Nancy Bartholomew - Your Cheatin Heart

For a moment, I was lured into the manufactured home dream. That is, until I took a good look at the walls and saw the thin ridges and tiny buckles that indicated inferior quality.

The dream was further shattered by the thick overlay of cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and filled the air. Customers sat in front of desks, their heads bending over papers that the salespeople laid before them. I guessed at the drill. "Now what can you afford to pay a month?"

My destination was the closed door to the room in the back I slipped through the kitchen, passing a bedroom converted into an office. File cabinets ringed the walls and papers were scattered everywhere. A phone on the desk showed at least four lines lit up, all blinking.

I stepped up to the last door on the hallway and paused outside, listening through the thin walls for the sound of voices. I didn't have to listen long.

"Well, that'd be your own damn fault, now wouldn't it?" a deep male voice rumbled. Silence, then: "No, now don't get all upset. It just complicates things at this end." More silence. He was on the phone. "We'll work something out. I'll do what I need to do at this end before that actually happens." Another spell of silence, then: "Me too, honey." There was another pause, then: "Damn it! Stupid airhead!"

I was about to turn the door handle when I heard another sound. A female giggle and a tiny squeal. That's when I opened the door.

"Oh!" I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were with someone."

It was quite a vision. A heavy set man with prominent hair plugs and a red face sat behind a huge desk. Perched on the edge of the desk, exposing most of her thighs and leaning her big-chested body forward, was a redhead. A young, embarrassed redhead. She jumped like I'd shot her, but he recovered quickly and smiled, pushing her off the desk at the same time.

"Run on, Miss Sexton, I'll be in shortly to review those figures."

I just bet he would, too.

"Don Evans. Can I help you?" he said, rising from his chair. He wore a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and expensive chinos.

I stepped forward and extended my hand. "Maggie Reid," I said, "and Jimmy Spivey just left me his share of the business."

His face moved seamlessly from an expression of sorrow to one of open helpfulness. "Ah." He sighed. "I had heard that Jimmy had made some unexpected changes in his will. I'm sure you were as surprised as"-he paused here for a moment, searching for the right words-"well, as anyone would be at hearing such news. And after such an untimely death." Evans shook his head sadly. "I'm gonna miss old Jimmy," he said.

I looked around the little room and realized that this was Jimmy's office. His nameplate was sitting on the edge of a bookshelf, and the space where it had been on the desk was rimmed with dust. Don Evans had wasted no time at all in moving in.

"Well, being as how Jimmy left his share in the business to me, I figure he'd want me to take care of it. I know how much it meant to him," I said.

Don Evans moved from behind the desk, a sad smile on his face. "Of course," he said. "What a wonderful attitude. You don't have to worry about this place on a day-to-day basis. Jimmy had it all set up. He barely had to do a thing except collect the money!" He chuckled. "I run the everyday business of the lot. I keep up with the salespeople, the business end of things, gettin' your trailers set out on the lots, all that petty stuff."

"Well, that's wonderful to hear," I said, putting on my best smile. "I just thought I'd come down, introduce myself, and find out a little more about how things are done. I'm sure my accountant can explain the financials of the business."

I didn't actually see Evans stiffen, but he did, ever so slightly, and his tone dropped a little. "Accountant?" he asked.

"Mr. Evans," I said, "I'll be frank with you. Over the past six years, I've heard Vernell and Jimmy argue, I don't know how many times, about the business. They each had their side to it, and it was clear to me that they each had a different opinion of how things ought to go. I figure I'm going to need to learn all I can about this place so I can hold my own with my ex."

Evans had a frozen smile on his face. "Well, of course," he said. "I'll be happy to show you everything. Miss Sexton can explain the books. She's been our bookkeeper for five years now."

"Oh, I'm not one for numbers," I said, walking up to the desk and running my finger through the dust outline of Jimmy's nameplate. "I'll just let Jerry do all that."

I hadn't planned on this. Driving up, I hadn't had any idea of where I was going to go with the Mobile Home Kingdom, but suddenly the idea of an audit crystalized. The more Evans seemed to blow me off, the firmer I was in my resolve, Crazy Jerry Sizemore would be just the ticket for this case.

I met Crazy Jerry when I bought the Curley-Que. My lawyer recommended him, and I soon found out why: Jerry was the best in the business, never mind that he was completely crazy.

Jerry had roared up to the Curley-Que that first time on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a big one, chopped with a front end that extended further than the legal limit, I was sure. He wore a fringed suede jacket and a coon-skin cap. His salt-and-pepper gray hair hung down to the middle of his back, and he had a ruby stud in his right ear. I hadn't wanted to hire him, but my attorney made me keep him.

He was a wild man, a Vietnam veteran who drank Wild Turkey and rode with bikers, but he was also brilliant. Jerry would get to the bottom of anything going on in the Mobile Home Kingdom, I felt sure.

"I'll have my accountant give you a call," I said. Evans was too wise to fight it, but the wheels were turning behind his eyes.

I stepped a little closer to Don Evans. "I can't stay too long today," I said. "But I thought it best that I stop by as soon as possible and introduce myself. I'm sure we'll work well together."

He didn't know what to say and I was sure he'd be on the phone to Vernell before my car was off the lot, but that was fine, too. On my way out, I popped in on Miss Sexton. She was staring intently at her computer screen, hoping I'd go away. I stood there for a second, watching her work. Another redhead, I thought. Poor old Jimmy.

"Miss Sexton," I said, stepping right up to her desk, "I'm Maggie Reid." She looked up, a flat, disinterested look on her face. "Jimmy left me his share of the business, so we'll be working together from now on." I let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching as they slowly filtered down through Miss Sexton's brain.

"My accountant will be coming by to look at the books. I'd appreciate all the help you can give him," I said. "Later on, after he's through, maybe we can get together and talk a little bit about the office."

"Yes, ma'am," she said. "We're all gonna miss Jimmy." A little tear welled up and spilled over her eyelid. Unless I missed my guess, she really meant it.

I left her there, dabbing gently at her eyes, and made my way out of the office. I'd had enough for my first visit. I'd know more after I sent Jerry in to nose around. I stepped out into the fresh air of the late fall afternoon and stood, surveying the vast lot of mobile homes. The blue pickup and angry driver had gone, but Tommy Purvis was entertaining another visitor.

He leaned against a late-model Thunderbird, his heavy butt jutting out into the late afternoon sunshine. From the way he had his torso half stuck into the driver's side, I figured it must've been a female admirer. I could've slid right past him, hopped into my car, and made a clean getaway, if not for the fact that Tommy's rear end and his girlfriend's Thunderbird were blocking my exit.

"Hey, Purvis," I called.

Tommy swung around, a displeased look on his face.

"Can you ask your girlfriend to move her car?" I asked.