The Amish Heiress

Chapter Nine - Phone Calls

Chapter Nine

Phone CallsMichel Duvigney tapped his fingers nervously on the top of his mahogany desk. Then he got up and went to the antique carved oak Louis XIV Lion Head wine bar against the back wall and got out the bottle of Le Voyage de Delamain Cognac. He held the bottle up to the light and admired the beautiful color of the amber liquid inside. Then he reached for a small, hand-warming crystal glass and poured himself a drink. He set the bottle down and then picked it back up and added some more cognac to the glass.

Then he sighed. The cognac cost $8,000 a bottle and after today, he probably would not be able to afford to buy it anymore.

The phone rang, a quiet clicking sound instead of a bell, and Duvigney returned to the desk, warming the cognac in his hands as he walked. He swirled the drink in the glass, put his nose down to savor the wonderful aroma, and then took a sip. The phone kept ringing. Finally, he put down the glass and picked up the receiver. “Well?”

The indistinct voice on the other end spoke a few words.

“All of it?”

Again, some words.

Duvigney put the phone back in its cradle. He sat at the desk and then put his face in his hands. Ten minutes passed and then Michel Duvigney raised his head and sighed. He picked up the glass and finished the cognac. Then he punched the discreet intercom button on the silver inlaid panel at the side of his desktop.

“Yes, Mr. Duvigney?”

“Get me Randall.”

*****

Randall sat at a table looking out on the East River in Manhattan. The Brooklyn Bridge soared over his head and boats plied the calm waters. A garbage scow chugged by, followed by squadrons of seagulls. From his table he had a sweeping view of the New York skyline and off in the distance, the Statue of Liberty. This was Randall’s favorite restaurant and he came often. A waiter approached the table. “There’s a call for you, Mr. Randall. We’ll transfer it to the phone booth for you.”

Randall didn’t like being disturbed, but very few of his clients would call him at this place, so he knew it was important.

“Fine, Peter. Tell the chef to hold off on the steak until I get back.”

Randall pushed back from the table and walked to the private phone booth in the hallway. He went in, slid the dark, mahogany wood door shut behind him, and picked up the phone.

“Randall speaking.”

“Mr. Randall, Mr. M would like to speak to you.”

“Fine, put him on.”

Randall smiled. Mr. M thought he had hidden his identity, but Randall knew that his name was Michel Duvigney and that he was in the highest rank of the elite financiers of New York City

Really, these people must think I’m a muscle-bound cretin.

M came on the line. The man’s sibilant voice always reminded Randall of a king cobra. He’d seen plenty of those in Vietnam and he didn’t like the sound. When you heard a king cobra hiss, you knew something bad was about to happen.

“Randall?”

“This is Randall.”

“Good. I need to speak to you right away. Privately, not on the phone.”

“Name the place, M.”

“You’re in Brooklyn. How fast can you get downtown?”

“Forty-five minutes with traffic.”

“Great. Meet me at 145 Avenue of the Americas. Park your car down the block. It’s a storefront. Just walk in and tell the guard you’re here to see me. He’ll show you where to go.

“Fine, I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.”

Randall left the booth and headed toward the door. The waiter approached him.

“Are you leaving, Mr. Randall?”

“Yes, Peter. Something has come up.”

Randall pulled one of the ubiquitous one hundred dollar bills from his pocket and handed it to the young man. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Peter. This should soothe the chef.”

“Thank you, sir. Will we be seeing you soon?”

Peter picked up a phone by the front desk and spoke into it.

“Mr. Randall’s car, please.”

Randall smiled and patted Peter on the shoulder. “If my business doesn’t take too long, I may come back and try for the steak again. Not a better one in the city.”

Randall walked out to the curb. In a few minutes, his BMW pulled up, and a kid in a white jacket got out and handed him the keys. Randall tipped him twenty dollars and got in the car, leaving the young man with a huge smile on his face. Then he drove onto the bridge approach and headed for Manhattan.

*****

It was midafternoon in Paradise, Pennsylvania. The old man sat on his porch and gazed off into the distance. He wasn’t really looking at the green fields and the rolling hills, though. His thoughts wandered back to another time and place, in a steaming jungle with the screams of men dying all around him. He was lying flat on his back in a ditch and his hip felt like molten-hot steel stakes had been driven through it. A tall Marine with black hair stood over him, covered in blood, clutching a broken rifle in his hands. Japanese soldiers pressed up the trench, and the man was singlehandedly beating them back. The man screamed like a banshee. Wounded and dying men lay all around, and the black-haired man was the only one standing. The Japanese were blocked by the narrowness of the trench and could only come at the Marine a few at a time.

“Reuben...”

The old man spoke the name softly and it slipped away on the breeze.

His thoughts fast-forwarded to another day. He was in a hospital waiting room and the same man was being attacked again—this time by a lovely woman in Amish clothing. She was striking the tall man’s chest over and over and calling him a fool. The tall man just stood there with horrible suffering, distorting his handsome face.

A tear came to the old man’s eyes and he groaned softly. This time the golden retriever at his feet stirred, whined, and looked up. The old man glanced down at the dog. The retriever whined again and stood up, wagging his tail. He put his muzzle under the old man’s hand and pushed his head against him.

“It’s okay, pal. I’m all right.”

The old man stroked the dog’s head and scratched the long ears. The dog responded by pushing his head harder against the man’s hand. The old man reached over to the little table next to his chair. A pack of camels and some matches lay there. He took one, lit it, and took a deep drag. He looked down at the dog.

“Funny how those memories come back, isn’t it boy?”

The dog whined and wagged his tail, then lay back down on the rug at the old man’s feet. The man took another deep and satisfying drag.

