Gray Mountain (42 page)

She opened the door, and without as much as a squeak Jeff appeared from the dark stairs and pecked her on the lips. He took off his boots and parked them next to hers. “Staying, are we?” she asked as she poured water into the coffee machine.

He rubbed his hands together and said, “I think it’s warmer outside. Have you complained to the landlord?”

“Haven’t thought about it. No rent means no complaints. Nice to see you out of jail.”

“You’re not going to believe what I’ve dug up.”

“And that’s why you’re here, to tell me all about it.”

“Among other things.”

On the night Donovan died, his Cessna was parked at the Charleston airport for about seven hours, from 3:20 to 10:31 p.m., according to air traffic control records and data from the general aviation terminal. After he landed, he rented a car and took off to meet with his legal team. While he was gone, four small planes arrived at the ramp; two bought fuel, dropped off a passenger, and left, and the other two tied down for the night. One of these was a Beech Baron, the other a King Air 210, a popular twin-engine turboprop that seats six passengers. The King Air arrived at 7:35 p.m. with two pilots and one passenger. All three got off the airplane, entered the terminal, did their paperwork, and left with a guy in a van.

Samantha listened without a word and poured the decaf.

According to Brad, an employee who worked the ramp that night, there were actually two passengers on the King Air, one of whom stayed behind. That’s right—he spent the night on the airplane. As the two pilots were going through their postflight routines, Brad caught a glimpse of the passenger on the ground speaking to a passenger still on the plane. From a distance, he watched, and he waited, and sure enough the pilots closed the King Air’s only door. When their aircraft was secure for the night, they walked into the terminal, with the passenger, as if all was well.

Bizarre, but Brad had actually seen this once before, a couple of years earlier when a pilot landed late at night, had neither a hotel reservation nor a rental car, and decided to just sleep a few hours in
the cockpit and take off at dawn. The difference was that that pilot had made his intentions known and the ramp guys knew what he was doing. With the King Air, though, only Brad knew what was happening. He kept an eye on the airplane until 10:00 p.m., when he punched out and went home. Two days later he was fired for missing work. He had never liked his job and hated his boss. His brother got him a job in Florida and he left town. No one had ever interviewed him about the events of that night. Until now, of course.

“How’d you find him?” she asked.

“The guard who arrested me Sunday night gave me his name. Turns out Mack, the guard, is a pretty great guy. We had beers late Monday night, me buying of course, and Mack gave me the dirt on Brad. Brad’s back in Charleston now. I found him last night, and, in another bar, we had some drinks. I’m detoxing tonight so don’t offer me anything.”

“There’s not a drop in the house.”

“Good.”

“So, your theory is?”

“My theory is that this mysterious passenger waited until the right moment, opened the door of the King Air, walked about thirty yards in the darkness, straight to Donovan’s Cessna, and in about twenty minutes loosened the B nut. Then he backtracked, climbed into the King Air, and was probably watching when Donovan showed up around 10:15 for his departure. After that, he kicked off his shoes and slept until sunrise.”

“Sounds impossible to prove.”

“Maybe, but I’m getting there.”

“Who owns the King Air?”

“A charter service out of York, Pennsylvania, a company that does a lot of business with coal companies. The King Air is the workhorse in the coalfields because it’s durable, has a nice payload, and works off short runways. This company has four available for charter. There are plenty of records so we’ll soon know everything about the flight. Brad says he’ll give an affidavit, though I’m a little worried about him.”

“This is incredible, Jeff.”

“It’s huge. The investigators will grill the owners of the plane, the pilots, the passenger or passengers, and whoever chartered it for the trip. We’re getting closer, Samantha. It’s an unbelievable break.”

“Nice work, Sherlock.”

“Sometimes you just gotta get yourself arrested. You have an extra quilt somewhere around here?”

“They’re all layered up on the bed. That’s where I was, reading.”

“Was that a pickup line?”

“We’re already picked up, Jeff. The question at the moment is sex, and I hate to tell you it’s not going to happen. Not the best time of the month.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I guess. Then why don’t we just cuddle and share body heat and sleep together, I mean, you know, actually sleep?”

“I suppose that will work.”

S
he had no idea what time he left. When she awoke, a few streaks of morning light penetrated the blinds and windows. It was almost 6:00 a.m. His side of the bed was not warm, as if he’d been gone for hours. Whatever. He lived in the shadows and left few trails, and that was fine with her. He carried burdens and baggage she would never understand, so why bother? She thought about him for a few moments, as she peeked from under the quilts and watched damp clouds follow her breathing. It was cold out there, and she had to admit she longed for his warmth.

She also longed for a hot shower, but that would not be happening. She counted to ten, threw off the covers, and raced to the coffeepot. It took forever to brew, and when she finally had a cup she crawled back under the covers and thought about New York. Her plans were to polish up her response to Andy and e-mail it first thing. Was it too pushy, too demanding? She was, after all, unemployed and he was offering a wonderful job. Did she have the right to nag about her associates and clients, about Mr. Nick Spane, and the dimensions of her new office? Would her deferment scheme please Andy, or irritate him? She wasn’t sure, but Andy had a thick skin. If she didn’t assert herself in the beginning she would certainly get run over later.

She skipped the cold shower and did a bird bath with lukewarm water in the sink. With no court appointments on the calendar,
she dressed quickly in jeans and boots, flannel shirt and sweater. When she was properly bundled, she looped her satchel over one shoulder, her purse over the other, and left for work on foot. The air was crisp and still, the sun brilliant as it rose. It was a beautiful winter day, with snow still untouched in thick drifts against the houses. Not a bad way to get to work, she thought, as she walked through Brady.

