LITMIR.BIZ

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in training with your nephew.”

      “Nephew?” Morley could be heard to bluster. “What nephew? I have no nephew!”

      Khan was taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir. I must be mistaken. You have the same last name, and I was led to understand that you were related. In any case, I want you to know that I am prepared to match and exceed any offer you receive from these other worthy candidates. I thank you for your time.”

      After Mahmoud Khan bowed and returned to his chair and Morley Rogers was once again on camera, he said, “This accursed housing project going up across the road here, it used to be part of Cedar Creek, am I right?”

      Khan’s voice could be heard to say, “Yes, sir, but at the time of the sale I had no idea what was to be done with the land.”

      Morley Rogers shifted his gaze. His eyes were like two arrows. “You the developer, Mr. Ludlow?”

      Ludlow cleared his throat. “Well, in a manner of speaking—”

      “I thought so. Next!”

      After a few moments of shuffling, Doug Buckley appeared before the camera. He was wearing a salmon leisure suit over a lemon-coloured shirt whose collar wings extended four inches.

      “Happy to introduce myself, Mr. Rogers,” Doug said, nodding to his host. “Buckley’s the name. I’m new to these parts, as John Wayne might say, but I hope to stay put. I’d be pleased and honoured to buy your land, just to put down roots in this fine community”—he gave a chuckle—“but I’ll be darned if I know what to do with it. But I’ll tell you one thing—I can afford it! Money is the least of my problems.” He laughed again. “Happen to own a racehorse myself, Mr. Rogers. Shorty trains it—I know you’re just pulling our leg about not having a nephew, he’s sitting right over there! Well, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He laughed again and disappeared.

      The camera moved to Morley Rogers, who was glowering. “‘For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise.’ Second Corinthians, eleven, nineteen. Next!”

      More shuffling until the top of a feed cap appeared on screen. The camera lowered to reveal a sweating red face, in profile. “Uncle Morley,” the man, who was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater, began, “I know we ain’t seen each other in a long time—”

      Morley Rogers, off-camera, said, “I don’t know you.”

      “It’s Delbert, Uncle Morley. Your nephew. Shorty, as some call me. I was hoping you might ... well, maybe this ain’t the right place for me to be asking you this ...”

      “Ask me what?”

      Shorty Rogers removed his feed cap to reveal a bald and glistening dome. “I’m a little down on my luck, Uncle Morley, and I was hoping you might—”

      “Might what, you ingrate?” Morley Rogers’ face appeared, also in profile, inches from his nephew’s. “Might advance you a boatload of money? Might finance your next failure? You’ve got some nerve. I haven’t seen you in years, not since your sainted father passed away, God bless, and here you are, you show up out of the blue looking for handouts. Well, forget it. Take a seat. Or better yet, crawl back to whatever liquor house you crawled out of.”

      Squeezing his feed cap, Shorty said, “But all I need is a few thousand—”

      “Out of my sight, damn you! Back to your saloons and back alleys, your brothels, your Jezebels!”

      “But Uncle—”

      “May God have mercy!” Morley Rogers shouted, raising the trowel in a shaking fist. Shorty disappeared from view.

      “Next!” Morley Rogers demanded, and when, after ten seconds of leaden silence passed, no takers appeared, he said, “Very well, that’s it then. I’ll take your proposals under consideration. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, that while I may look old and feeble, I am also rich and well-protected. When I sold off the rest of the farm I made a small fortune, certainly enough to live on for whatever God-given time I have left. In other words, don’t hold your breath, don’t sit by the phone. I have no need of your money, no purpose for it, and I am happy living where I do. But, as I say, I will consider your proposals. I bid you farewell. Don’t knock anything over on your way out, don’t trip on the creepers, and don’t steal anything.”

      The images disappeared, and the screen went blue.

      Wheeler pushed “stop” on the remote.

      Young leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “So what was the outcome of the meeting? After Uncle Morley got everybody’s balls in an uproar, did he sell the land?”

      “No,” said Wheeler, “he kept it. Miss Sweet told me that once Mr. Rogers saw how much everybody wanted his land, he decided—out of spite, she said—to hang onto it. I guess he’s kind of eccentric. Considering how wealthy he is, he lives like a hillbilly.”

      “What about Miss Sweet? What else do you know about her?”

      “Well, she’s young—thirty-five or so—and she’s beautiful, as you saw in the video, and although she claims to be nothing more than his nurse and cook, I’d like to be a fly on the wall.”

      “How long’s she been working for the old guy?”

      “A little more than a year.”

      “Myrtle,” he said. “I used to think that was an old woman’s name. Old-fashioned. Now it sounds kind of sexy. I wouldn’t mind meeting the woman.”

      Wheeler smiled. “Drive up, why don’t you. She’s there twenty-four seven.”

      “Maybe she’s after his land.”

      Wheeler’s smile vanished. “That’s a thought.”

      “Or maybe she’s in his will.” Young nodded to himself. “I wouldn’t mind having a look at it, just to know for sure.” He placed his hands on the arms of his chair. “All the rest of this information you got from Myrtle herself?”

      “That’s right. She seemed to know everything about everybody.”

      “She sure wasn’t shy about talking to you.”

      Wheeler shrugged. “No. She sang like a bird. Which on the one hand makes me a little suspicious, like maybe she’s trying to deflect our attention, but on the other hand makes me think she doesn’t have anything to hide.”

      “She wouldn’t let you talk to the old man.”

      “True, but maybe he really wasn’t well enough to talk. She did pass along the video at his request.”

      “Maybe it was her idea to show us the video.”

      Wheeler sighed. “I don’t know what to think, but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she turns out to be exactly what she claims to be.”

      “His housekeeper.”

      “Right.”

      “Right, and I’m Tom Cruise.” Young stood up. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going for a little drive in the country.”

       Tuesday, June 6

      Young knocked on the rickety screen door of Morley Rogers’ farmhouse.

      He waited briefly, then knocked again. A shadowy figure slowly and haltingly approached, entering the daylight in the front hall.

      “Mr. Rogers?” Young said through the screen.

      “Who is it? Who’s there?”

      But before Young answered, a woman he recognized from the videotape as Myrtle Sweet hurried up behind the old man and said, “Sir, you know you’re not supposed to be up and about.” She turned and propelled him back the way he had come.

      Young opened

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