Mrs. Chandler brought a small rotating fan down and set it on the end of the bar to blow a bit of dust and dry air on me, and then she brought coffee and sandwiches and even a cookie while I went through the files.
The files were plentiful and dusty, but well organized. I found lists that were reminiscent of other lists I had seen: The one Shirley had made about murders. The one I had made at the newspaper that mostly matched hers. The list was of people who had insurance policies during the time of the older version of Long Lincoln. There were some that came later. According to Mrs. Chandler, most of the people on the list were black families or poor whites, though not exclusively.
“The policies are to provide payouts to beneficiaries who lost people in the flood due to negligence or right-out malicious activity. They’ve been altered so the payouts, much of that money provided through different insurance companies under Jack Manley’s insurance umbrella, don’t go to the families at all. The other companies pay Jack Manley himself. It’s hidden, and cleverly finagled, but that’s who ends up with the money. Him and the council. Many of the policies were issued without the owners of the policies even knowing they had a policy.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. The council owns this town.
“Discussions about how to do what they did are on the reels. Bouncing multiple insurance companies under Manley’s umbrella.”
“They stacked the deck.”
“The gravy trickled through a few rocks before it got back to the council, but they were getting paid for the people they drowned, for policies they made up for dead people or people who would soon be dead. By their hands.”
“No doubt in your mind the council is responsible for the deaths?”
“It’s not about my mind. It’s all in the files and on the reels.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“I should have come forward, but I kept thinking that in the end, if I did, they’d be forging and cashing a new policy made out for me. I know how it sounds. But read the files, listen to the reels, and write your articles.”
She left me there, except for bringing me fresh coffee from time to time. I spent a few hours reading, listening to reels, but finally, due to the heat, the dust, and the overwhelming mass of information, I had to climb out of there. I closed the place up and enjoyed sitting on the living-room couch for a moment taking in the cool conditioned air.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Chandler said.
“I think it’s a real-life Gothic nightmare.”
* * *
Upstairs I took a long hot shower and dressed and sat down at the typewriter and began to write up some of what I knew. A basic draft for my article. As I wrote it, I was overcome with this sense of unreality. How could this be?
And then something dark occurred to me. I hadn’t seen any insurance policies with Mr. Candles’s or Millie’s names written on them, but what if those forged policies existed? What if they were in the wings? And maybe there was one on Ronnie. Maybe there was one for me.
I went downstairs and called Ronnie. Said I had some serious things to tell her. She was a little hesitant, like I might be asking for her hand in marriage.
“It has to do with the deaths Shirley talked about. And that can of worms you were worried I was opening that might actually be a nest of vipers.”
“Oh?”
“It is a nest of vipers.”