The Winner

“Now, I do a lot of entertaining, so it would have to be a substantial place. But I want privacy as well. Something old, and elegant, but restored. I like old things, but not old plumbing, you understand me?”

“Perfectly.”

“Now, I’m assuming that there are probably a number of properties around here that fit that bill.”

“There are. Most assuredly,” Pemberton said excitedly.

“But see, I’ve got one in mind. One I heard about from my father, in fact. He was in the stock market too. Back in the twenties. Made a bundle and was fortunate to get out before the crash. He used to come here and stay with a good friend of his who was in the market too. My father, God rest his soul, loved it there, and I thought it would be appropriate for his son to buy it and live in it.”

“What a truly inspiring idea. Certainly makes my job easier. Do you know the name of the place?” Pemberton’s smile was broadening.

“Wicken’s Hunt.”

Pemberton’s smile quickly faded.

“Oh.” He licked his lips, made a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Wicken’s Hunt,” he repeated, looking depressed.

“What’s the matter? Did it burn down or something?”

“No, no. It’s a beautiful place, wonderfully restored.” Pemberton sighed deeply. “Unfortunately it’s no longer on the market.”

“You sure?” Conklin sounded skeptical.

“I’m certain. I was the selling agent.”

“Damn, how long ago?”

“About two years, although the people have only been in it for several months. There was a lot of renovation work to do.”

Conklin looked at him slyly, eyebrows cocked. “Think they might want to sell?”

Pemberton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Flipping a property like that within the relatively short span of two years? What a wonderful impact on his wallet.

“Anything’s possible. I’ve actually gotten to know them — well, one of them anyway — fairly well. Just had breakfast with him, in fact.”

“So it’s a couple then, old like me, I guess. Wicken’s Hunt isn’t exactly a starter home from what my father told me.”

“Actually, they’re not a couple. And he’s older, but the property doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to her.”

Conklin leaned forward. “To her?”

Pemberton looked around for a moment, got up and fully shut the door to his conference room, and then sat back down.

“You understand that I’m telling you this in confidence.”

“Absolutely. I didn’t survive all those years on Wall Street without understanding confidences.”

“While the land records show a corporation as the title holder, the real owner of Wicken’s Hunt is a young woman. Catherine Savage. Obviously incredibly wealthy. Quite frankly, I’m not certain what the source of that wealth is, nor is it my business to ask. She lived abroad for years. Has a little girl about ten. Charlie Thomas — the older man — he and I have had some nice little discussions. They’ve been very generous with several local charities. She doesn’t come out in public very much, but that’s understandable.”

“Sure is. If I moved here, you might not see me for weeks on end.”

“Exactly. They seem to be real good people, though. They seem very happy here. Very happy.”

Conklin sat back and it was his turn to sigh. “Well, I guess they won’t be looking to move any time soon. Damn shame too.” He eyed Pemberton intently. “Real damn shame, since I make it my practice to pay a finder’s fee on top of any real estate commission you might collect from the seller.”

Pemberton perked up noticeably. “Is that right?”

“Now, there aren’t any ethical considerations that would prevent you from accepting such an inducement, are there?”

“None that I can think of,” Pemberton said quickly. “So, how much would that inducement come to?”

“Twenty percent of the purchase price.” Harry Conklin drummed his fingers on the tabletop and watched Pemberton’s face turn different colors.

If Pemberton hadn’t been sitting down, he would’ve toppled to the floor. “That’s very generous,” he finally managed to say.

“If I want something done, I find the best way to accomplish my goal is to provide decent incentives to those in a position to help me achieve that goal. But from the looks of things here, I don’t think it’s likely. Maybe I’ll try North Carolina, I hear good things about it.” Conklin started to get up.

“Wait a minute. Please wait just a minute.”

Conklin hesitated and then slowly resumed his seat.

“Actually, your timing may be perfect.”

“Why’s that?”

Pemberton leaned even closer to him. “There have been recent developments, very recent developments, that might give us an opening to approach them about selling.”

“If they just moved in, seem happy here, what kind of developments are we talking about? The place isn’t haunted, is it?”

“No, nothing like that. As I said, I had a breakfast meeting with Charlie. He was concerned about a person who had come to visit them. Asking for money.”

“So? That happens to me all the time. You think that’ll make them pack up and leave?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so at first either, but the more I thought about it, the more unusual it sounded. I mean, you’re right, the rich get approached all the time, so why should this man upset them so? But he obviously did.”

“How do you know that?”

Pemberton smiled. “In many ways, in fact, in more ways than people around here care to admit, Charlottesville is a small town. Now I know for a fact that very recently Matt Riggs was up surveying Ms. Savage’s property line when he became engaged in a reckless chase with another car that almost got him killed.”

