Sweet Olive (9780310330554) (22 page)

C
amille had trouble finding a parking place near the courthouse.

Several hand-lettered No Parking signs had been posted near driveways and someone had painted “Violators Will Be Towed” on a piece of plywood.

As she fed the meter, she reviewed the mental checklist of items she needed to research, hoping the office wouldn’t be too crowded on a Friday.

Walking up a flight of steep marble steps outside the small but stately building, she turned and looked out on the street. If not for the dozens of new pickups and SUVs lined up in every available space, the town square would have looked like something from a hundred years ago.

The blue Louisiana flag flew with the United States flag from brass flagpoles. A monument to the Civil War dead stood guard at the base of the flags. Huge live oaks, the kind that suggested history and tradition, lined the street on the side of the courthouse.

Two men, dressed in khakis and polo shirts, wandered past. Camille’s heart jumped into her throat when she saw that one was Jason Dinkins, who turned to speak as the other moved through a metal detector.

“Samford wasn’t ready for the land rush.” He pointed to the machine.

She nodded politely.

“They installed this thing a few months back when the crowds got so big.” He took his change and keys out of his pocket and placed them in a small plastic bowl. “This used to be the quietest place in town, until word got out about the Sweet Olive shale.”

“Has there been trouble?” she asked politely, watching her purse go through the scanner.

“Only an argument or two at the copy machine. The oil companies have pretty much worked out their differences. Staked their turf, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” She collected her things.

“Property records that way,” the guard said, as though shooing her along. Jason fell in step beside her as she headed toward the hall to the clerk’s office.

“I guess you must be about ready to head back to the big city,” he said.

“We’ll see.”

“I don’t see why anyone would want to live in Houston.” Jason shook his head.

“Some people might say the same thing about Samford.”

“I guess it all depends on where home is. Well, I look forward to working with you. No hard feelings, right?”

She narrowed her eyes as he sauntered off.

As she stepped inside the office, she was stopped by a crowd
of people bottlenecked inside the door. A line wound around the edge of the room, and there was a number system, similar to one at the doughnut shop near her mother’s house. Jason was chatting with an attractive woman in an official uniform on the other side of the room.

“It’s been like this since the big shale discovery,” a man in line in front of her said. “All that gas makes everyone a little crazy.”

“Every clerk’s office I’ve been in the past couple of years has been like this,” Camille said.

“Everyone’s searching for land to lease.” He sized her up. “These lease hounds come in here, trying to steal business. Keep an eye over your shoulder.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said, hiding her amusement. She’d been in similar offices scores of times since college, when she’d researched the first records for Uncle Scott. She gazed around at the big logbooks in tall bins and glanced down at her white shirt. She’d be smudged and grimy by the time she finished this scavenger hunt.

Camille preferred the handwritten logs that showed property transfers through the years. They were like original paintings compared to laser-printer copies, full of nuances that digital records lacked. Her favorites were the hand-drawn surveys from decades before. Works of art with old-fashioned ink notations.

The Cypress Parish Clerk of Court’s office, like many in the small towns where she had done deals, had signs pronouncing a host of rules, from how to request copies to the necessity to turn off cell phones.

This was a large room, filled with metal desks and lined with cubicles. Every computer was occupied, and every space covered with the massive books.

Verifying the last information on her index card of names
would be the final step before the revised contracts, already drawn up, were put in the landowners’ hands. If they wanted to sign, they would be handed their checks, also already printed.

If they didn’t, she hoped their land would somehow, maybe through the grace of God, be protected.

She looked around the room. “Excuse me,” she said to the man in front of her. “I’m supposed to meet Valerie Richmond here, but …” She gave a small laugh. “I didn’t expect such a crowd.”

“You’re looking for Val?” Jason appeared from behind her. “I saw her in here yesterday but not today.” The other man nodded, as though in agreement.

She debated whether to stay in line.

She had assigned Valerie to double-check descriptions and legal names for all Sweet Olive property. Based on J&S files, Val seemed to be proficient at legal legwork. Until now, when her findings lacked routine details.

After Janice Procell’s comments at Ginny’s house the other night, Camille wanted to see for herself—and had counted on Valerie to speed the process.

She checked her phone, her conversation with the man in line flashing in her mind. She scanned the office and found him, leaning against one of the bins.

“Pardon me,” she said, and he looked up with a smile. “Did you say you saw Valerie Richmond here yesterday?”

He nodded, his expression puzzled.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” His voice was irritated. “It was my wife’s birthday, and she sent her greetings.” He stopped. “Is there a problem?”

Camille gave a quick shake of her head. “Sorry for troubling you,” she said. “I guess Val and I got our wires crossed.”

He turned pointedly back to the files, and she returned to the line. Valerie had told Camille she had spent yesterday working on an issue over in Ouachita Parish.

As the clerk finally called another person to the counter, Camille surreptitiously hit speed dial for Valerie. “Where are you?” Camille whispered.

“I’m not going to make it.”

“What?” she said in a louder whisper.

“I had an e-mail from Mr. Stephens,” Valerie said smugly, “asking for information on other Samford wells. Since we’re about to lose our old leases on that land, he wants the information immediately.”

Camille stepped out of line. The secretary gave her a small nod of approval. “Why would he assign that—especially when he said the Sweet Olive leases are the priority?”

“I handled some of these leases for my father before I went to work for J&S. I guess Mr. Stephens knows I’m the best employee to handle them.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

Valerie responded with a tinkle of laughter. “Apparently my father and J&S have cooked up a partnership.” She paused. “I would have thought you would have been in the loop on that.”

Camille rubbed her neck. “Is that why the records are so vague on these Sweet Olive plots? The surveys don’t seem to match the land on the ground.”

