Page 16 of Oleander

“Right. Dorothy Martin used her maiden name her entire life.”

“Why? Why would she do that?” asked Rod.

“She was a traditional southern belle. Her parents arranged her marriage based on it being a good match. She rebelled in only one thing. Keeping her maiden name.”

“So? What was her married name?” asked Rod.

“Burton,” gasped Robbie covering his mouth. “Holy fuck. She was Burton’s wife. Everyone knew he was married but no one had ever seen his wife, not one person. But why? Why would she teach when her husband had millions?”

“For exactly that reason,” said AJ. “She wasn’t impressed with money. She was impressed with good deeds. Now, that didn’t mean she wasn’t smart with money. Most of her shares in Burton Drilling were bought early in her marriage with her dowry money. She basically helped him fund his father’s failing business to bring it back to life. Later, she learned to invest on her own with what she made as a teacher.

“She never chose his lifestyle because she thought it was despicable. He lives primarily on his massive yacht, traveling the world. He’s not a fan of planes, so it’s via water or rail when he has meetings.

“When the accident with Burton happened, all of the shareholders were ordered to appear in court in case they were asked to testify as to whether or not Burton invested in updated safety features, if things such as safety and disasters, rescue, that kind of thing, were discussed during shareholder meetings. Obviously, they weren’t.

“Except for one meeting. Dorothy Martin demanded a safety analysis be done by an independent organization specializing in rig safety. She’d read every single one of the reports coming from Burton, and especially Platform Nine. She wanted it shut down. The rest of the board refused.”

“I can’t believe this,” whispered Rod shaking his head. “She was trying to stop him. He obviously did this!”

“Wait a minute, Rod. We can’t prove that. Not yet,” said Eric. “We need to find something else that says he killed her. Besides, even if he killed her he obviously wouldn’t have gotten her shares. He didn’t know about the will.”

“Her diary,” said Rod staring at the others. “Remy, Robbie, Luke, all of the Robicheauxs. You speak French, right?”

“Why do you ask that?” said Jean.

“Her diary is written in French. I couldn’t understand it,” he said standing and walking toward the box he’d set on the table by the door. “I brought it with me, hoping someone could translate for me. At least the last few weeks of her life.”

“Give it to me,” said Jean holding out his hand. Rod handed him the journal and Jean opened it. “Her handwriting is beautiful. I’m not sure I expected anything less.”

“What does it say, Uncle Jean?” asked Luke.

“This is her last entry,” he said looking up at the room.

Roderick, I hope that you can read this. This was my only option. I need for you to understand how important this is. You must stop Burton Drilling before they kill again. It has plagued my heart and soul for a decade. Hollis Burton cares about nothing except the almighty dollar. I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you everything. I knew that my death would make you suspicious. It was time. You are a fine young man and it has been my greatest pleasure to know you. Contact Gaspar Robicheaux, or any of the Robicheaux boys. They’re fine people and they will figure out what Hollis is doing. Stop him Roderick. Then live your life. Live!

“She killed herself?” he frowned.

“Sounds like it, brother,” said Jean. “Maybe it was her way of getting everyone’s attention and forcing Hollis out of hiding. She was in her eighties, brother. She knew her time was limited. It was the last good thing she could do.”

“No! She could have told me. I would have helped her!” he yelled, tears streaming down his face.

“If she’d told you, you would have been in danger,” said Luke. “This way, we’re all involved. She did what she thought was right.”

Roderick stood, taking the diary from Jean and placing it back in the box. He picked it up and headed toward the door.

“Rod, where are you going?” asked Luke.

“To kill Hollis Burton.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The yacht rode at anchor where the bay narrowed toward the marina, its white hull lit from beneath so that the water around it glowed turquoise. Hollis Burton stood barefoot on the teak aft deck, one hand around a glass of bourbon and the other pressed to the cold railing. Beyond the stern, the city was a low amber haze. Out here, with the engines silent and the shore held at a distance, he could almost believe Burton Drilling still belonged to him.

Inside the salon, a wall display had been divided into twelve rectangles. Eleven showed shareholders in offices, hotel rooms, and airport lounges. The twelfth carried the Burton Drilling logo because Hollis had refused to activate his camera.

Leaning against the wall was his head of security, Lyle Voss. He’d been with him for nearly twenty years. Loyal, quiet, and most of all, trustworthy. Nothing said inside his private space was ever leaked to the public. Never.

“Mr. Burton,” said Evelyn Cross, chair of the investor committee, “we have waited nine minutes.”