Free The Trust by Norb Vonnegut Page A

join a philanthropic board. Especially one with $150 million in assets. “I don’t know what to say.”
    “How about yes?” JoJo’s face glowed. Her skin tones were as golden as the light beaming through the windows.
    Claire suddenly looked fresh. For a moment, all four of us forgot last week.
    Caution being what it is, I reverted to time-tested sales lingo for fishing out details. “Tell me more.”
    “The board membership is a volunteer position,” explained Huitt.
    “Of course.”
    “The foundation will reimburse your expenses. And as a member of the board, you will vote whether to approve or reject the charitable projects.”
    “Including those proposed and funded by donors outside the Kincaid family?”
    “Absolutely.” Huitt spoke in confident tones, his voice raspy from years of dispensing advice. “JoJo and Claire are your co-trustees. All three of you have one vote each, which makes you the swing vote outside the family.”
    “I assume it’s okay to attend meetings over the phone?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “How soon do you need to know?”
    “Monday,” Huitt said. “Otherwise, I find alternates.”
    “We need you,” urged JoJo.
    “Will you do it?” asked Claire.
    “I need to ask SKC.”
    “Why’s that?” Claire pushed the bangs from her face again.
    “Company policy. I need approval for board affiliations. Especially one that involves money.”
    “You’re not being paid,” objected JoJo.
    “Doesn’t matter. I’m required to disclose outside activities.”
    “Sounds like Big Brother.” Claire pronounced “brother” with three syllables.
    “That’s Wall Street.”
    “Let me know Monday.” Huitt stood to leave. “And call me if you have questions.”
    “I’m flattered.”
    Talk about diplomacy. My statement was true enough. Palmer’s invitation to join the board was an honor. But after my initial groundswell of enthusiasm, the old Wall Street cynicism took over.
    I had seen this movie before.
    The stronger the patriarch and the more sudden the death, the greater the chaos that ensues. I still had no idea what Palmer had left to JoJo, versus what he had left to Claire. If the two ever disagreed, if there was any hidden jealousy, I could be caught in their crossfire.
    Maybe that was the price of being Palmer’s thousandth man.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    HIGHLY INTIMATE PLEASURES
    Biscuit punched off his cell phone. He turned into the parking lot, where the tarmac was crisp, black, and freshly paved. Even though it was late September, waves of heat shimmered off the pavement. Biscuit did not get out. Not at first. Instead, he stewed inside his black Hummer—engine running, air conditioner blasting, Southern sun bearing down two degrees hotter than hell.
    He found the river birch surprising. So many of these shade trees had been planted around the lot. They were surrounded by flowering shrubs and at least three different ground covers—variegated lilyturf, cotoneaster, and bishop’s weed. The attention to landscaping was not what he expected outside an adult superstore. The grounds resembled a city park.
    For a long while, Biscuit considered Father Michael Rossi. He wondered why the FBI was involved and whether the priest’s death was more than a coincidence. To some extent, he felt guilty. Biscuit had expected to harangue the good father about Highly Intimate Pleasures, to grill him six ways to Sunday. Only now, a Fayetteville inquisition was impossible.
    There was also that hard-ass FBI agent. Torres had done a grade-A job busting his chops. Biscuit could feel his face redden, his attitude sour. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “That woman could start an argument in an empty house.”
    The moment passed. Biscuit hopped from his truck with unreasonable agility for a big, pudgy man. He surveyed HIP’s parking lot. There was not an eighteen-wheeler to be seen, although sedans and SUVs were scattered everywhere. He wondered whether he’d recognize anybody inside the