Читать книгу Not on Her Own - Cynthia Reese, Cynthia Reese - Страница 12

B RANDON HADN’T REALIZED how tight his fists were until his knuckles started aching. He stood by his truck and sucked in a purposeful breath. In. Out. In again. Slow exhale.

Better. The idea that he’d let one cent of his money go to Richard Murphy’s lawyers…

No. Calm down. Think.

The vinyl seat crackled under him as he slammed the door with one hand and punched in Ryan MacIntosh’s number on his cell phone with the other.

“Ryan? You got a few minutes? If you do, I’m on the way over.”

His best friend didn’t hesitate. “Come on. Mee-Maw’s got lunch on the table and Becca can put out another plate. We’ve got Sean Courtland here, too, so we can all hear what he has to say about the investigation.”

Brandon didn’t know what cheered him up more. Was it the idea of Ryan’s grandmother’s legendary meals? Or the possibility that in the course of the dinner, Sean, the FBI agent who’d been investigating Murphy, might have news? Ostensibly, Sean was there to gather more information from one of the government’s star witnesses, Ryan’s grandmother. Sean, though, didn’t mind giving the latest to Brandon. Sean would wink and chalk it up to interagency cooperation.

During the ten minutes or so it took him to drive over to the MacIntosh farm, Brandon managed to gain a more positive attitude. Murphy was going down, and soon. Maybe Sean was there to tell them that the federal indictment, which had already dragged on for a couple of months without materializing, was about to be handed down.

Besides, Brandon could never come to the MacIntosh farm without remembering how Ryan and Becca, Ryan’s new wife, had finally put Murphy in the government’s crosshairs. And if that wasn’t cause to celebrate, he didn’t know what was.

The smell of country-fried steak and gravy enveloped him as Mee-Maw opened the door for him. Her lined face was wreathed in smiles.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite deputy! C’mon in, Brandon! We’ve got plenty. Wash up and go fix your plate.”

He heard the hubbub of conversation at the kitchen table as he scrubbed his hands in the bathroom sink.

If only I could wash away the memory of Penelope Langston defending her grandfather. It just went to show that you couldn’t judge a person by how she looked, no matter how pretty.

Penelope’s dark eyes, snapping with fire, came back to him. She was as easy to read as a mood ring: when she was mad, her eyes went almost black. Otherwise they were warm and brown, almost a melted caramel.

At the table, Brandon pulled out a ladder-back chair and settled in it.

Becca grinned. “Now this is better than any lunch in town, isn’t it?” she asked as she passed him a bowl of creamed potatoes. “I swear, Mee-Maw’s cooking was half the reason I married Ryan.”

Brandon chuckled. He knew better than that. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Ryan was head over heels for Becca—and vice versa. He wondered if, when they had kids, the children would inherit Becca’s blond hair or Ryan’s red.

Sean Courtland lifted up a big fluffy biscuit and inspected it. “Ma’am, these are so good that I might have to report it as a gourmet gift. It’s lucky this is my day off and I’m not on duty.”

Mee-Maw beamed. “Aw, just a little something I threw together. Next time I’ll cook you some good fried chicken. Brandon, how’s your Uncle Jake doing?”

Brandon’s creamed potatoes suddenly looked a lot less appetizing. He pushed the food listlessly on his plate. “He’s okay, I guess. Same as always. Impatient to hear what the latest is on Murphy.”

Sean swallowed the bite of biscuit he’d just taken before answering. “U.S. attorney still wants more. You know these guys, they don’t indict anything less than a slam-dunk case. They don’t want to sully their conviction rate with a not-guilty verdict.”

“How much more do they need? I thought we’d given them enough for their slam-dunk conviction. If I can’t see Murphy go to jail for swindling Uncle Jake, I want to at least see the feds take him down for his crop insurance fraud.” Brandon set the gravy boat down harder than he should have, netting a scolding look from Mee-Maw. He double-checked to make sure no gravy had splashed on her tablecloth.

“Brandon’s right,” Ryan said. “They’ve got the crop insurance adjustor, they’ve got, what, two of the farmers who were conspiring with Murphy. They’ve got JT Griggs willing to testify that Murphy made him bring in the dodder vine with intent to defraud the government.”

