Chapter 28

 

Noise of saw and hammer coming from the direction of the destroyed marina, attracted Buck's attention the following morning. He found Raymond, Ray and Wiley building something from a large stack of wood.

“Morning,” he said. “What's going on?”

“Well good morning to you,” Raymond answered in his deep baritone voice. He put his big hand on Buck's shoulder. “I just want to thank you for saving my boy's life. He ain't that special, but Pearl and I love him just the same.”

Ray glanced up from his work and made a face when he heard his father's remark. “Glad I was able to help,” Buck said. “What are you building?”

“Rebuilding the docks and marina.”

Buck gave him a doubtful look. “Quite an undertaking, don't you think?”

“No hill for a stepper,” Raymond said, grinning. “Ray managed to cut most of the boats loose when the fire started. We rounded them up and tied them together in the cove over there. They all have motors. At least we don't have to worry about that.”

“It's a start,” Buck said. “Now all we need to do is rob a bank.”

Wiley glanced up from his work. Raymond's good nature seemed dampened by the remark and he returned to the board he was sawing. Buck walked over to the shirtless Ray who was nailing a sheet of plywood to a two-by-four frame. Cyclone, looking none the worse for wear, lay asleep near his feet. He awoke at the sound of Buck's voice and wagged his tail.

“Hey, boy,” he said, stroking Cyclone's head.

“You doing okay, Ray?”

“Look, McDivit, this doesn't change things between us. Why don't you just lay off?”

“You're welcome,” Buck said, taking a backwards step. Cyclone followed him, hungry for attention.

Wiley got into the act, standing face-to-face with his older brother. “Ray, you're the one that needs to lay off. Buck saved your life last night. Can't you even say thanks?”

Their father stepped between them. “Wiley's right. Mr. Buck did save your hide.”

“Quit calling him Mr. Buck,” Ray said. “He's no better than you.”

“You watch that mouth of yours,” Raymond said. “You may be grown but I'm your father and I can still paddle your butt.”

Buck threw his hands in the air. “It's all right. If Ray has a problem with me, I'm the one he should discuss it with. I don't have a problem with his attitude.”

Wiley and Raymond exchanged shakes of the head as Ray returned to work. Raymond dusted his hands and walked away toward the lodge. A large fish broke the water's surface near the burned remains of the marina.

“Thanks,” Buck said to Wiley.

Wiley's grin had returned. “My brother's a pistol, ain't he?”

“Don't worry about it. Something else is on my mind. Do you think Mama Toukee faked the séance?”

“No way,” Wiley said. “I didn't tell her about the brooch.”

“She impressed me, I'll admit. Assuming the voice we heard was Bessie McKinney's, what do you think the message meant?”

Wiley sat his hammer down and took a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his sweaty forehead. “Beats me, he said, tossing a stick into the lake. “I'm more worried about the marina right now.”

Startled by the stick splashing in the water, three turtles abandoned their perch on a nearby log.

“Me too,” Buck said. “And Sara seems pretty certain that Hogg Nation isn't involved.”

Wiley frowned at the mention of Hogg Nation. “Yeah, well that girl has no taste in men, present company excepted.”

They both grinned. “I just wish we could find Bone's Malone. I think he has the answer to lots of questions.”

“Forget about it,” Wiley said. “No one's gonna find that man's hideout. Not from the lake, anyway. Maybe if you had a helicopter.”

“How about a low-flying plane?”

Raymond seemed puzzled by the question as Buck started back to the lodge. “Keep at it,” he said, pointing toward the marina. “I have an idea.”

***

The day of the foreclosure hearing finally arrived. Brice met Buck on the courthouse steps dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, his dark hair heavily moussed. His finery contrasted with Buck's utilitarian jeans, boots and western shirt.

“You okay, pal?” he asked.

“Except for the hole in my stomach from two pots of coffee.”

Brice nodded knowingly. “I hear you. Don't worry. We're going to give them hell.”

Buck touched the cuff of Brice's dark blue coat. “Hey, if looks can win a case, we're on our way.”

***

Curious onlookers filled the courtroom, and a buzz circulated through the crowd as Brice and Buck strolled down the aisle. Brice surveyed the courtroom as Buck stared at the impressive Judge's bench. Brice tapped his shoulder, breaking the spell.

“There are Lila and her father,” he said.

“Are Ezra and Sara here?”

“Judge Travis frowns on blacks in the courtroom.”

“How does he get away with that?” Buck said.

“Don't ask.”

The foreclosure hearing was scheduled to begin at one, just after lunch hour. Buck had skipped lunch and now his stomach growled in protest. At five after the hour, the court clerk entered the courtroom through a door behind the judge's bench.

“All rise.”

Everyone in the courtroom responded to the bald man's request. Judge Jefferson Travis entered to a swirl of starched black fabric.

“Be seated,” was his terse command.

Judge Travis adjusted his glasses and proceeded to scan the file supplied to him by the court clerk. When he'd finished, he clasped his big hands on the desk, stared out at the crowded courtroom. Glancing at the court clerk, he said, “Call the docket.”

