Page 155 of Secrets Along the Shore

“You can dispense with all the sirs. It’s Rick.”

I smile and nod. “Rick. You spoke with a colleague of mine, Deputy Investigator Mike Neeley, last time.”

For the first time, Rick doesn’t look like he wants to chase me off. “That’s right. That’s who I left the message for.”

“Investigator Neeley may have interviewed you after the body was found on your property, but the case has since been turned over to me. Your message said you remembered something you needed to tell us?”

“Yeah.” He pats his absent stomach, hidden beneath a short-sleeved plaid shirt two sizes too big. “The day y’all found her, that Neeley detective asked me whether I remembered seeing anyone on the property, anyone driving back to the bluff, and so on. I didn’t, so I said no. Wasn’t much I could tell him. But then, yesterday I found a business card in my kitchen drawer—it was for this lawyer who came around last June sometime, least I think it was June, coulda been later. Maybe July. I remember it was before the fireworks?—”

“Do you remember why he came around?”

He snorts. “’Course. He was asking if I wanted to sell the place.”

“You still have the card?”

“Hold on a second.” Rick pushes out of his chair and shuffles to the kitchen. He comes back, holding a card out and I take it.

Franklin Donner, Attorney-at-Law.The office address is in Huntsville.

“What did he say, exactly?” I ask.

“That he represented a buyer who wasn’t from here, but was interested in my property. I asked him why-in-the-world was he interested, ’cause I can’t think of one reason somebody’d want to snap up this place. He told me his buyer wanted to build some kind of retreat hotel or spa or some such. Can’t see it myself.”

It did sound odd. This place is pretty far off the beaten path. But maybe that made it a good option for a retreat. The bluff did have a nice view of the river, but still…

“Did he say who his buyer was?”

Rick shakes his head. “I asked a couple times, then gave up. I told him I wasn’t selling. Lived here most of my life with my wife, Anne, until she passed two years ago. Every memory worth keepin’ wasmade on this piece of land. Ain’t no amount of money worth that. Only way I’m leaving is the same way she did.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Seemed disappointed. He started at three hundred grand, which is the top end of what this property’s worth, and a good price if I was inclined to sell, which I’m not. I told him no thanks, and he bumped it up to four hundred without blinkin’. I told him the answer was still no, and he left. Thought that was the end of it, but he called two more times in the following weeks, telling me his buyer really wanted the property and was willing to negotiate. That he’d make it worth my while. I told him my ‘while’ was worth quite a bit,” Rick says, and laughs.

I laugh too, because Rick looks pretty proud of himself for that one.

“No intention of sellin’, mind,” he adds. “Just wanted to see how high he’d go.”

“Did he make you an offer?”

“Sure did. Seven-hundred thousand. And the last one, the one he made after that, was a million-five.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Crazy money. I started to get the sense things weren’t on the up and up.” He leaned in, his eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “Like maybe they knew something I didn’t. Like maybe there’s oil buried here and I might could be the next Jed Clampett. If I wanted to sell, which I don’t. Could offer ten million and I ain’t leavin’. What do I need that kinda money for? Rather have my memories.”

Rick keeps talking, but my brain is whirring.

I’ll bet they knew something was buried here.

It just wasn’t oil.

As the officeof Franklin Donner, Attorney-at-Law, is in Huntsville, I figure I’ll kill two birds and head to my office first to knock out some unrelated casework before paying the counselor a surprise visit.

When I arrive, I say a quick hello to Goat—sometimes I wonder ifhe sleeps here—then start reading emails. I’ve got fifteen work-related emails and 3,292 personal ones. I swear these things multiply faster than TikTok trends. For a year I’ve told myself—delete a hundred a day and your inbox will be cleared out in a month.

I haven’t done it once.

I scan the new personal emails, see nothing I need to handle right away, and move to my professional inbox. I return a few calls, forward the Arizona address I received for my client’s business partner who skipped town—he’ll be thrilled we can finally serve him with papers—and reach out regarding a potential new case from my long-standing client, U.S. Mutual Insurance, involving a potentially fraudulent hundred-thousand-dollar jewelry claim.