“You know, they say these things’ll kill you, but they can’t prove it by me. Must be good genes or somethin’.”

The dog’s tail thumped once on the porch as if to answer in the affirmative. The old man went back to his reverie. Another picture came into his mind. He was plowing through deep snow in a covered tractor, and a tall man was seated next to him. Outside the cab, the wind howled with a fiendish roar. Up ahead through the blinding sheets of white snow, the two men could see a small cabin. It looked abandoned. Then they were inside and the lovely woman was there again, but this time she had a little girl and the tall man was wrapping her in a blanket. Another fast-forward and the old man was standing in a nightclub with his arms around two people who were weeping and clinging to each other.

He spoke to the dog. “It’s been a long, strange journey, Rufus.”

Another thump of the tail as the dog stretched out in the warm sun. The old man smiled and looked around. This time instead of memories, he saw the beautiful fields stretching out below his house and the trees over by the small stream. The sweet melody of a songbird lifted on the air. Down the hill from his porch stood a blue farmhouse surrounded by a white picket fence. As the old man watched, a man came out the front door. He was tall with longish, black hair under a straw hat. He wore a blue shirt tucked into denim pants and a medium-length beard obscured his face.

“No mustache, though,” said the old man.

The dog looked up again. The man in the hat looked up the hill, saw the old man, and waved. The words floated up to him on the breeze. “Hey, Bobby, how goes it today?”

The old man smiled and waved back. “I’m alive and well and still takin’ nourishment, Jonathan.”

“Good to hear, Bobby, good to hear.”

Then two women came out on the front porch of the blue house. One was tall, with auburn hair and a lovely, but unsmiling face. The older woman was shorter and had golden red hair, now touched with white. A few unruly curls spilled out from underneath the white prayer kappe. She had her arm around the younger woman. They both looked up and waved.

Rachel and Jenny—my beautiful girls. Rachel sure doesn’t look happy. It’s been hard since Jonathan has been home—real hard.

Then a discordant sound broke the stillness. It was Bobby’s phone ringing from the kitchen wall. It was persistent. Bobby got up slowly and went into the house. The screen door banged shut behind him as he made his way to the kitchen. Bobby picked up the phone.

“Halverson here.”

“Sheriff?”

The deep gravely voice was very familiar.

“Bull, is that you?”

“Yeah, Bobby, it’s me.”

“Well, well. I haven’t heard from you in a long time. How are you doing? What’s up in Wooster that would engender a call to Paradise?”

“Well, I am sorry to bother you, but something happened that I found a bit odd, and I felt like I needed to touch bases.”

“What’s up, Bull?”

“A guy came by my house today. Very clean-cut, military style, nice clothes. Said he was a former Marine and Special Forces guy and he looked it. He drove a BMW with New York plates and smoked-glass windows. He was looking for you.”

“Why was he looking for me?”

“Well, actually he was looking for Jenny. At least that’s what I deduced. He was looking for the heirs of Robert St. Clair, and he said you knew about that. I didn’t tell him anything, especially when he told me who he was working for.”

“And who was he working for, Bull?”

“Augusta St. Clair.”

There was a moment’s silence as Bobby pondered this bit of information.

“Wasn’t Robert St. Clair Jenny’s father? And didn’t you tell me that this St. Clair woman had a big part in Jenny’s mom ending up strung out and dead?”

Bobby gave a low whistle. “Augusta St. Clair. That is very interesting. I wonder how she got my name. And you’re right, Bull. Robert St. Clair was Jenny’s father and the son of one of the richest families on the planet. Augusta St. Clair is not someone that Jenny feels particularly good about.”

Bobby paused and then he spoke back into the phone. “So, did this guy leave a card?”

“Yeah, I got it right here. Got a pencil?”

Bobby dug through the pile of stuff on the little stand under the wall phone. He found a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Gordon L. Randall. 2200 Park Avenue, New York. 718-533-5443.”

Bobby held the phone between his chin and his shoulder and scribbled down the information. “Okay, Bull, got it.”

There was a pause, and then Bull spoke. “What do you think this is about, Bobby?”

“I’m not sure, Bull, but I don’t think it’s a good thing. From what we found out about Augusta St. Clair when we were looking for Jenny’s folks, she didn’t sound like a very benevolent person. I’ll need to talk to Jenny about this. So, how are you doing, Bull?”

“Oh, I’m good, Bobby. I don’t like retirement much, but I got my place in Wooster, and I got Timothy, my cat. I eat three squares a day and get my social security and my pension check every month. I get by. What about you?”

“I like it here in Pennsylvania. I got Jenny and Rachel and Jonathan, when he’s having a good day.”

“A good day?”

“Yeah, Bull. Jonathan’s had a hard time since we found him. He’s got a lot of physical problems and emotional ones, too. He’s been home five years but he and Rachel don’t get along, which is sad, because I know they love each other. But Jonathan’s real erratic and Rachel is a very organized girl. So it’s like east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet most days.”

“Ever think you’ll get back to Wooster and Apple Creek, Bobby?”

“Yeah, I’d like to come see the old place, although it doesn’t draw me as much as when my folks were alive. I would like to see you and some of the guys.”

“Well, let me know when you’re coming. We’ll kill the fatted calf.”

“Okay, Bull. I’ll stay in touch.”

Bobby hung up the phone. He looked at the piece of paper and shook his head. Then he went back outside and looked down the hill. Jenny was working in the vegetable garden and Jonathan and Rachel were nowhere to be seen. The dog got up and stood beside Bobby. Bobby reached down and stroked the dog’s head and then sighed.

“Augusta St. Clair, Rufus. Now what in the world would she want with Jenny?”

He shook his head. Something was up. Bobby could smell it and it didn’t smell good.