“The First Bank of Deception versus Emma Louise Fitzgerald,” The court clerk droned.

“Who's here to represent the plaintiff?” Travis asked.

“Randall Rummels, Your Honor.”

Buck noticed Randy Rummels, sitting on the bench to his left, for the first time that day. He leaned over and whispered into Brice’s ear.

“Guess they don’t worry too much about conflict of interest here in Deception.”

Judge Travis’ next pronouncement interrupted Brice’s reply.

“And who's here to represent the interest of Emma Fitzgerald?”

“Brice Culpepper, your honor.”

Judge Travis leaned forward on his elbows and adjusted his glasses, staring at Brice. “I haven't seen you in this court before, Mr. Culpepper. Are you from these parts?”

“Yes, your honor. I'm from Shreveport.”

“Louisiana?” Judge Travis pronounced the state's name as if it were a particularly offensive piece of carrion.

“Yes, your honor,” Brice said.

“You licensed to practice law in the state of Texas?”

“No, your honor, but . . .”

“No?”

“I can explain, your Honor.”

“Please do, Mr. Culpepper.”

“Mr. McDivit is from Oklahoma. His attorney here in Deception represents the plaintiff.”

“So you just thought you'd help Mr. McDivit out yourself. Is that right?”

“Yes, your honor, I . . .”

“Hold it right there,” Travis said, startling everyone in the courtroom when he slammed his gavel hard against the desk. “You told me you're not licensed to practice law in the State of Texas.”

“That's right, but . . .”

“Sit down,” Travis said, again hammering the gavel against the desk. “You won't break Texas law in my house.”

Brice persisted. “But, your honor, Mr. McDivit . . .”

This time Travis almost broke his gavel. “Sit down. Would you like me to have you physically escorted from this courtroom?” Brice gave Buck an apologetic glance as he eased back into his seat. Travis' gravelly voice interrupted Buck's wildly racing thoughts. “Now, who's here to represent the interest of the defendant?”

Buck stood from his seat. “Me, your Honor. James McDivit, Emma Fitzgerald's nephew.”

Judge Travis surveyed Buck for what seemed a minute or two, or at least long enough to increase his apprehension level by several degrees. “Do you wish to deny your right to legal counsel, Mr. McDivit?”

Buck glanced at Brice's slight nod. “Yes, your honor.”

“Fine,” Travis said. “Take your seat. Mr. Rummels, what are we doing here?”

“Foreclosing on a debt, your Honor. The defendant here owes the First Bank of Deception $175,000. The debt is due and payable and the defendant has no funds to make good on the debt. The Bank, therefore, prays the court will order the defendant to surrender the collateral it pledged to satisfy the debt.”

“So ordered,” Judge Travis said, slamming the gavel against the desk.

Brice and Buck rose from their seats in unison. “But your honor, we . . .”

Judge Travis gave Brice no chance to finish his sentence, again banging the gavel. “Fitzgerald Island and all its buildings will be sold at Sheriff's sale today at four o'clock on the courthouse steps. Bailiff, escort these two gentlemen out of the courtroom. I'll entertain no further outbursts while I'm on the bench.”

A uniformed bailiff motioned to Buck and Brice. Realizing the futility of further protest, they followed him out the large swinging door.

“Buck, I'm sorry,” Brice said.

“Not your fault. We never had a chance. The hearing was cooked. Let's get a drink.”

Buck and Brice followed the sidewalk back to the rows of lakefront shops and restaurants. Remembering the bar where he'd met the old drunken pilot, Buck made a beeline directly to it. This time, he and Brice found a dark booth in back.

“I let you down. I'm really sorry,” Brice said after the flat-headed bartender had brought them two cans of Coors.

“We just got a little taste of east Texas home cooking. Travis had his mind made up before we ever walked into court. Thanks for being there for me.”

As they talked, Lila came through the door. “Buck, I'm so sorry. I can't believe Uncle Jeff was so mean to you.”

“Hey, I’m okay.”

“What's going to happen to Pearl and Raymond?”

“I'll think of something,” Buck said, not really believing his own words.

Lila scooted into the booth, giving him a comforting hug. “Stay with Daddy and me until you do.”

At this point he needed every ally he could muster, refraining from reminding her it was her Daddy's bank that had repossessed Fitzgerald Island.

“We need a plan,” Brice said. “You must have something in mind. I know you too well.”

“I need to talk to Bones Malone. I think he's somehow responsible, or at least knows who is, for Aunt Emma's death. If I could just find his hideaway on the lake.”

Before he could finish his thought, Otis Spangler, the old drunken pilot, stumbled through the door. His toothless grin ignited when he saw Buck.

“Lila and Brice, this is Otis Spangler, the best crop-duster in these parts.” Otis edged in beside Brice as Buck motioned the bartender for another round. After watching Otis partake in the first long pull from his drink, he said, “Otis, I think I'm ready for that plane ride.”