Fact or Fiction_A Sam Prichard Mystery Page 3

  The clerk rolled her eyes and shook her head. “They did all this before my day,” she said, “or those would have been converted first. Someday, we’ll be able to scan all the microfilm and convert it to computer files. There are machines that do that now, and they only take a few seconds to convert an entire film. Unfortunately, that’s another budget request that keeps getting turned down.”

  She turned and went back to her office, and Sam started looking through the drawers that held the film sheets. It only took him a few minutes to find the reference numbers he wanted, but each of them occupied the better part of three sheets.

  He took them over to the viewer and sat down, inserting the first sheet into the machine. It took him a couple of minutes to figure out how to operate the device, but then he began gliding the pointer over the various images and reading through them on the screen in front of him. Halfway through the very first sheet, he found a document that confirmed that Arthur Chase had purchased a home at 532 East Main Street. His spouse was listed as Winnifred Chase. They still owned the home when Arthur died in 1889.

  Excited, Sam jotted down the address on a sheet of paper and then began looking at the films for Charles Wellington. It took him only minutes to find the record of his marriage to Martha Chase, and then he found another record showing that they had also purchased a house, on Lytle Street, and two others recording the births of their daughters, Clara in 1897 and Beatrice in 1898. That house was their home until Charles died in 1901. Shortly after his death, Martha sold the house, which is when she and her children must have moved back to the house on East Main Street.

  Interestingly, the same catalog number that had referenced documents relating to Charles Wellington also referenced those relating to Martha. Sam continued searching through them until he found a notation regarding a 1913 dowry transfer from Martha to a man named James Landon. There was no further reference to Landon, but in a document recorded a year later, a second dowry was transferred from Martha to Walter Ashley.

  Sam checked through the rest of the films but found no further mention of either man’s name. He copied them down onto his notes, put away the films, and made his way back down to the basement. Since he knew the dates of the two girls’ marriages, it didn’t take him long to find the relevant catalog numbers for Landon and Ashley, and then he limped back up the stairs to the microfilm room.

  James and Clara Landon had lived in a home that belonged to him prior to the marriage, on East Vine Street, only a short distance from the Chases’ home on East Main Street. They had one child, a boy named Jeremiah, in 1914. Another document recorded the death of Clara only two years later, with the cause of death listed as “atrophy of the brain.” Sam noted down Jeremiah’s name.

  He then looked for Walter Ashley and quickly found a reference to his marriage to Beatrice Chase. Unfortunately, that was the final document under the catalog number he had found. They had apparently moved away, and there was nothing in the public records to indicate where they had gone.

  Back down the stairs Sam went, and he began looking up Jeremiah Landon. It wasn’t terribly difficult, since his record of birth contained the catalog number that would follow the rest of his life in local records. By the time he got back upstairs to the microfilm room again, his bad hip was issuing complaints that he could not ignore.

  He found the single sheet of microfilm pertaining to Jeremiah and slid it into the machine. A quick scan of its contents brought him to Jeremiah’s own marriage in 1932 to Mary Porter. The newlywed Porters had purchased a home a short time later but sold it only three years afterward. That was the last reference to them on the film.

  Still, Sam felt that he had gained some useful information. He thanked the clerk for all her assistance and asked her if she might know of anyone who was intimately familiar with the history of Murfreesboro between 1900 and 1925. She thought for a few moments, then nodded.

  “Abigail Morton,” she said. “She’s ninety-two years old and works at the Murfreesboro Historical Society. If anyone can tell you anything about the people you’re researching, it would be her.”

  Sam thanked her and left the courthouse. As he got into the Ridgeline, he took out his phone and called Indie. His family had had breakfast there at the hotel, but since it was almost half past noon, they were definitely ready for lunch.

  3

  Because Sam had made so much headway but still had more to do, they decided to keep lunch simple and went to a restaurant just across the street from the motel. The food and the service were both good, and they were finished in fairly short order. They went back to Sam and Indie’s motel room, and he went over what he had learned so far.

