Collateral Damage A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,25
wracked my brain trying to figure that one out. There’s no one.”
“Nobody at the university?”
“No. Jim got along with everybody.”
“How about the group you went to Laos with?”
“No. We were pretty tight. Everybody got along. There was about an even number of girls and boys, and before we came home, almost everybody had paired off.”
“No jealously? No fighting over the women?”
“No. Well, there was one problem, but Jim solved it and that was the end of it.”
“Tell me about that one.”
“There was a Laotian who came down from Vientiane, the capital, three or four times while we were there. He wasn’t much older than us, but he was some sort of government minister. Probably a low-level bureaucrat, but the locals treated him with a great deal of respect. He and Jim got into it once.”
“What happened?”
“The guy started hitting on me. He spoke English pretty well, and I think he liked my blonde hair. After the third or fourth visit, he grabbed me and tried to kiss me. Jim hit him pretty hard. Knocked him down. There were a lot of the locals watching.”
“Did he say anything to you and Jim? Any threats?”
“He screamed something in Laotian that we didn’t understand and left. We never saw him again, but a few days later some men came to the village where we were working and closed us down. We had to get the embassy involved before we were able to get back to work.”
“Do you know the Laotian’s name?”
“No. It was one of the tongue twisters that so many of the Laotians have for names. Lots of syllables. I never could keep them all straight.”
“Do you remember an Asian man attending your wedding?”
“No. There were no Asian guests.”
“An Asian man came to the outside bar that night and wanted a drink. The bartender wouldn’t serve him because of your private party. That apparently didn’t sit too well with the Asian guy.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. The wedding was perfect.”
“Do you have pictures of the wedding?”
“Sure. A video and still pictures.”
“May I see them?”
“I’ll have to send them to you. I have all the pictures and video on my computer. I can e-mail them to you.”
I gave her my e-mail address, said goodbye, and went to the River-walk for a cold beer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I was up early the next morning, the Explorer pointed west on Interstate 16, a cup of coffee in its holder on the console, a half-eaten McMuffin on my lap. I was making the two hour drive to Macon for a talk with the director of the Otto Foundation.
I’d called Doc from the Riverwalk the afternoon before and related my conversation with Meredith. I congratulated him on becoming a grandfather. He told me Jim and Meredith met with their parents as soon as they found out she was pregnant. Julie hadn’t been too excited about the pregnancy before the wedding, but she had been ecstatic about the baby.
Doc had not heard anything about the problem in Laos with the young man from the capital. It must not have been very important to either Meredith or Jim, since it never came up. He didn’t know what, if anything, to make of it.
He told me that the Laotian trip had been sponsored by the Otto Foundation with headquarters in Macon. The executive director was a man named Bud Stanley. I called and made an appointment for nine the next morning.
The foundation offices were in a small and shabby strip center on Riverside Drive. I opened the front door into a room where two women and a man sat at tables peering at computer monitors. The middle-aged man looked up and said, “You must be Mr. Royal.”
“I am.”
“I’m Bud Stanley. Come on back to my office.” He chuckled.
He led me through a door at the back of the room and into a small space that was stacked with office supplies. A Mr. Coffee machine sat on a table, Styrofoam cups stacked next to it. There was a refrigerator in the corner and a scarred wooden table with four unmatched chairs placed around it.
“Nice office,” I said.
“Just trying to impress our donors. Can I treat you to a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please. Black is fine.”
He poured two cups and motioned me to the table. We sat.
“Mr. Desmond called me yesterday. Said you were helping solve his son’s murder and asked that I give you any help I can.”
“Do you remember Jim Desmond?”
“Oh, yes. I remember all our kids. There aren’t that many of them.”