was just being nice to him.”
“Was it unusual to have Asians come into the office?” I asked.
“Not at all. We deal with three countries in Southeast Asia, so it’s not unusual to have Asians stop by.”
“What is their business here?”
“I don’t know. Bud always talks to them privately. Back in the break room.”
“Did you ever ask about any of them?”
“No. It’s none of my business. Once, last year, I mentioned to Bud that I thought it a little funny that some of them came around so often. It really made him mad. He told me it was none of my business and that I should keep my nose out of it. So, I do.”
“Was that outburst unusual for Bud?”
“Oh, yes. He apologized later and even sent flowers here to my home. It never happened again.”
“Did you ever hear the name Robert Charles Bracewell?” I asked.
“No, not that I remember.”
“Who handles the money that comes in from donors?”
“Bud does all that.”
“Does he keep a list of donors?”
“I’m sure he does. Probably on his computer. Neither Maude nor I have access to the list, but Maude does the routine bookkeeping.”
“What about Nigella Morrissey?”
“Who?”
“Nigella Morrissey.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Doesn’t she work for the foundation?”
“No. There’s only the three of us, Maude, Bud, and myself.”
“Could she be some sort of outside recruiter or fund-raiser or something like that?”
“I would’ve met her if she worked for the foundation. We didn’t recruit other than to put flyers out in high schools around the state. The only fund-raising that I’m aware of is what Bud gets from some of the parents of the kids who go to Asia. The foundation supports most of our needs.”
“How big is the principle of the foundation?”
“I have no idea. I’d guess it’s pretty big to put as much money into our operation as it does.”
“Do you know how much money comes in every year from the Otto Foundation?”
“Not a clue. But it isn’t cheap to send those kids to Asia and pay for their upkeep.”
“Does Bud handle all those disbursements?”
“Bud and sometimes Maude. It’s all handled electronically. I never see any of that.”
We were quiet for a few moments, sipping the rich coffee. I asked, “Do you know of any other of the kids who were ever part of the program who have died?”
“There was one boy from Hahira who died of cancer a couple of years back. And, of course, Andy Fleming.”
“What happened to Andy ?” I asked.
“Poor boy. Somebody shot him.”
Alarm bells were banging inside my head. “When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Over in Alabama. Outside a bar. I think it was just his being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Was he on the same trip as Jim Desmond?”
“Oh, no. He was there last year. He had just finished up his freshman year at Auburn when he was killed.”
The bells were subsiding. Young Fleming’s death didn’t fit any pattern I could discern. I’d check it out, but it was probably not connected. “Do you remember the name of the town where Andy was killed?” I asked.
“I think he was in his hometown. Birmingham.”
The clock on the wall told me it was almost ten. “We’d like to talk to Maude Lane, too. Do you think she could meet us early in the morning before she goes to work?”
“Maude’s a night owl. She only lives two blocks from here. I’ll call her. She’ll probably see you tonight.”
A streetlight illuminated the front of Maude Lane’s small white clapboard house. Marigolds lined the bricked walkway to the front door. Azaleas flanked the front stoop and lights on either side of the doorway were on. I knocked on the door.
A lady in her seventies opened it. She had a wrinkled face split by a smile of welcome. Her gray hair was in a bun pinned at the back of her head, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. I recognized her from my brief visit to the Otto Foundation offices two weeks before. “Mr. Royal,” she said. “Do come in. This must be Mr. Algren.”
The house was neat and clean and forty years old. The furnishings were of excellent quality, but a bit out of style, as if they’d been there for a lot of years. I smelled freshly brewed coffee as we entered the living room. The caffeine jolt I’d gotten at Judy Avera’s wasn’t enough to dampen my need. I hoped Mrs. Lane would offer us some more. She did.
“Take a seat, gentlemen. I’ll get us all some