine. I waved him inside and onto the couch, and offered him a glass of iced tea, the way I’d been taught, when what I wanted to do was to ask him what in the Sam Hill he was doing there. But people from Byerly don’t rush into explanations until the proprieties have been observed.

  Burt Walters was a small man, getting thick around the middle, but still keeping his hair carefully dyed black. In Byerly, he spent the spring and summer in seersucker suits, but his wife must have warned him that a navy blue Brooks B
rothers blazer would be more appropriate for Massachusetts weather.

  He took a swallow of his iced tea. “At least somebody up here knows how to make tea. Most of the places I’ve been don’t serve it, and the ones that do don’t put the first speck of sugar in it.”

  I had to smile. “I ran into that problem when I first moved up here. It’s easier to find after Memorial Day, but even then, no restaurants sweeten their tea.” I paused, hoping he’d get on with it, but when he didn’t, I said, “Have you been in town long?”

  “About a week,” he said. “We were supposed to head back home this morning, but I told Daddy that he shouldn’t miss a chance to see Opening Day at Fenway Park tomorrow, so we changed our reservations.”

  “That’s right—Big Bill is a baseball fan. I bet he’s really looking forward to it,” I said. I paused again, still waiting for Burt to tell us why he’d come. When all he did was swallow more iced tea, I finally asked, “Is there a problem with my family?”

  “No, of course not.” He squared his shoulders, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to dilly-dally, but this has been a tough decision for me to make. We Walters have always kept our business to ourselves, but I’m going to have to take you two into my confidence. If y’all don’t mind keeping what I’m about to say to yourselves, that is.”

  I looked at Richard, who nodded. “All right,” I said.

  “My father wants to sell Walters Mill,” he said.

  I’m sure the shock showed on my face—Walters Mill without the Walters was unthinkable. Big Bill had founded the place as a young man, and ruled with an iron hand until stepping down for Burt to take his place. Despite the family’s other business interests, the mill remained the most important part of their domain.

  Burt went on. “That’s why he and I are up here. We’ve been meeting with the people who are planning to buy us out.”

  “You mean you’re selling to Northerners?” If anything, that shocked me even more. Not that Byerly was prejudiced against any one Northerner—most folks liked Richard, even if he did talk funny—but there are still plenty of people who warn darkly of carpetbaggers, as if Reconstruction weren’t quite finished. “How did this all happen?”

  “It seems that Daddy put out some feelers, looking for people who might be interested.”

  It seems that? “He didn’t tell you beforehand, did he?” I guessed.

  Burt didn’t say anything, but the look on his face told me I was right. “A friend of a friend put him in touch with a couple named Marshall and Grace Saunders, and they’ve been talking to Daddy for a while now.”

  I wasn’t sure how to go about asking my next question. “If they buy the mill, then what…?”

  “Then what happens to me? Oh, our other holdings would keep me occupied.”

  Burt didn’t look happy at the prospect, and Richard said, “You don’t want to sell, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, and I’ve got plenty of reasons not to. You know I’m Daddy’s only heir, and Dorcas and I aren’t likely to have any children.” I’d heard that Burt’s wife Dorcas had miscarried more than once trying to continue the Walters line. “Daddy’s worried about what would happen to the mill after I’m gone, and that’s part of why he wants to sell now.”

  “But there is another heir,” I said.

  Burt nodded. “Y’all know that, but Daddy doesn’t.”

  It was an odd story. Burt’s older brother, Small Bill, had been revered as a hero after his death in Vietnam. Only he didn’t die in Vietnam. He traded dog tags with a dead man named Leonard Cooper, and while Cooper was buried in Byerly with much pomp and circumstance, Small Bill started a new life that didn’t include living under his father’s thumb. Though Small Bill was murdered in Byerly years later, Big Bill had never found out about his son’s deception, and didn’t know about Small Bill’s son, Michael. Burt was the only one of the Walters to know the truth.

  Richard and I had found out by accident when trying to help my aunt Daphine get out from under a blackmailer. That blackmailer, who was also Small Bill’s murderer, had committed suicide, which was how we’d been able to keep Aunt Daphine’s secret, and we’d agreed to keep Small Bill’s secret, too.

  Burt said, “The mill was supposed to go to Small Bill, and it’s only right that it go to his son someday. I swore on my brother’s grave—his real grave—that I’d tell Michael the truth and make sure that he gets what he’s entitled to, but I just can’t do it while Daddy is still living. It would break his heart.”

  Though touched by Burt’s depth of feeling, I was also skeptical. “What about your other reasons?” I asked.

  Burt looked sheepish. “I don’t know if you realize it, but the mill hasn’t been doing real well these past few years.”