On the negative side: In New York she would be packed into a subway train, then jostling through heavy foot traffic. Or perhaps sitting in the back of a dirty cab, waiting in traffic.

She spoke to Mr. Gantry as he fetched his newspaper off the sidewalk. He was pushing ninety, lived alone since his wife died last year, and in warmer weather had the prettiest lawn on the street. All snow on his property had been meticulously scraped and shoveled.

As usual these days, she arrived first at the office and, as the intern, went straight to the coffeepot. As it brewed, she tidied up the kitchen, emptied all the wastebaskets throughout the place, and straightened magazines in the reception area. No one had ever told her to do these things.

On the positive side: In New York, Spane & Grubman would pay someone else to do such chores.

On the neutral side: Samantha really didn’t mind doing them, not here anyway. She wouldn’t dare do them at a real firm, but at the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic everyone pitched in.

She sat in the conference room and watched the early traffic on Main Street. Now that she was planning to leave, she was astonished at how fond of the place she had become in three short months. She decided she would postpone the discussion with Mattie and wait until she knew more about Andy’s offer. The thought of telling her she was leaving so soon was unsettling.

Mattie’s mornings were still slower, but she seemed to be finding her old self. Donovan’s absence was a jagged wound that would never heal, but she couldn’t stop living. She had too many clients who needed her, too many entries in her calendar. She rolled in just after nine and asked Samantha to step into her office. With
the door closed, she explained that she’d lost sleep the night before worrying about those wretched Crump people and poor old dead Francine. The only ethical thing to do was to poll the local bar and see if anyone had been hired by the family. If so, they would zip over a copy of the will and start the war. Mattie handed over a list and said, “Not including us, there are fourteen lawyers in Brady, all alphabetized with phone numbers. I’ve already talked to three, including Jackie Sporz, the lawyer who did the will five years ago. None has heard from the family. You pick five and let’s get it done this morning. I’m tired of worrying about it.”

Samantha had met all but two. She went to her office, grabbed the phone, and called Hump. He said no, he’d never heard of the Crumps. Lucky for him. The second call was to Hayes Sinclair, a lawyer who never came out of his office and was rumored to suffer from agoraphobia. No, he had never heard of the Crumps. The third call was to Lee Chatham, a lawyer who never stayed in his office but was always hanging around the courthouse, posturing as if he had important business there and trafficking in gossip, most of which he created. Bingo. Mr. Chatham said yes, he had met with several of the Crumps and had a contract to represent the family.

Evidently, they were pressing ahead with their fiction that their mother destroyed the free will prepared by those crooks over at legal aid, and therefore things would revert back to the prior will, which split everything equally. Mr. Chatham’s plans were to open the estate in the near future and proceed with the prior will. However, they were bickering over who would serve as executor. Jonah, the oldest, had been appointed by Francine five years ago, but he was having heart problems (brought on by the stress of this situation), and probably couldn’t serve. When Mr. Chatham mentioned replacing Jonah with a substitute executor, a fight started amongst the other four. He was currently trying to arbitrate matters.

Samantha dropped the bomb about the mysterious package they had received the day after the funeral. She made sure Mr. Chatham understood that neither she nor anyone at the clinic had any desire to get involved in a will contest, but it was important for
him to know that his clients were lying. By the time she hung up, he was mumbling incoherently to himself. She faxed a copy of the last will to his office, and left to tell Mattie.

“That’ll really piss ’em off, won’t it?” she said when she heard the news. “One threat, and I’m going to the sheriff.”

“Should we get some handguns?” Samantha asked.

“Not yet.” She tossed some papers across the desk. “Take a look.” It was thick, whatever it was, and Samantha sat down. “What is it?” she asked as she flipped a page.

“Strayhorn, notice of appeal in the Tate case. I talked to the trial judge late last week about the alleged settlement. Needless to say, he was not sympathetic, so we’re screwed. Now we have to slog our way through the appeals process and hope the Supreme Court doesn’t reverse.”

“Why am I holding this?”

“I thought you might be interested. And, Samantha, we need you to handle the appeal.”

“I think I saw this coming. I’ve never touched an appeal, Mattie.”

“You’ve never touched most things around here. There’s always a first time. Look, I’ll supervise, and you’ll learn quickly that it’s just a lot of paperwork and research. Strayhorn goes first and files their thick brief in ninety days. They will allege all manner of grievous errors at trial. We respond, point counterpoint. In six months almost all of the work is done and you’ll be waiting on oral argument.”

But in six months I’ll be gone, Samantha wanted to say.

“It’ll be great experience,” Mattie pressed on. “And for the rest of your life you can say you handled an appeal to the Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Virginia. How can you top that?” She was aiming at levity but it was clear Mattie was anxious.

“How many hours?” Samantha asked. She was calculating quickly and already thinking that she could do virtually all of the research over the next six months, before she left.

“Donovan swore it was a clean trial, nothing major to quibble over on appeal. I’d guess five hundred hours, from now through
oral argument, which is about fifteen months away. I know you’ll be gone by then, so one of us will handle that part. The heavy lifting takes place now. Annette and I simply do not have the time.”

Samantha smiled and said, “You’re the boss.”

“And you’re a dear. Thanks Samantha.”

A
ndy fired back:

T
he spy phone buzzed at 2:30 as Samantha was rereading Strayhorn’s notice of appeal and reviewing the rules for appellate procedure. “Are you outside my office standing in the snow?” she asked, walking to the kitchen, which she assumed was bug-free.