Conklin shook his head in confusion. “Who’s Matt Riggs?”

“A local contractor hired by Ms. Savage to install a security fence around her property.”

“So he was chasing another car? How does that tie in with Catherine Savage?”

“A friend of mine was heading to work that morning. He lives up in that same area and works in town. He was about to turn on to the main road heading into town when a charcoal gray BMW flew by. He said it must’ve been doing eighty. If he had pulled out a second sooner that BMW would’ve torn his car in half. He was so shaken, he couldn’t budge for a full minute. Good thing too, because while he’s sitting there trying to keep his breakfast down, Matt Riggs’s pickup comes barreling by and another car is locked on his bumper. They were obviously going at it.”

“Do you know who was in the BMW?”

“Now, I’ve never met her but I know people who have seen her. Catherine Savage is a tall, blond woman. Real good-looking. My friend only got a glimpse of the driver, but he said she was blond and pretty. And I saw a charcoal gray BMW parked up at Wicken’s Hunt when I went up to do a preclosing walk-through with Charlie.”

“So you think somebody was chasing her?”

“And I think Matt Riggs must’ve run smack into it. I know that his truck’s in the shop with a busted bumper. I also know that Sally Beecham — she’s the maid up at Wicken’s — saw Riggs walking off in a huff from the house later that same morning.”

Conklin stroked his chin. “Very interesting. Guess there’s no way to find out who was chasing her?”

“Yes there is. I mean I did. At least his location. You see, it gets even more interesting. As I said, Charlie invited me to breakfast. That’s when he told me about this man who had come by the house wanting money. Charlie wanted my help in finding out if the man was staying in the area. Of course, I agreed to do what I could. At that point I didn’t know about the car chase. I found that out later.”

“You said you were able to find the man? But how could you? Lots of places to hide around here, I would think.” Conklin asked this in a nonchalant manner.

Pemberton smiled triumphantly. “Not much escapes my notice, Harry. Like I said, I was born and raised here. Charlie gave me a description of the man and the car. I used my contacts and in less than twenty-four hours I had located him.”

“Probably holed up pretty far away, I’ll bet.”

Pemberton shook his head. “Not at all. He was right under their noses. A small cottage. It’s barely ten minutes from Wicken’s Hunt by car. But very isolated.”

“Help me out here. I don’t have my bearings here yet. Is it near Monticello?”

“Well, in the general vicinity, but the area I’m talking about is north of that, north of Interstate Sixty-four, in fact. The cottage isn’t too far from the Airslie Estate, off Highway Twenty-two, the Keswick Hunt area it’s called. The man had leased the cottage about a month ago.”

“Good gosh, did you get a name?”

“Tom Jones.” Pemberton smiled knowingly. “Obviously false.”

“Well, I guess they appreciated your help. So what happened?”

“I don’t know. My business keeps me hopping. I really haven’t talked to them about it any more.”

“Well, this Riggs fellow, I bet he’s sure sorry he got involved.”

“Well, he can take care of himself.”

“Maybe so, but getting banged around in a car in a high-speed chase? Most general contractors don’t do that.”

“Well, Riggs wasn’t always a G.C.”

“Really?” Conklin said, his features inscrutable. “You really do have the Peyton Place here. So what’s his story?”

Pemberton shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine. He never talks about his past. He just appeared one day about five years ago, started learning the building trade and he’s been here ever since. Pretty mysterious. Charlie thought he was a policeman. Frankly, I think he was with the government in some secret capacity and they put him out to pasture. Call it my gut.”

“That’s real interesting. Old guy then.”

“No. Mid- to late thirties. Tall, strong, and very capable. Excellent reputation.”

“Good for him.”

“Now about our arrangement. If this man really is dogging them, I can talk to Charlie, see what he has to say. Maybe they will agree to move. It’s certainly worth asking.”

“I tell you what, you let me think about it for a few days.”

“I can get the process started anyway.”

Conklin put up one hand. “No, I don’t want you doing that. When I’m ready to move, we’ll move fast, don’t you worry about that.”

“I just thought—”

Conklin abruptly got up. “You’ll hear from me very soon, John. I appreciate the insight, I really do.”

“And if they won’t move, there are at least a dozen other estates I can show you. They would serve your purposes equally well, I’m sure.”

“This fellow in the cottage intrigues me. You wouldn’t happen to have an exact address and directions, would you?”

Pemberton was startled at the question. “You certainly don’t want to talk to him, do you? He might be dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself. And I’ve learned in my business that you never know where you might find an ally.” Conklin looked at him keenly until understanding spread across Pemberton’s face. He wrote the information down on a piece of paper and handed it to the other man.

