Clouds without Rain. P. L. Gaus
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up from the chair and walked over to a wall rack beside the TV, where four hunting rifles were held vertically in place inside a felt-lined walnut case. The case had slots for five rifles, but the middle slot was empty. Branden took one of the rifles down and sighted the scope through a window onto a distant hillside. He opened the bolt and inspected the chamber. Next he studied the scope, a Leupold variable-power model, with extraordinarily fine, custom cross hairs. The rifle itself was a classic Remington 700 series, mounted to a modern, black composite stock. Branden took a bill out of his wallet, wrapped it around the barrel, and slid it freely between the barrel and the stock. To Wilsher he commented, “Free-floated barrel,” with admiration, and stood the rifle back in the case where he had found it.
Wilsher said, “Guess he was a big hunter,” and continued browsing through the desk drawers.
Branden came over to the desk, and said, “Those aren’t run-of-the-mill firearms.”
Wilsher turned in his chair to face Branden and asked, “So how do you figure a guy in a buggy makes it over to Africa to hunt dangerous game?”
Branden shrugged and said, “Better yet, figure a guy in a buggy with a modern, electric addition off his back porch.”
The two fell silent for a moment and then Wilsher turned back to the desk. Branden rose to study the contents of a tall metal filing cabinet next to the computer console. He opened the top drawer labeled “Lands Owned.” The other drawers were marked “Lands Sold,” “Lands Leased,” and “Prospects.”
Wilsher said, “Weaver has land deals dating back to 1976, as far as I can make out.”
Branden studied the numerous file folders in the “Lands Owned” drawer and said, “He also owned half of several townships. Come look at this, Dan.”
Wilsher stood up and went over to the filing cabinet. Branden had one file opened, the pages laid flat on top of the drawer. There was a bill of sale, a record of the auction price, a receipt for cash, copies of the deed, and a computer version of a surveyor’s drawing attached to the deed. The drawing bore the initials JRW and was dated “Mar 06 ’96.” A separate page described the parcel in detail, giving its location in township, parcel, and lot numbers, along with a reference to county and township roads. In pencil, there was listed an estimated value on the land. The price had been erased several times and updated values had been penciled in over the old ones. In the lower right-hand corner was a notation reading “B. Sommers, 8%.” Branden put the folder away and began counting the folders in the drawer. When he was finished, he said, “Thirty-nine properties, scattered over three townships.”
Wilsher whistled and said, “Big game hunter and land baron, too.” He watched curiously as Branden opened the drawer marked “Lands Sold.”
In this drawer, nearly fifty manila folders were packed together so tightly that it would have been difficult to add another to the collection. Branden worked a few of the folders loose and laid one open on top of the drawer. It contained the same types of documents as the folders in the first drawer, but on the outside of each of these folders there was a tabulation of dates, purchase price, sale price, and profit. Several had notations in the lower right corners about B. Sommers, 8 percent here, 7 or 10 percent elsewhere. Wilsher began pulling folders, and Branden ran a tally in his head. When they had worked through the drawer, Branden stood silently for a long moment, and then closed the drawer slowly, saying, “That’s 2.3 million in profit, in the last five years alone.”
Wilsher chuckled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Big game hunter, land baron, and millionaire,” he ventured. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “No wonder the good farm land in this county has been disappearing!”
Branden nodded. He drummed his fingers on top of the filing cabinet, looking disconcerted. He glanced around the room again and settled his gaze on John Weaver’s black lacquer desk with its computer. He said, “Did you find anything in there to suggest where he’s got all that money stashed in a bank, or are we going to find it buried in cans out in the backyard?”
Wilsher sat at the desk, opened the top right-hand drawer, and pulled out a folded, leather-bound collection of papers. He dropped the package on the desk and said, “He’s got a trust fund at the bank in Millersburg. The same B. Sommers on these folders is listed as trustee.”
“Britta Sommers,” Branden said. “I went to school with her. She was popular. Junior prom queen the year I graduated. Jimmy Weston was her escort. I’ve known her all my life.”
“The Jim Weston who was out here yesterday?” Wilsher asked.
“Yes,” Branden said. “He was a sophomore. A little scat-back runner on the football team. Ran with the ‘in crowd.’ Britta was something else in those days.”
“Still is, from what I hear,” Wilsher said, leading.
“Like I said, junior prom queen and then senior court the next year. She was my eighth-grade sweetheart, but she threw me over for a football player. Little Jimmy Weston. If I remember right, she and Weston stayed together even after she left for college. They never married, though. She found someone better after college. At least she thought he was better.”
Wilsher sat and thought for a moment, studying the trust papers. Then he said, “I guess Sommers has got some work to do, then. Now that Weaver’s dead, I mean.”
“You going to call her out here?” Branden asked. He took the leather trust folder from Wilsher and leafed idly through the pages.
Wilsher took the folder back, folded the leather pouch, snapped it shut, and said, “I’ll start by running these into Millersburg.”
“Let me do that,” Branden said, and held out his hand for the folded leather pouch. “I know Britta Sommers well, Dan. I’m going back to town for an afternoon conference, but I can get the papers to her first thing in the morning.”
Wilsher smiled mischievously and asked, “What are you longhairs doing today? Debating who really won the Civil War?” There was a wide grin on his face as he dropped the trust papers into Branden’s hand.
“Actually,” Branden said, amused, using a professorial tone, “if you take the long-term view, you might argue that the eventual loss of the big manufacturing industries in the North and the resurgence of Southern life that we’re seeing today . . .”
Wilsher cut him off with a wave of the hand and quipped, “Oh, brother. Why’d I even ask?”
When the two had walked back through the house to the front, they found Deputy Armbruster arguing with a man in a baggy suit. The squat little man complained, “I’m supposed to be the first one to go over the scene,” as Wilsher and Branden walked up.
Wilsher asked, “We got a problem here, Stan?”
The man in the suit turned to Wilsher, took in the lieutenant’s gold bars, and said rancorously, “I’m Robert Cravely. Insurance. And you’ve moved all of the buggy parts, Lieutenant.”
Wilsher responded calmly, “We’ve merely laid them out beside the road to clear a lane for traffic.”
Cravely removed a wallet badge from his inside suit pocket, displayed it briefly, and said pompously, “I am a specialist in buggy crashes. I’ve been retained by the insurance carrier for the furniture company that owns that truck over there. I study debris scatter. Impact analysis. And you should not have moved anything until I had a chance to go over the scene.”
Branden touched Wilsher’s arm, and, holding back a laugh, said, “I’m gonna take these papers to Sommers in the morning.”
Wilsher nodded and turned back to the insurance agent. As Branden walked away, he could hear the lieutenant explaining, somewhat indignantly, why he thought it more important to clear a lane for traffic than to have expert analysis of buggy debris, considering that they had three solid witnesses who had observed the crash firsthand.
At his truck, Branden tossed the leather pouch onto the passenger’s seat, climbed in behind the wheel, hit the ignition,