  Indie pulled her computer close to her and entered the addresses he had found. “Well,” she said, “the house on East Main is still standing. Not surprisingly, it’s known as the Chase House, and it’s on the national historic register. The others are apparently gone.”

  Kim grinned. “Beauregard says he would love to see the house his daughter lived in,” she said.

  “We’ll take a drive by later this evening,” Sam said. “Right now, I want to go and track down Abigail Morton. From what I’ve heard, she’s sort of a walking encyclopedia about Murfreesboro and its history.”

  “Then get to it,” Indie said playfully. She leaned over and kissed him, and he headed out once again.

  The place Sam was looking for turned out to be the Murfreesboro Historical Association, but it came up when he tried to google the address. Luckily, it was only a short distance from the motel. He pulled into its parking lot only fifteen minutes after kissing his wife goodbye.

  Three elderly women sat at the counter in its lobby, and Sam put on his best smile as he approached. “Hi, there,” he said. “I’m looking for Abigail Morton. Would she happen to be in today?”

  One of the ladies looked at the one in the middle. “Abby,” she said, “how is it all the nice-looking young men come in asking for you?”

  The lady in the middle giggled like a schoolgirl and smiled at Sam. “You found her,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Sam Prichard,” he said, handing her one of his business cards. “I’m a private investigator from Denver, Colorado, and I’m trying to find any information I can get on some people who used to live here, quite some time ago. The lady down at the county clerk’s office told me that if anyone could help me, it would be you.”

  “And she’s probably right,” Abigail said. “I seem to have a lot of information stored under these gray curls, especially when it comes to names. Probably goes back to the fact that my father was one of the most popular doctors when I was a little girl. Who is it you’re looking for, young man?”

  “Well, I have a number of names, but the most important one would be Jeremiah Landon. He was born to James and Clara Landon in 1914 and was married to a Mary Porter in 1932. I managed to trace him that far, but I couldn’t find anything after that.”

  Abigail, who didn’t look anywhere near her reported age of ninety-two, stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and narrowed her eyes in thought. “Landon, Landon,” she said. “Now, there was a Jeremiah Landon, and I believe he did marry a Porter. Give me just a minute.” She turned and walked to a large bookcase behind her and reached out to take down a thick volume. She carried it back over and laid it on the counter, flipped it open, and began quickly riffling through its pages. “Here we go,” she said. “Jeremiah and Mary Landon. Yes, they were married in 1932, and then they moved off to Evansville, Indiana. They lived there for about fifteen years and then moved to Smyrna, right down the road.”

  Sam’s eyes grew wide as she spoke. “They moved to Smyrna? But isn’t that here in Rutherford County?”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, it is,” she said, “but if you’re wondering why you didn’t find any reference in the county records, it’s because Jeremiah was incapacitated by that time. He had had a stroke, you see, and my daddy used to drive all the way out to Smyrna to see him. His ol
dest son was serving as the man of the family by then. His name was Alvin.”

  “Fifteen years,” Sam muttered. “That would have been 1937. Ma’am, would you happen to know if Alvin might still be alive?”

  “Oh, no,” Abigail said. “Alvin went off to Europe during the second war and never came back. Actually, I tell a lie. Alvin left Smyrna in 1938, but we heard later that he was missing in action somewhere overseas.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. “I don’t suppose you’d know if he ever married or had any children?”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t. Now, his sister, Roberta, she stayed and took care of their father until he died in 1943. I mean to say that she stayed, even after that. She married, let me see, she married John Wingo, back in ’37. They had two daughters, and if I remember correctly, their names were Judith and Millicent. They were born in ’38 and ’39, respectively. Yes, here’s a reference. Judith still lives down in Smyrna, in the same house her mother inherited when her grandfather died. She never married, but I do recall hearing that Millicent did.” She looked through the pages of the book, which seemed to be filled with handwritten notes. “I’m afraid I don’t know who Millicent married—that was after she left here. I remember that it was quite a scandal, though, because she was in a bit of a family way at the time.”

