Page 56 of Forgotten Path
“Most of the businesses here are hanging on by a thread. I suspect if Louisa had that kind of money, she’d put in air conditioning in this place. Steffi would pay off her student loans. Henrietta Wolfe would stop letting out rooms to strangers. None of them would give it away.” She laughed without humor at the thought.
“What about a business in the county but not necessarily in town? I was over at Emerald Estuary Estates this morning. Those homes look expensive. Who’s going to live in them?”
She dismissed the question with a flap of her hand and a violent cough. “Well, if you ask Fred Glazier and Chad Hornbill, Hollywood celebrities and society ladies from West Palm Beach. But those two are delusional.”
“Could either of them afford a donation like that?”
“Now you sound delusional.Couldthey? Yes. Would they? Not a chance in blazes. Fred Glazier grew up as dirt poor as everybody else around here. He clawed his way to the top through a combination of street smarts and a complete lack of empathy. He’d sooner set his money on fire than give it away. Now, his ex-wife, she might’ve done something like that. She had ideas about how people with money should act. But she had her fill of Fred and this town years ago.”
“And this Chad person? Who is he?”
“Chad owns Gulf Paper Company. He’s got ideas about how rich people act, too. That’s because he’s one of them. I mean, he came from money. His great-grandfather started the paper company—the original building was right here in town. But Chad’s not one of us. He makes sure we all know it, too. He commutes all the way from Tallahassee every day because he wouldn’t be caught dead living in Oyster Point. As a matter of fact, that’s probably half the motivation behind his McMansion community. So he can live here without being embarrassed. Every generation of Hornbills has gotten snootier than the last. If Chad decided to donate that kind of money, he’d give it to the Tallahassee Symphony Orchestra or his kids’ private school, something splashy. Not a free community clinic in a dumpy little town. Trust me.”
He eyed the day’s specials listed on the chalkboard on the wall. Fried oysters and a sandwich made from a whelk and clam salad. He recalled Mirabelle’s warning and rubbed his chin, thinking.
Judy followed his gaze. “Oh, you won’t go wrong with either one. You want me to flag Marnie down so you can order before Lou sells out?”
“No, thank you. I don’t eat seafood.”
She stared at him for several seconds and then roared with laughter. “You don’t eat seafood … you’re in the wrong town, friend.” The laughter turned into a red-faced coughing fit.
He leaned forward, concerned. The server—Marnie, presumably—hurried over with a glass of water and pressed it into Judy’s hands. She took a careful sip and dabbed her lips with a napkin.
He waited until he was sure she’d recovered, and then he said, “Joel’s notes made me wonder if the donation was motivated by something other than altruism.”
“Like what?” she rasped.
“Like an effort to buy Joel’s silence. About what, I’m not sure.”
Her face darkened. “I don’t know what Doc could’ve had on him, but yes, Chad would offer a bribe to protect himself. Without a doubt.”
Craig appeared at the table, a white prescription bag in hand. “You ready, Gran?”
“Yes.” She hoisted herself to her feet and turned to Bodhi, who also stood up. “If you want to ask around, you could come to the food pantry this afternoon. Most of the town’ll be there—either volunteering or picking up groceries. It’s over at the Baptist Church two blocks east of here. You can’t miss the big white tent in the parking lot.”
“I’ll be there,” he told her.
She pulled a face. “We’ll see. Come on, Craig.”
“Judith?” Bodhi said to her back.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”
Judy accepted his thanks by waving one hand over her shoulder.
When she and her grandson reached the exit, he held the door open for an olive-skinned woman who raced inside, a white lab coat flapping and bouncy brown hair streaming behind her. Bodhi waved his arms to catch her attention. If she wasn’t Mirabelle Owens, he’d eat his napkin.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
The painters stood against the far wall of the trailer, their backs pressed against the panel wall and their hands folded in front of them. Fred looked from one Jones brother to the other.
“It doesn’t matter,” he told the pair. “Hornbill won’t notice the difference between eggshell white and cream white. Just get whichever one is cheaper.”
“But the contract specifies—” the taller brother began. Fred was pretty sure he was Wayne. Or was the short one Wayne and the tall one Duane? Isn’t this why he had a freaking secretary? Where was she, anyway?
“Bah. White is white. Just buy something—I don’t care what you pick. Go, and take these with you.” He thrust the handful of paint chips at the brothers and gestured for them to leave.