  That was hardly a surprise—anybody who knew Byerly knew that. Some folks traced the bad times to Burt’s first day in charge, while others blamed changes in the garment industry’s growing reliance on foreign factories, and a small minority blamed the unions for enforcing unreasonable contracts. Part of the problem had to be the aging equipment, which was causing all kinds of maintenance problems. Whatever it was, the mill was definitely not doing as well as it had during Big Bill’s reign.

  “It’s not that I haven’t tried to fix the problems,” Burt said. “We’ve had productivity issues before—all I have to do is track where the work is slowing down. And it’s not my fault that the equipment isn’t lasting the way it used to. The maintenance schedules have worked up until now. If the supervisors would follow them properly, we wouldn’t have all those breakdowns.” Then, as if realizing he’d told us more than he meant to, he said, “I’m sure I can turn things around in time, so there’s no need to rush into anything, but Daddy just won’t listen.”

  I tried hard not to let my skepticism show, but probably some of what I was thinking came through, because Burt hurried on. “Besides, I don’t trust Saunders or his wife. I think they’re union busters.”

  Considering the number of times Burt and Big Bill had done their best to earn that title themselves, that was the pot calling the kettle black. “Do they have a history of doing that kind of thing?” I asked.

  “That’s the problem. This is their first big business venture. Saunders started out in your field, Laurie Anne—computers—which he says is how he learned what kinds of management techniques work, so he switched to management consulting a few years ago. He seems smart enough, and some of his ideas are quite intriguing, but I just can’t believe that an outsider would have the same concern for the welfare of Byerly that we Walters have.”

  Burt was on shaky ground there. As far as I could tell, the only welfare the Walters had ever been concerned with was their own. Sure, they’d done a lot for Byerly, but never without benefiting as much or more than the town did. Not that that was wrong, but I didn’t think Burt should blame the Saunders for their lack of altruism until he displayed some selflessness himself.

  Knowing that Burt usually has his own best interest at heart, I started wondering just why it was he was telling us all of this. “This is going to be a big change,” I said.

  “Not if I can help it,” Burt said determinedly. “I intend to stall just as long as I can.”

  “Then it’s not a done deal?” Richard said.

  “Not quite. These things take quite a bit of negotiation, and you can be sure I’ll be doing my best to slow those negotiations down.”

  “Does your father know about your objections?” Richard asked.

  “He knows I’m reluctant,” Burt said, “but under the circumstances, I thought it best not to let him know how strongly I feel.”

  In other words, Burt was afraid to go against his father openly. It sounded silly for a grown man to behave that way, but then again, Big Bill wasn’t the first man I’d want to cross, either. “Does he know you’re talking to us?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Burt said, scandalized. “He thinks I’m out shopping for my wife. His knowing that I’m here would d
efeat the whole purpose of my enlisting y’all.”

  “Enlisting us for what?”

  “I want you two to come back to Byerly and see what you can find out about Saunders and his wife. I just know there’s something fishy about them, something I can use to convince my father not to sell to him.”

  I’d suspected that was where he was heading, so I wasn’t as taken aback as I might have been. After helping various aunts, uncles, and cousins out of various jams, Richard and I had developed a reputation.

  “Don’t you think a private investigator would be more helpful?” Richard asked.

  Burt waved the idea away. “My father already hired an agency to do the usual background checks, and they said everything looked fine.”

  “Then why do you think Laura and I could find anything they missed?”

  “Because no outside investigator would ever be able to understand the whole situation.”

  That sounded suspiciously like a snow job, and having survived several Boston winters, snow didn’t affect me the way it used to. I said, “What you’re saying is that your father might find out if you hired a real investigator, whereas he’s used to me and Richard nosing around.”

  “There’s some truth in that,” he admitted, “but I honestly believe that you two are the best qualified for the job.”

  I looked at Richard, who raised one eyebrow, and knew exactly what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. “No offense, Mr. Walters, but why should we want to stop the deal?”

  He made a steeple of his fingers. “I assumed that you’d want to help, considering how many members of your family work at the mill. Let’s see now, there’s your uncle, Buddy Crawford, and his boys, Thaddeous and Willis. And your cousin, Linwood Randolph. And of course your cousins, Ideile, Odelle, and Carlelle Holt. You wouldn’t want any of them to lose their jobs, would you?”

  I took a deep breath before I spoke. “You wouldn’t be threatening my family, would you?”

  “Of course not. Your family’s jobs are safe forever as far as I’m concerned. What I meant is that I can’t make that assurance on behalf of a new owner. In my experience, reengineering frequently leads to layoffs.”