  Sam was grinning. “Ma’am, is there any chance you might have an address for Judith? I’m sure she’d be able to tell me about her sister and her children.”

  Abigail looked up at him, and the expression on her face caused Sam’s grin to fade away. “I can give you an address, but I’m not sure Judith will tell you anything. You see, the reason she never married is that the man who got Millicent in her predicament was engaged to Judith at the time. From what I understand, the two sisters never spoke again, and Judith is known to be one of the most stuck-up and hateful old biddies in the whole county.” She took a slip of paper from the counter and scribbled down an address, then passed it to Sam. “I wish I could give you something better to go on,” she said. “Frankly, I’ll be quite surprised if Judith agrees to speak with you at all.”

  Sam winked at her. “Just leave that to me,” he said. He slipped the address into his pocket and blew her a kiss as he turned and walked out the door. Behind him, he could hear the other two ladies gasp, while Abigail simply chuckled.

  Sam punched the address into the GPS app on his phone and began following the directions it gave him. According to the app, he should arrive at his destination in just a little over twenty minutes, but Sam had a tendency to push the speed limit. He got there in just over eighteen and parked the car at the curb in front of a beautiful antebellum home.

  He walked up to the front steps and leaned heavily on his cane and the handrail as he made his way up. When he got to the front porch, he had to stop and rest for a moment because of the sharp pains in his hip, and the front door opened before he even got a chance to knock.

  An elderly woman stood there glaring at him. “Whatever you’re selling,” she said angrily, “I’m not buying. You’re wasting your time.”

  She started to slam the door, but Sam quickly held up a hand. “Ma’am,” he said urgently, “I’m not selling anything. I’m actually a private investigator, and I’m trying to track down the heirs to a man named Henry Thomas Beauregard.”

  The door stopped swinging shut, and the old woman glared out at him. “Beauregard? Henry Thomas Beauregard was my great-great-great-grandfather. What’s this about heirs?”

  Sam had made it to the doorway by then and smiled as he leaned on his cane. He flashed his ID and let her look at it, then went on. “Ma’am, it seems that Mr. Beauregard owned some property that was willed to his children, but they were never found. Now, normally when that happens, the property ends up being claimed by the state, but Beauregard was extremely intelligent and apparently pretty wealthy. He had put the property into a trust whose sole purpose was to locate any legitimate heirs and see that they were granted ownership. He endowed that trust with a substantial amount of money so that its attorneys could continue looking for those heirs. Somewhere along the line, the case sort of fell through the cracks and was forgotten, but I was recently engaged to try once more to locate any living descendants of Mr. Beauregard, and that’s what brought me to your door.”

  Judith Wingo seemed to have a miraculous change of attitude, swinging the door open and inviting Sam to come inside. “Oh, this is such a surprise,” she said with a smile. “So, just what would be the value of this property?” She motioned for him to sit down on the big sofa.

  “I’m afraid I’m not privy to that information, ma’am,” Sam said, “but it must be pretty substantial. The trust is still in existence and has paid me considerably well to try to locate you and your sister. If you could tell me…”

  “My sister? What the hell has she got to do with any of this?”

  Sam tried to look innocent. “It’s the terms of the will, ma’am,” he said. “The estate must be divided equally among all surviving heirs. I’ve been able to establish that you, your sister, and any children she might have had would be in the line of inheritance. Before the trust will release any of the assets, however, it’s necessary for all of the prospective heirs to certify that they were notified and signify their acceptance or rejection of their portion.”

  Judith’s demeanor went back to being cranky. “Millie’s dead, as far as I know. I haven’t spoken to her in more than sixty years, but she used to send these stupid Christmas cards every year until about eight years ago. I figure she must’ve died, so there’s no need for you to look any further.”

