Read Online Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg by Kent Conwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Kent Conwell
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left the
final decision up to Jack.
He chewed on his bottom lip, then nodded firmly. “If
someone killed John, I want to know who it was. But I can’t
believe it was one of us”
The grandfather clock struck 11.
Jack jumped. “Hey, Tony, about tonight. You are staying
here aren’t you?”
I started to refuse, but the pleading look on his face got
the better of me. Reluctantly I caved in. “I suppose”
He grinned in relief. “Then you better check out of the
motel before they charge you for another day.” He nodded to
his cast. “And look, see if you can find me another feather.
I’ve got to have something. This fly swatter is rubbing me
raw.”
Before I returned with my gear to the old house, I took a
run south of town. Twenty miles down, after inquiring at a
Mom and Pop convenience store, I found the property, and
to my surprise, a realtor’s sign prominently on display. I read
it aloud. “Bayou Realtors, Vicksburg.” In the lower corner
was the realtor’s designation, “Property #38” Pulling to the
side of the highway, I jotted the telephone number as well as
the property number. This was one real estate agent I wanted to visit.
On the way back to Vicksburg, I called Bayou Realtors for
directions to their office.
A white-brick building with picture windows spanning
the front housed Bayou Realtors. The neat office sat on a
well-manicured lot adjacent to the Vicksburg Battlefield. A
Ford Taurus was parked in front.
For several moments, I studied the building. Someone
didn’t want me snooping. He, or she, had made that abundantly clear. As far as I knew, the realtor might be part of
whatever was going on. Just to play safe, I decided to be an
out-of-town land speculator searching for cheap land to
develop.
Inside, the young woman behind the receptionist’s desk
looked up and smiled warmly. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said, falling into the pretext role of a
prospective buyer. “I was curious about a piece of land
south of town, Property Thirty-Eight. It could fit the bill for
some developments I’m working on. What’s the asking
price on it?”
She turned to her computer on her right, input the information, then nodded when it flashed on the screen. “That
piece consists of one thousand and ten acres”
I could see the screen over her shoulder. I skimmed it as I
asked, “What kind of price did the owner put on it?”
“Let’s see” She ran her finger across the field of data.
“Here we are. Fifteen thousand an acre.”
My jaw dropped open, but I don’t know if it was because
of the price or the fact I spotted the name of the property
owner in the top left-hand corner of the screen, Stewart
Edney!
She turned to me and frowned when she saw the surprise
scribbled across my face. “Are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I hastily replied, trying
to recover the role I was playing. “What did you say they
were asking for the property?”
“Fifteen thousand an acre,” she said sweetly. “And
according to Mr. Charbonneau-he’s the office managercheap at that price.”
I whistled softly and gave her a smile. “Maybe so, but
that’s a little more than I had in mind. Thanks anyway.”
Thirty minutes later I was back at the house, presenting
Jack a flexible plastic rod with tiny fingers on one end,
specifically designed for slithering under casts.
While he was contentedly scratching away, I deposited
my gear, along with my .38, in an upstairs bedroom of the
old mansion’s second addition that was supposed to have
been constructed in 1836. There were two doors to the bedroom, one opening to a narrow stairway that led below to a storage room adjoining the dining room. The second door
opened onto the side gallery on the second floor, which led
to the door opening to the circular stairs leading down to the
lobby.
The bed was a four-poster with the requisite mosquito
netting of the
final decision up to Jack.
He chewed on his bottom lip, then nodded firmly. “If
someone killed John, I want to know who it was. But I can’t
believe it was one of us”
The grandfather clock struck 11.
Jack jumped. “Hey, Tony, about tonight. You are staying
here aren’t you?”
I started to refuse, but the pleading look on his face got
the better of me. Reluctantly I caved in. “I suppose”
He grinned in relief. “Then you better check out of the
motel before they charge you for another day.” He nodded to
his cast. “And look, see if you can find me another feather.
I’ve got to have something. This fly swatter is rubbing me
raw.”
Before I returned with my gear to the old house, I took a
run south of town. Twenty miles down, after inquiring at a
Mom and Pop convenience store, I found the property, and
to my surprise, a realtor’s sign prominently on display. I read
it aloud. “Bayou Realtors, Vicksburg.” In the lower corner
was the realtor’s designation, “Property #38” Pulling to the
side of the highway, I jotted the telephone number as well as
the property number. This was one real estate agent I wanted to visit.
On the way back to Vicksburg, I called Bayou Realtors for
directions to their office.
A white-brick building with picture windows spanning
the front housed Bayou Realtors. The neat office sat on a
well-manicured lot adjacent to the Vicksburg Battlefield. A
Ford Taurus was parked in front.
For several moments, I studied the building. Someone
didn’t want me snooping. He, or she, had made that abundantly clear. As far as I knew, the realtor might be part of
whatever was going on. Just to play safe, I decided to be an
out-of-town land speculator searching for cheap land to
develop.
Inside, the young woman behind the receptionist’s desk
looked up and smiled warmly. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said, falling into the pretext role of a
prospective buyer. “I was curious about a piece of land
south of town, Property Thirty-Eight. It could fit the bill for
some developments I’m working on. What’s the asking
price on it?”
She turned to her computer on her right, input the information, then nodded when it flashed on the screen. “That
piece consists of one thousand and ten acres”
I could see the screen over her shoulder. I skimmed it as I
asked, “What kind of price did the owner put on it?”
“Let’s see” She ran her finger across the field of data.
“Here we are. Fifteen thousand an acre.”
My jaw dropped open, but I don’t know if it was because
of the price or the fact I spotted the name of the property
owner in the top left-hand corner of the screen, Stewart
Edney!
She turned to me and frowned when she saw the surprise
scribbled across my face. “Are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I hastily replied, trying
to recover the role I was playing. “What did you say they
were asking for the property?”
“Fifteen thousand an acre,” she said sweetly. “And
according to Mr. Charbonneau-he’s the office managercheap at that price.”
I whistled softly and gave her a smile. “Maybe so, but
that’s a little more than I had in mind. Thanks anyway.”
Thirty minutes later I was back at the house, presenting
Jack a flexible plastic rod with tiny fingers on one end,
specifically designed for slithering under casts.
While he was contentedly scratching away, I deposited
my gear, along with my .38, in an upstairs bedroom of the
old mansion’s second addition that was supposed to have
been constructed in 1836. There were two doors to the bedroom, one opening to a narrow stairway that led below to a storage room adjoining the dining room. The second door
opened onto the side gallery on the second floor, which led
to the door opening to the circular stairs leading down to the
lobby.
The bed was a four-poster with the requisite mosquito
netting of the
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