Mountain Top(281)

After the tears passed, I returned without enthusiasm to the index. I found several more Prescott files. Righteous indignation rose up in me when I found notes from a consultation Webster and Ellen had with Lawrence Braddock a few days after Lisa’s disappearance. The Prescotts, upset over the lack of progress with the police investigation, met with the lawyer to discuss the case. In his notes, the lawyer promised to make “appropriate contacts” with state law enforcement officers in Atlanta who could assist in the investigation. However, the last line of Mr. Braddock’s notes was the most incriminating. “Call F.C.”

I printed the notes. The next file was the probate of the Prescotts’ will after the car wreck. Mrs. Fairmont was wrong. The couple lived only slightly over a year after Lisa’s death, just long enough to provide a buffer against any suspicion. The circumstances surrounding their car plunging into a tidewater canal weren’t mentioned—they were simply listed as the “decedents.”

The file contained pages of inventory about stocks, bonds, bank accounts, antiques, art objects, and real estate. I slowed when I came to a petition asking the court to judicially declare Lisa deceased even though no body had been found. Several law enforcement officials were listed as witnesses, and three weeks after the petition was filed, the probate judge signed an order granting Lawrence Braddock’s request.

The provisions of the will didn’t require an accounting to the probate court identifying the total value of the estate, but I found a handwritten memo from Mr. Braddock to Floyd Carpenter listing a summary of all tangible and intangible assets—the Prescotts left their child’s killer slightly under two million dollars, a huge sum at the time, and more than enough to satisfy Floyd Carpenter’s tax liens.

I printed out the entire probate file. While I waited for the pages to inch from the printer, I prayed for God’s guidance. But I was numb with shock. I returned all the film cassettes to their proper places and put the documents in a file folder. This time, I wouldn’t leave the information lying around where Julie could find it. Zach and Vince’s claim that no secrets existed among employees of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter didn’t apply to what I’d uncovered. After forty years, it still bore the stink of death.

“Find everything okay?” Eddie Anderson asked as I wrote down the time on the entry and exit log.

I looked up at him, not sure how to answer. He quickly glanced away.

I drove back to the office and pulled into the parking lot but didn’t get out. I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t talk to my parents. Oscar Callahan was at home recovering from a heart attack and, although a lawyer, had no more right to privileged information than the courier I watched walk up the sidewalk to the front door of the office. My confidence in Zach and Vince as reliable counselors had been seriously weakened. And if Mr. Carpenter summoned me into his office again, I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes and find a way to dodge his probing questions. For the second time, I considered fleeing Savannah like the Confederate army that faced Sherman. I closed my eyes and let the coolness from the air-conditioning vent blow over my face. A knock on the car window made me jump. It was Zach. I pushed the button to lower the window.

“This isn’t the place to take a nap,” he said.

“I’m not in a joking mood.”

“What did you find in the microfilm records?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

I shook my head. “Don’t pressure me.”

Zach leaned closer to the open widow. “Tami, when a lawyer isolates herself on a case, there’s a much greater chance of a mistake.”

“I’m not a lawyer yet, as you so gently reminded me the other day. And I’m debating whether I ever want to be!”

I opened the door and pushed Zach out of the way. He backed up as I marched past him and met the courier leaving the firm. I returned the car keys to the receptionist.

“Did you see Mr. Mays?” she asked. “He was looking for you.”

“Yes.”

It was close to lunchtime, and I desperately hoped Julie wouldn’t be in the library. I opened the door and peeked inside. The table where we usually sat was empty. On one of the bookshelves I found a set of out-of-date tax treatises no one would likely use and hid the folder behind them. As I repositioned the books, the library door opened. It was Vince. He looked around the room.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “Can we talk?”

Given how vulnerable I felt, I didn’t want to be around anyone.