Conklin took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Pemberton, motioning for him to open it.

“Oh my God.” Pemberton sat there gaping at the wad of cash that spilled out. “What’s this for? I haven’t done anything yet.”

Conklin eyed Pemberton steadily. “You’ve given me information, John. Information is always worth a great deal to me. I’ll be in touch.” The men shook hands and Conklin took his leave.





Back at the country inn where he was staying, Harry Conklin walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the water. Fifteen minutes later the door opened and Jackson emerged, the remnants of Harry Conklin bundled in a plastic bag which Jackson deposited in a side pouch of his luggage. His conversation with Pemberton had been very enlightening. His encounter with the man had not been by chance. Upon arriving in Charlottesville, Jackson had made discreet inquiries around town that had quickly identified Pemberton as the selling agent for Wicken’s Hunt. He sat on the bed and opened a large, detailed map of the Charlottesville area, noting and committing to memory the places he and Pemberton had discussed and the written directions to the cottage. Before talking to Pemberton he had educated himself on some of the history of Wicken’s Hunt, which had been nicely detailed in a book on local area estates and their original owners at the county library. It had given him enough background information to form his cover story and draw out Pemberton on the subject.

Jackson closed his eyes, deep in thought. Right now he was planning how best to begin his campaign against LuAnn Tyler and the man who was pursuing her.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE




Riggs had given it a day before he had attempted to retrieve his Jeep. Just in case the guy was still around, he went armed and he went at night. The Cherokee looked undamaged. Riggs made a quick check of it before heading toward the cottage. The Chrysler was nowhere to be seen. He shone his flashlight in the window of the shed. The Honda was still there. Riggs went up to the front door and wondered for the hundredth time if he should just leave this business alone. Dangerous things seemed to happen around Catherine Savage. He had had his fill of such events and he had come to Charlottesville in search of other things. Still, he could not stop his hand from carefully turning the doorknob. The door swung open.

The flashlight in one hand, his pistol in the other, Riggs moved forward slowly. He was reasonably certain that the place was empty, but assumptions like that could earn you an unwanted trip to the morgue with a tag around your big toe. He could see most of the first floor from where he was standing. He shone his flashlight slowly around the room. There was a light switch on the wall, but he wasn’t about to use it. In what had been the dining room, he discerned dust patterns on the floor that showed certain objects had been removed. He ran his fingers over these areas and then moved on. He moved into the kitchen where he lifted the phone. There was no dial tone. He moved back into the dining room.

As Riggs’s eyes swept the room, they passed right over the figure dressed all in black standing just inside the half-opened closet door next to the stairs.

Jackson closed his eyes the second before the light moved across his hiding place so that his pupils would not reflect off it. When the arc of illumination had passed, Jackson reopened his eyes and gripped the handle of the knife tightly. He had heard Riggs before he had ever set foot on the porch. It was not the man who had leased the cottage. He was long gone; Jackson had already searched the place thoroughly. This man had come to reconnoiter the place as well. Riggs, it must be, Jackson concluded. In fact, Jackson found Riggs almost as interesting as the man he had come to kill tonight. Ten years ago Jackson had predicted that LuAnn would be a problem, and now that prediction was coming true. He had done some preliminary checking on Riggs’s background after his discussion with Pemberton. The fact that there was little to find out had intrigued him greatly.

When Riggs passed within a few feet of him, Jackson contemplated killing him. It would take just a flick of the razor-sharp blade against his throat. But as quickly as the homicidal impulse flared through his system, it passed. Killing Riggs would further no purpose, at least not at present. Jackson’s hand gripping the knife relaxed. Riggs would live another day. If there was a next time, Jackson decided, the outcome might be far different. He didn’t like people meddling in his business. If nothing else, he would now check into Riggs’s background with far greater intensity.





Riggs left the cottage and headed toward his Cherokee. He glanced back at the cottage. A sensation had just come over him, as though he had just survived a close call. He shrugged it off. He had once lived by his instincts; however, he assumed they had rusted somewhat since his occupation had changed. It was an empty house and nothing more.

Watching from the window, Jackson picked up on Riggs’s slight hesitation, and with it his curiosity grew even more. Riggs would possibly make an interesting project, but he would have to wait. Jackson had something more pressing to take care of. From the floor of the closet Jackson picked up what looked like a doctor’s bag. He moved to the dining room, crouched down, and unpacked the contents of a first-rate fingerprint kit. Jackson then moved over to the light switch and hit it from various angles with a handheld laser carried in his jacket pocket. Several latent prints sprang to life under the beam. Jackson dusted the area with a fiberglass brush dipped in black powder and gently brushed around the area of the light switch, outlining the latent prints. The kitchen counter,