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“Still, she’s made a go of the ranch with enough left over for winters away. And, as far as I hear and see, she’s happy with that.”
“She’s not part of the social scene in the county?”
“Not the core group, that’s for sure. More connected with the businesses around that are useful to her for running the ranch or entertaining the dudes. Oh, she’ll donate now and then. But seeing her at any of the events meant to be fun or going to be seen and see others? Not the past ten, twelve years, I’d say.”
“I heard she was Cottonwood County’s representative in the billionaire set.”
“Could be from the trust along with the land value of Elk Rock. But like the rest of them? No way. Pretty sure the current chairman of the board’s her brother. For sure her father was. And other brothers are in the stratosphere, too — power and money. But she parted ways from the family ages ago.”
Leona’s turn to check the time.
“I gotta go,” she said. “I’m invited to a planning lunch for a charity event and I’m going home first to get ready like a normal person, despite this wretched job. Don’t worry, Audrey, I’ll be back in plenty of time to prep for the Five. Might not be totally sober, but I’ll be here.”
She was kidding about that last part. Pretty sure she was.
****
I called my longtime friend Matt Lester in Philadelphia.
We’d gone to grad school together. He and his wife Bonnie and my now-ex Wes and I had all been close.
They not only stuck with me during the divorce, but took me in after the worst of Wes’ skulduggery.
I’d talked with both Matt and Bonnie a few weeks ago. A lot of that conversation revolved around family, friends, and the unrelenting buyouts and layoffs of journalists by newspapers. So far, Matt was still standing.
Now, after a brief catch-up, he said, “So what can I do for you?”
I told him.
“Want me to research? Or off the top of my head.”
“Start with off the top of your head.”
“The Barlows are more Connecticut than Pennsylvania, but one branch migrated down here in the early twentieth century and immediately built a mansion in Gladwyne — still occupied by Barlows. Because of them, we keep an eye on the activities of the Connecticut crowd, too.”
“Ever hear of Chester Barlow? He’s been dead for decades, but he owned a ranch out here that his niece, Wendy, now owns and runs.”
“Oh, yeah, Chester is famous. Outsiders might view him as a rebel or renegade, but to the Barlows, he was Benedict Arnold. It was quite a story at the time. His father basically cut him out of the trust, gave him a lump sum, which presumably he used to buy this ranch you’re talking about, and the other Barlows washed their hands of him.
“Of the Connecticut branch, his older brother and their sister never had kids — probably too busy piling up cash. His younger brother had three boys and a girl—”
“Wendy.”
“Right. Who was considered cut from the same cloth as Chester. In other words, the black sheep of her generation. Though from what I’m hearing, this generation is overachieving in the black sheep department. A couple have been in jail — and one wasn’t even for white collar crime. How the mighty have fallen. I mean, fraud, insider trading, that’s not really criminal, that’s just playing the game hard. At least in their circles.
“Anyway, back to Wendy. She was given pretty much the same treatment as Chester. Not quite as severe from what I understand. Little contact with the rest of the family, but that seems to be more apathy than a never-darken-my-door-again decree. And the word is she does get a subsistence level income from the trust. You know, enough for her to live on like a regular person, but not like a Barlow.”
“Any idea how much?”
“Dollar amount? No. The Barlows are strictly Don’t Tell. Anything. Ever. That’ll have to do for now, Elizabeth. I’ve got a lunch.”
See? I knew it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With the East Coast out to lunch, I decided to head to the McCrackens’ unannounced to see if I found Sam this time.
Apparently, my SUV had other plans, turning west — toward the center of Sherman — when I pulled out of the KWMT parking lot.
