"Like doing electrical and plumbing before the wallpaper?"
"Exactly. First, of course, you have to close. How's that coming? Do you need some bank referrals?"
When I explained that I wouldn't need a bank, she whistled softly. "Wow. This has to be a seven-figure deal. Police work pays that well in Triboro?"
"If you let the right people bribe you, it does," I said.
She put up her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean it that way."
"No offense taken."
"It's just that, in this county, when someone's considered to be rich, we're usually talking about land rich. Families who have been here since the 1700s, but they're riding around in Ford pickups, not Mercedeses."
I nodded. Then I told her about seeing the horseman on the ridge.
She didn't think it significant. "A lot of people ride in this county," she said. "There's even a fox hunt. Horseback's still the best way to get around some of the bigger properties. Do you ride?"
I told her I did not but might want to learn, among the many other projects I wanted to do on the property over the next few years.
"Few years?" she said with a smile. "Longer than that, I think. The house alone will probably be a ten-year project."
"It didn't take that long in that movie-at the end, where the crew comes in and swarms all over it?"
"The Money Pit? That's Hollywood. The truth comes in two parts. One, you want to enjoy the process of bringing one of these places back to life. Two, getting the right people and materials takes forever-just the nature of the beast and the folks who do this for a living. The real craftsmen don't know the meaning of a schedule, and unless you're buying it to flip it and make money, you should just sit back and watch."
That sounded like the ground truth to me, and I had said that quality time was the objective. Now I knew why she hadn't mentioned a schedule when she'd described the project planning. I asked if it would take ten years before I could live there. She told me I could probably make a part of the house more habitable once the basics were done, and then just creep along with the project.
After lunch I went over to the courthouse to try my hand at researching the property title and possibly the surrounding parcels of land. An elderly gentleman wearing a wool suit and a bow tie greeted me in the records section. He gave me the immediate impression that I was disturbing him and asked if I was a lawyer. I said no.
He sighed and said that I would be wasting my time unless I happened to be an expert in deciphering old deed books, which he very much doubted I was.
I smiled patiently and told him that I was willing to try, if he would only do his job and get me the appropriate books.
"I do not work for you, sir," he said, laying on a little high dudgeon of his own.
"Are you paid by the taxpayers of this county, Mr. Clerk?" I asked.
"Are you a taxpayer in this county?" he retorted.
"About to be; I'm buying Glory's End. Then I'll be a voter, too. Imagine that, a landowner and a voter-and you in an elected position."
He glared at me and then said he would bring the books to the reading room, which was right through that door there, where normally only attorneys were allowed.
I went in and sat down, wondering about all this hostility. I'd dealt with minor bureaucrats all my life, and I knew some of them can grow a Nazi streak, usually in proportion to the insignificance of their job.
He came in bearing an armload of deed books. He informed me that I really meant the Oak Grove Lees, unless I was only interested in the time after the war.
"There's a magnifying glass in that drawer," he said. "Do you know how to read a deed book?"
I told him I'd muddle through, but if I had any questions, I knew where to find him.
"Well," he said, "I am fairly knowledgeable about the history of this county and the various important families. I myself am a Gaston."
"Wow," I said. "A Gaston."
He reddened, and then I decided to end the bullshit. I stood up, and we discovered that I was one foot taller than he was and quite a bit more substantial. "If I have a technical question," I said, "I will expect you to answer it truthfully to the best of your ability, and if you can't, I will expect you to refer me to someone who can. Clear?"
He put up his hands in protest. "I only meant that I am well versed in the names of various properties and the genealogy associated with them," he said. "I didn't mean-"
"Thank you," I said.
He backed almost out of the reading room, then stopped. He looked as if he'd gotten some of his courage back. "May I say something?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Glory's End and the Lees in this county have a troubled past," he said. "You need to be careful of what you go looking for, Mr. Richter. You just might find it."
I'd heard a variant of that expression before, as in, Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I didn't understand how that pertained to deed books, though-or a title search, for that matter. Before I could think of anything cute to say, he turned around and went back to his office.
There were six deed books piled on the table, and I was suddenly glad my own name wasn't Lee. One thing was clear, however: By taking on the house and the land, I was stepping into a rich vein of Carolina Piedmont history.
Thirty minutes and two deed books later I came to a decision: Much as I hated to admit it, the old man had been right. This little project was going to require an expert, specifically an attorney who did this for a living. I returned the books to the front desk and asked my new best friend to recommend someone.
"There's really only one," he said, trying to keep any hint of triumph out of his voice. "Hiram Whatley Lee, Esquire."
"Lee."
"Who better than a Lee, Mr. Richter?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.
Who indeed, I thought.
Arlanda Cole gave me a call at home that evening. They'd run a little con on Billie Ray that afternoon. They'd put him in a waiting room with two other "parolees" to wait for Arlanda to get around to him. The parolees had, of course, been undercover drug cops, and they got to going on the matter of getting back at some of the pig bastards who'd put them away. Billie had let them rant for a little while but did not join in. Then he made a single comment: There are people who talk shit, and there are people who do shit. Talkers were never doers. Then he clammed back up.
"Either he made 'em for cops," she said, "and was just messin' around, or that's exactly what he meant, that he was a doer and not a talker."
"I have to assume the latter, then," I said.
"Yeah, Lieutenant, I think you do. I'll keep irritatin' him, see if we can get him violated, but I believe this one's a crafty dog, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Yes, I do. My guys are keeping an eye on him, for the moment. Letting him know we're watching him."
"Tell 'em to do it from a distance, okay? Don't want that little shit goin' and gettin' a lawyer, accusing you of stalking him. Co-vert, not o-vert, and you didn't hear that from me."
"Got it, and I really appreciate your help."
"You walk around strapped these days?"
"Not lately, but-"
"There you go. You have a nice evenin'."
I'd wanted to ask Arlanda where Billie Ray was staying, since he had to give his PO a physical address, but I knew she wasn't allowed to tell me that. I then called Horace and relayed the message about getting out of Billie's face. Horace said he'd pass it on and that he had a great rifle scope for doing distant surveillance. If I really wanted to find out where his crib was, my guys could probably manage it. From a distance, of course.
My visit to Lawyer Lee's office had been brief. He'd been out of the office. His assistant said that he could take on the project, but probably not for two weeks or so. I asked her to contact Mr. Oatley to get the precise property description in question. She gave me a smile not unlike the county clerk's and told me that Whatley Lee was fully familiar with Glory's End, formerly Oak Grove plantation. Apparently my input for the title search was going to be limited to paying for it.