“I’m here to see Arch Pearce.”
The young woman gave me an apologetic grimace. “Judge Mary, do you have an appointment?”
Of course she knew who I was. Everyone in town knew me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t place her. So I cheated, peeked down at her desk and faux-wood nameplate: Crystal Corbett. Aw, hell. I knew her mother, from our school days.
I kept my voice level—for auld lang syne, you see. “Crystal, I don’t need an appointment. He contacted me. Tell him I’m here.”
She picked up the desk phone. Glancing away, she cleared her throat and whispered into the receiver.
“Judge Mary Stone here to see you, sir.”
If I hadn’t been so worked up, I probably would’ve felt sorry for the girl. People shouldn’t work for a thief like Pearce. But she was young, and I knew her background. Nobody was packing up the car to send this girl off to college at eighteen. She was probably just getting by, like most people in town.
But she was in bed with the devil. And probably wise to the scam. He’d probably made her print out the correspondence he’d sent to me. She may have folded the paper and licked the envelope.
“Yes, sir,” she said. Pinching her lips together with a painedexpression, she put the receiver back in place on the desk phone. Handling it delicately, as if it were made of glass.
She knew why I was at the office. Addressing a point over my left shoulder, she said, “Mr. Pearce is busy right now.”
The fucking nerve? I almost laughed; it was so absurd. “He’s busy? Really?”
“Tied up. Mr. Pearce is tied up.”
She met my eye then, with a pleading look. The girl was terrified.
I didn’t jump on her. There was no cause for that. My argument was with her boss. As I moved on past her desk, I bent down to say, “When he asks, just tell him you tried. But there was nothing you could do to stop me.”
I twisted the knob of his office door and discovered that Pearce was underestimating the opposition. Apparently, he’d believed that little Crystal Corbett could shoo me away.
I swung the door wide and stepped right in. “Mr. Pearce! I understand you have some business with me.”
He hopped out of the chair. “Judge Stone! I wasn’t expecting you.”
I ignored his outstretched hand. “Is that right? But you sent this, didn’t you?”
I had the crumpled sticker in my pocket. I pulled it out, stuck it on his desk, smoothed it out. “That’s your name, your business address. When I saw the notice on the front door of my house, I came right on over. I’d like for you to produce a copy of the correspondence so that we can discuss it.”
He was wary. “You haven’t received the letter through the mail?”
“I wasn’t home. That’s why the postman left this.” I tapped it with an index finger. “But I’m very curious about the contents of your letter. Let’s see it.”
I dropped into the chair across from his desk. Sat back, crossed my legs. I was prepared to wait, if necessary.
He didn’t pretend to hunt for the file. It was within easy reach, sitting on the credenza behind his chair. He opened the file folder, pulled out a copy of the letter, and slid it across the desktop.
I picked it up. I was careful to keep a neutral face as I read. It was tough to do.
Dear Mary Stone,
This letter serves to advise you that our client, Mr. Caleb Wilton, recently acquired a common interest in the sixty-acre tract of land in Bullock County, Alabama, where you currently reside.
He acquired his interest through a certain Mr. Abraham Stone, who inherited his heir’s interest as a direct descendant of your late grandfather, Luke Stone.
It was a phony, a sham. Had to be. We knew our family tree. Even though the babies prior to my generation had been delivered at home and birth certificates didn’t exist. But they were recorded in the family Bible.
I kept reading. The next line jumped out at me. I should have anticipated it, but the words shook me, nonetheless.
Mr. Wilton desires that the subject real estate be sold at auction to monetize his duly acquired interests.