“Maybe you should ask your
Uncle Scott
about that. I have to run.” She hung up before Camille could argue.

Three people had entered the clerk’s office while Camille was on the phone, so she took yet another number and fell into place.

She heard the sound of the official seal as an employee
stamped a piece of paper. The sound mirrored the anxious thumping of her heart.

By the time her number was called, she had imagined every possible scenario and waited anxiously while he pointed her to a gigantic record book. “You’ll most likely find what you need there. If not, I’ll pull another one for you.”

Four other people were jammed into a space about the size of her hotel bathroom, and each looked at her as suspiciously as she did them.

With the book spread open on one of the chest-high tables, Camille hunched over to cover the pages she was looking at and ran her finger through the columns. She didn’t want anyone to see her checking the legal description of the Procell property. The last thing Ginny needed was another landman out there knocking on her door.

For almost an hour, Camille compared legal descriptions to surveys that went back to the turn of the century. Nothing matched Ginny’s address.

Thirty minutes later, she found the deed and drew a deep breath, almost trembling with relief. An error with an earlier survey had been cleared up. Ginny’s property was safe—but Camille couldn’t follow the mineral rights.

A Sweet Olive survey showed another tract of land, a parcel that had not shown up in any of Camille’s files.

Her eyes widened. She thought it was a vacant tract down the road from Evelyn’s land, the perfect place to put a well. This could solidify the Sweet Olive deal—even give the artists some money—without tearing up the heart of the community.

She was about to make some unsuspecting landowner’s day with a nice big offer.

Stepping out of the tiny room, she walked outside the courthouse and sank onto a marble bench, punching in Ginny’s number. The phone rang several times, and Camille could picture it buzzing away, dogs barking and children painting.

“Come on, Ginny, pick up,” she murmured.

“Sorry, Camille,” Ginny finally said. “I have three new students today, and it’s crazy around here. You’re going to love their work.”

“Ginny.” She pitched her voice low, looking at people coming and going on the courthouse sidewalk. “I need to clarify a few details about your family property.”

“Could we do this later? We’ve just started on the pottery project.”

Camille jumped in the truck and raced to the Office of Conservation in Shreveport, thirty miles away.

Well files for the region were stored there, and she hoped she would find the answer she wanted. “Please, God,” she pleaded, grinding the gears, “please.”

She called Ginny again. “I know you’re busy, but I need every record you’ve got.”

Ginny gave a small laugh. “Could you and Marsh get together on this? I’m not the most organized person.” She said something to one of the students and then spoke to Camille again. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m having trouble sorting out boundaries and the line of ownership.” Camille’s mouth got dry. “Let me do more digging.”

“That’s exactly what Marsh said.” The state office building
was an old-fashioned brick building, straight out of the 1960s. A polite guard searched her purse for the second time that day and directed her upstairs. The bland corridor made her feel as though she were walking into a trap.

The office itself was brighter, and Camille exhaled slowly, remembering.

An oscillating fan was perched on the window ledge, next to ivy in a pot. The green tile had been shined to a glow, but the office had a worn look. The room smelled like a mix of floor wax and old files, and its fluorescent lights flickered.

Very little had changed since she’d come here with her father, other than a new sign taped to the wall: “Please do not throw staples, etc., on the floor. Trash cans are available for your use. Thanks.”

Rows of file cabinets filled the office, and she asked a clerk for guidance.

“You’re a landman?” he asked. “Do you have any identification?”

Camille pulled the J&S office badge from her purse, and the man gave her grudging approval.

“You can pull the well files yourself. Put them in that box there when you’re finished.”

Digging through another file cabinet, Camille pulled out the files she needed—complicated records for each well in North Cypress Parish.

She opened them one by one and flipped through the pages. Each showed regular details, nothing out of the ordinary.

Until she got into the back of the third file.

She frowned and looked around the room, relieved that it was as empty as the clerk’s office had been crowded.

She slipped pages out of the file and reread them as she walked to a copier that said, “Copies, 50 cents a page. Cash only.”

Once finished with the transaction, she sat back down and put her head in her hands, leaning against a vintage library table.

“Are you praying or napping?”

Camille jumped and stuffed the pages back into the file. Snapping the folder shut, she straightened and chose another file. Marsh stood so close he was touching her chair.

She shifted to block his view.
Does Marsh know?

Half slumped against the table, Camille’s eyes were wide, almost fearful, and her face was pale.

“Is your arm bothering you?” Marsh asked. “Maybe you should quit a little early today.”

She sat up straight, focused on him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, sounding almost … hurt.

“Let me think about that,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right! I’m an attorney, and I come to this office several times a year.”

She did not appear amused. “You happened to be here at the same time I am?”

“You think I’m following you?” he asked. “I thought we were working together on a final offer.” He searched for a trace of the warm woman who was so thoroughly under his skin.

Camille shoved a file underneath another, and he pulled out the chair next to her. She flinched when he sat down and moved the stack of folders to her other side.

He kept his face impassive. “What wells are you looking at?”

“As you’re so fond of saying, I can’t talk about my cases.”

“Does the look on your face have to do with Sweet Olive?”

He could almost see emotions flit through her eyes. Confusion. Worry. And fear.

“Since I’m in the area, I’m auditing J&S wells in North Louisiana.”

“If you were on the witness stand right now, I’d accuse you of perjury.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you hiding something about the ownership of mineral rights up near Sweet Olive?”

Marsh put his finger to his mouth. “Could you lower your voice?”

“Don’t shush me,” she said, but her voice was quieter. “Someone’s trying to cheat Ginny, among others.”

Camille put a hand on his arm and shepherded him behind a row of file cabinets. “The records for Sweet Olive are mixed up. Did you know that Slattery Richmond owns a big tract of land adjacent to Sweet Olive?”