  Sam looked confused. “But did she never have any children? It was my understanding that she was pregnant at the time she was married. If she did have children, then they and even their children would also be in the line of inheritance.”

  The old woman looked around, as if trying to come up with a good answer, then grinned at Sam. “Nope! I’m all there is.”

  Sam simply looked at her for a couple of seconds, then lowered his eyebrows. “Ma’am, I should point out to you that withholding any information about other possible heirs could constitute fraud and would immediately disqualify you from receiving any share in the estate. It could also, if any other heirs were to see fit to file complaints, result in criminal charges being filed against you. Are you absolutely certain she never had any children?”

  Judith narrowed her own eyes and glared at him. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “She had a daughter and a son, but I’ve never met either of them. Far as I know, they might be dead, too.”

  Sam nodded. “And that’s certainly possible,” he said. “However, it’s absolutely necessary that I find out for certain. Could you tell me where I might find them?”

  “Hell, no,” Judith said. “I don’t even remember their names. All I know is she used to send me Christmas cards and put their pictures in them as they were growing up. God only knows whatever happened to them; they really might be dead for all I know.”

  Sam continued nodding. “And I’ll be happy to find out for sure,” he said. “You said your sister used to send you Christmas cards—would you happen to have an address, and perhaps her married name? It would give me a place to start, in looking for her children.”

  Judith glared at him for a couple more seconds, then turned and walked into another room. She came back a few minutes later with a box and set it on the coffee table. She sat down on the sofa and opened the box, then began digging through it. After almost five minutes, she held up a single envelope and squinted at it. “Millie’s married name was Cameron, on account of she married Donald Cameron, the son of a bitch who knocked her up. Can’t make out the address,” she said, “but the postmark is from Thompsonville, Illinois. That’s the most recent one, from eight years ago. Of course, Millie would’ve been about seventy or seventy-one by then, so her kids were long grown and gone, I’m sure.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t remember your niece’s or nephew’s names?” Sam asked,
looking pointedly into the box. There appeared to be dozens of envelopes of roughly the same shape and size within it. “Didn’t your sister ever include any notes or anything?”

  Judith tossed the one she was holding into the box and slammed the lid shut. “No, she didn’t,” she said emphatically. “How long am I going to have to wait for you to try to track them down before you give me my property?”

  Sam reflected that the old woman was not only angry and bitter, she was extremely selfish. “Well, to be honest, Ms. Wingo,” Sam said, “there actually isn’t any inheritance. The truth is that I’m just trying to track down the most recent generation of your family, and you’ve just been good enough to help me do that.”

  A moment later, Sam hurried out the front door as the old woman inside screamed a number of unpleasant insults at him. He had learned early on in the PI game that even the people who were most reluctant to answer questions would usually speak right up if they thought there was money in it for them. He had used the “unknown heirs” routine a couple of times in the past, and it had yet to fail him.

  He got back into the Ridgeline and pointed it back toward Murfreesboro and the motel. The afternoon traffic was beginning to pick up, so the drive took him almost half an hour. Still, it wasn’t even 3:30 yet, so Sam felt like he had actually accomplished quite a bit.

  There was no one at either of the motel rooms, so Sam took out his phone to call Indie and find out where they were, but then he heard the unmistakable sound of Kenzie’s laughter coming from the direction of the swimming pool. He put the phone back in his pocket and turned in that direction.

  The pool was in a fenced-off area in between the two buildings of the motel. It was surrounded by a privacy fence that was eight feet tall, and there was only one entrance. Sam opened the gate slightly and peeked inside, and saw his wife and their mothers in bathing suits, sunning themselves in chairs near the shallow end of the pool, while Kenzie was splashing in the water with other children. Their backs were to the gate, so he slipped in unnoticed and managed to make it all the way up to just behind Indie’s chair without being seen. He quickly slipped his hands around and put them over her eyes, and he laughed when she squealed in surprise.