At the mention of JT’s name, Sean frowned. “JT has a credibility issue, guys, and you know it. He’s served time. I think he’s telling the truth, the U.S. attorney thinks he is…but will the jury? And so that’s why they want more guys to plead out and agree to testify against Murphy. It will happen. The big news I wanted to tell you—Becca, you’ll really get excited about this—we’ve run down the guy who attacked Becca in her motel room. And his shyster lawyer is about to sign off on a plea agreement.”

“So that’s another nail in Murphy’s coffin?” Brandon’s appetite came back with renewed gusto. “The guy is willing to say Murphy put him up to it?”

“Well, no,” Sean conceded. “He’s saying it was the brainstorm of that other farmer, Tate. But if we put pressure on Tate, then Tate will roll over on Murphy.”

Brandon chewed on the steak as he considered this and decided, if it wasn’t perfect, at least it was a move in the right direction. “That will complicate Murphy’s legal woes. Hey, did you guys know Penelope Langston is Murphy’s granddaughter?”

Becca’s and Ryan’s mouths dropped open, but Brandon noted Sean didn’t look as surprised.

“Yeah. We’d come up on that in our investigation. She’s some sort of artist, I think, from Oregon, but she’d been living in New York. Apparently she came down here to offer moral support.”

“She’s willing to offer him more than moral support. She had the nerve to offer to sell me the land—Uncle Jake’s land, mind you—to raise money for Murphy.” Brandon took a swig of iced tea that did nothing to cool off his temper.

“She said that?” Becca’s eyes rounded. “That’s…that’s brassy.”

“Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way. She’s a sculptor, and she had this big sale for, I kid you not, three pieces of stainless steel welded together, but it fell through. So now she needs money. I just didn’t want any of my money ending up in Richard Murphy’s hands. When she wouldn’t agree to that stipulation, I told her no. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

Ryan nodded as he passed the tall pitcher of iced tea to Becca. “Sounds like you can wait her out, then. If she needs money, then maybe you can pick up the land in a foreclosure deal.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Brandon agreed. “It galls me to even think about Uncle Jake being forced to sell to Murphy in the first place.”

“I’m still working with the state’s revenue department on that, Brandon,” Becca said. “They’re saying now that the forced sales of both this property and your uncle’s might not be legal. So Uncle Jake might get the land after all.”

“Now that’s more like it!” Brandon rubbed his hands together.

“If the title’s in question…” Sean trailed off in thought.

“Yeah?” Brandon prompted.

“Well, I was thinking of adverse possession. If the title’s in question, and you cultivate the land for seven years, it’s yours anyway.”

“You mean, just act like it’s mine and it turns into my land?”

“Yeah. The key is the action has to be hostile, without permission from the landowner, but the landowner in turn has to not put a stop to it. The law says that if the landowner doesn’t care about someone else improving or cultivating land, the land should belong to the one making the investment of money and labor. Of course, seven years is a long time to wait.”

“Maybe by then Penelope Langston will be gone,” Brandon said.

Mee-Maw cleared her throat, and the group of them turned toward her at the head of the table.

“Mee-Maw? You have something on your mind?” Ryan asked.

Ryan’s grandmother tore at a biscuit in her fingers, shredding it absentmindedly. “I remember that girl. Not well, mind you. She hasn’t been around here in years. Why, I guess she was seven or eight the last time she came to visit. That little one—Penelope, you say? Not big as a minute, and always drawing. I kept her some, that last time, because of course the likes of Murphy couldn’t be bothered with entertaining his granddaughter. She had a good heart, was right faithful about helping me nurse a calf and see to the chickens.”

“So what are you trying to say, Mee-Maw?” Brandon asked. “That she can’t have grown up to be like Murphy if she was willing to help you bottle-feed a calf?”

Mee-Maw stretched out a gnarled finger and shook it in Brandon’s direction. “Young man, people aren’t always what they seem at first blush. Yes, sir, most times they are, and you best not expect much more out of ’em, but people’s hearts don’t change. I expect it’s Penelope’s heart that’s telling her to look after her grandfather, even if he is a black-hearted crook. I’d be more worried about her if she didn’t have some speck of caring for the man. So don’t you be too hard on her.”

Brandon took the chastisement on the chin. But he reserved judgment. How could anyone be fooled by the likes of Richard Murphy?