I sank into a rocking chair just as a woman came out, wearing an honest-to-God frilled apron and carrying a tray with iced tea and shortbread cookies.
“Well, now, it’s so nice to have company. I saw y’all comin’ up the road and put out some cookies I just baked. Lord knows Peter doesn’t need all of them. His cardiologist would appreciate y’all helping him out by taking some.” She set the tray on the small wooden table between the rockers and brushed her hands. “I’m Martha Brookings, Peter’s wife of nearly sixty years. Can you believe that? Sixty years. Can’t get rid of me now, you old coot. I know your secrets.”
Skeet slapped her behind. “Don’t matter. I keep you for your cookin’, woman.”
Martha looked pleased about that. “I hope y’all will excuse me. I got a roast in the oven, so I’ll just leave you to your business.”
She disappeared, and Griffin immediately dug into the iced tea and cookies.
I looked Mr. Brookings in the eye. “You’re right. What my husband and Donner are up to is exactly why I’m here, Mr. Brookings.”
“Skeet, please.”
“So, Skeet, my husband is either having a midlife crisis, he’s fallen into a pile so deep he can’t get out, or he’s just a total butthole, pardon my language. And honestly, it could be all three. That being said, since he and I will be severing our relationship soon and I’m trying to protect myself and my daughter, I’m hoping you will help me out. I’m asking for your discretion, please. If you can’t give me that, I’ve probably already said too much. But Griffin trusts you.”
“For good reason. I’m what they call ‘good people,’ Mrs. Crosby. Spent my whole life trying to choose right over wrong. Jesus is my Lord and Savior, and I regard him as my ultimate authority.”
I assumed that meant he wasn’t going to go squealing to Scott about this little visit. “That’s admirable, Skeet. So what exactly are Scott and Donner up to?”
The older man rubbed his face and took a long drink. “Well, I’ve been around for many a moon, Mrs. Catherine, and I’m fair to middlin’ sure that the Donner fella is trying to pull the wool over people’s eyes.”
He passed me the brochure with smiling older people and then one with the logo of a tree with Peachtree City Securities of Georgia across the front. I glanced through both, trying to absorb exactly what Walker wanted from Skeet. “So he wants you to invest in a retirement center.”
“Nope. He wants me to buy promissory notes, giving him money to buy mortgage notes, underwrite loans, and buy and sell real estate at a profit, which he in turn will share with investors. He says there’s a return of at least twelve percent and it’s very low risk. The note matures in three to five years. This is what he prefers to invest in—retirement centers and so forth. He’s even recruiting a company to build one here.”
“So it’s legit?” I asked, studying the claims on the brochure.
“It looks legit, but to an old guy like me who gets poached all the time for ‘investment opportunities,’ I’m doubtful. He’s been in business for what looks to be eight or nine years, and now he’s shown up here in Louisiana looking to offer this opportunity. I would say recruiting new investors is paramount to Walker. Looks like a—”
“Ponzi scheme,” Griffin said, brushing cookie crumbs from his beard.
“No way,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around Scott actually willingly participating in something like that. We’d seen a few friends get tangled up in such get-rich-quick schemes, and Scott would never take our money and invest in something that would fold in on itself and give Donner Walker a cell in federal prison next to some Bernie Madoff–type who had fleeced tons of people out of their life’s savings. But as bad a husband as Scott had turned out to be, I couldn’t see him cheating his friends and family. And putting our money into it? “He wouldn’t sink our money into something shady. He’s a banker, and a smart one.”
Skeet shrugged and scratched his belly. “He may not have invested. These guys need trusted people in communities to vouch for them, to send them prospective investors. They usually pay a commission. Maybe even cut them into the profits. Maybe your husband is collecting finder’s fees for feeding plump suckers to this Walker fellow.”
“But he cleared out our accounts. Our retirement, too. I just don’t think . . . None of this makes sense.” I stared out at the iris blooming beneath the oak trees. At the squirrels frolicking just beyond them. At my life turned upside down.
There were some givens in this whole situation. One, Scott wouldn’t invest in something shady. I was certain about that. And two, I was sure he’d probably vouched for Donner Walker, the big brother of his fraternity roommate, whose family Scott had always been dazzled by. The Walker family owned a plantation in Natchitoches and had been populating the banks of the Cane River for many generations. One uncle had been governor, a cousin a senator, and another a crony of Edwin Edwards. But ol’ Donner had married a Georgia girl and taken his talent of being a rich white dude to Atlanta. Donner had sought Scott out a few years back, and I remembered my husband talking about how successful the man’s company was and how Donner had wanted to bring some economic stimulation to the local economy. And third, I knew Scott was cheating on me. Last, he had taken our savings and retirement and put it somewhere.
So what did all that add up to?
Something really unsettling swirled in my stomach, and for a moment I thought I might toss my cookies in a nearby shrub.
“You okay?” Griffin asked, abandoning the shortbread and iced tea. The old dog even looked concerned. “You look ill.”
“Actually, I’m not okay.” I swallowed hard and looked back at the brochure in my hand. “I can’t see Scott investing in this. Not if he knows it’s a scheme . . . which means he has other plans for the money he took from our accounts. He’s a banker, so he can move money around easily. He’s hiding it from me. He’s planning something.”
And then it hit me. Something I had seen when I had first riffled through his office those many weeks ago. That bank he’d gone to when we’d vacationed over Christmas. A brochure for Grand Cayman National Bank and Trust had fallen out of a folder. When I was at the spa, Scott had said he had a banking friend who worked there and he was going to visit him. But he’d lied. I knew where he’d put our savings, our retirement, and probably all the kickback money Donner Walker was paying him to steer fat cats his way.
“Oh my Lord,” I said, clutching my stomach, listing a bit in the rocking chair. The puzzle pieces lined up. The emptying of accounts. The Cayman bank. The passport in his desk drawer. The weight loss. The new girlfriend. Click. Click. Click.
Griffin and Skeet looked at each other as if they were afraid I might pass out. But I wasn’t passing out. Because the anger that flooded my body gave me the strength to stand, to fist my hands beside me, and to growl. “He’s going to leave the country.”