Cynthia Reese - Not on Her Own

“Brandon’s right,” Ryan said. “They’ve got the crop insurance adjustor, they’ve got, what, two of the farmers who were conspiring with Murphy. They’ve got JT Griggs willing to testify that Murphy made him bring in the dodder vine with intent to defraud the government.”

At the mention of JT’s name, Sean frowned. “JT has a credibility issue, guys, and you know it. He’s served time. I think he’s telling the truth, the U.S. attorney thinks he is…but will the jury? And so that’s why they want more guys to plead out and agree to testify against Murphy. It will happen. The big news I wanted to tell you—Becca, you’ll really get excited about this—we’ve run down the guy who attacked Becca in her motel room. And his shyster lawyer is about to sign off on a plea agreement.”

“So that’s another nail in Murphy’s coffin?” Brandon’s appetite came back with renewed gusto. “The guy is willing to say Murphy put him up to it?”

“Well, no,” Sean conceded. “He’s saying it was the brainstorm of that other farmer, Tate. But if we put pressure on Tate, then Tate will roll over on Murphy.”

Brandon chewed on the steak as he considered this and decided, if it wasn’t perfect, at least it was a move in the right direction. “That will complicate Murphy’s legal woes. Hey, did you guys know Penelope Langston is Murphy’s granddaughter?”

Becca’s and Ryan’s mouths dropped open, but Brandon noted Sean didn’t look as surprised.

“Yeah. We’d come up on that in our investigation. She’s some sort of artist, I think, from Oregon, but she’d been living in New York. Apparently she came down here to offer moral support.”

“She’s willing to offer him more than moral support. She had the nerve to offer to sell me the land—Uncle Jake’s land, mind you—to raise money for Murphy.” Brandon took a swig of iced tea that did nothing to cool off his temper.

“She said that?” Becca’s eyes rounded. “That’s…that’s brassy.”

“Well, she didn’t exactly put it that way. She’s a sculptor, and she had this big sale for, I kid you not, three pieces of stainless steel welded together, but it fell through. So now she needs money. I just didn’t want any of my money ending up in Richard Murphy’s hands. When she wouldn’t agree to that stipulation, I told her no. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

Ryan nodded as he passed the tall pitcher of iced tea to Becca. “Sounds like you can wait her out, then. If she needs money, then maybe you can pick up the land in a foreclosure deal.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Brandon agreed. “It galls me to even think about Uncle Jake being forced to sell to Murphy in the first place.”

“I’m still working with the state’s revenue department on that, Brandon,” Becca said. “They’re saying now that the forced sales of both this property and your uncle’s might not be legal. So Uncle Jake might get the land after all.”

“Now that’s more like it!” Brandon rubbed his hands together.

“If the title’s in question…” Sean trailed off in thought.

“Yeah?” Brandon prompted.

“Well, I was thinking of adverse possession. If the title’s in question, and you cultivate the land for seven years, it’s yours anyway.”

“You mean, just act like it’s mine and it turns into my land?”

“Yeah. The key is the action has to be hostile, without permission from the landowner, but the landowner in turn has to not put a stop to it. The law says that if the landowner doesn’t care about someone else improving or cultivating land, the land should belong to the one making the investment of money and labor. Of course, seven years is a long time to wait.”

“Maybe by then Penelope Langston will be gone,” Brandon said.

Mee-Maw cleared her throat, and the group of them turned toward her at the head of the table.

“Mee-Maw? You have something on your mind?” Ryan asked.

Ryan’s grandmother tore at a biscuit in her fingers, shredding it absentmindedly. “I remember that girl. Not well, mind you. She hasn’t been around here in years. Why, I guess she was seven or eight the last time she came to visit. That little one—Penelope, you say? Not big as a minute, and always drawing. I kept her some, that last time, because of course the likes of Murphy couldn’t be bothered with entertaining his granddaughter. She had a good heart, was right faithful about helping me nurse a calf and see to the chickens.”

“So what are you trying to say, Mee-Maw?” Brandon asked. “That she can’t have grown up to be like Murphy if she was willing to help you bottle-feed a calf?”

Mee-Maw stretched out a gnarled finger and shook it in Brandon’s direction. “Young man, people aren’t always what they seem at first blush. Yes, sir, most times they are, and you best not expect much more out of ’em, but people’s hearts don’t change. I expect it’s Penelope’s heart that’s telling her to look after her grandfather, even if he is a black-hearted crook. I’d be more worried about her if she didn’t have some speck of caring for the man. So don’t you be too hard on her.”

Brandon took the chastisement on the chin. But he reserved judgment. How could anyone be fooled by the likes of Richard Murphy?

“G RANDPA ! No! What do you think you’re doing?”

Just inside Grandpa Murphy’s kitchen door, Penelope made a grab for the glazed doughnut in her grandfather’s hand. Grandpa Murphy snatched it back just out of her reach, a scowl on his face.

“Penny-girl! It’ll be all right—I’ll take an extra insulin shot. No big deal.”

But Penelope closed the gap between them, confiscated the doughnut and the eleven still in the box. “I’ll just go put this in my car where they won’t tempt you. Grandpa, you know you’ve been having trouble with your sugar levels. You have to—”

“Have absolutely no damn fun, that’s what I have to do. Penny-girl, what’s one little ol’ doughnut when I might be behind bars soon? They’re circling in for the kill, the lot of ’em.”

Penelope wrapped her arm around her grandfather’s too-big middle and gave him an encouraging hug. “You are not supposed to be worrying, remember? You told me the doctor said that stress complicated regulating your blood-sugar levels. Those lawyers of yours will do their job. There is such a thing as reasonable doubt and innocent before proven guilty.”

Grandpa Murphy hugged her back. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Sorry I’m such a sourpuss, girl.”

Penelope felt a tug on the box in her hand. Grandpa stepped back, a doughnut triumphantly in his grasp and took a quick bite out of it.

“You are absolutely incorrigible, did you know that? Who brought you those doughnuts, anyway? Now we’ve got to fuss with the test strips and check to see how much insulin you need, and you’ll probably need a shot.”

He waved away her concerns and took another bite. “And you tell me not to worry. You’re a fine one to be talking. I bought my own doughnuts, thank you very much. Sit down here at the table. Lord, you know how many years I wanted you around so I could have the pleasure of you just dropping in for an unexpected visit?”

His words blew away her aggravation. In the scheme of things, what was one doughnut as long as she could make sure his blood sugar was okay before she left? She’d missed him for so long. If only her mother could have gotten along with Grandpa Murphy. If only Mom had given him a chance.

They sat down at Grandpa Murphy’s kitchen table and she watched as he savored the doughnut, licking the last of the glaze off his fingertips. “Bum pancreas. Don’t ever let your pancreas go to pot, girl. Worst thing in the world.”