Cultured, page 7
“I know a little about you both,” Lindemann said. He looked at me. “I’m a big baseball fan and I remember you well. What an arm.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Until it wasn’t.”
“Still, I enjoyed watching you play.” He turned to Nicole. “Your moviemaking career seems to be in high gear. I loved Murderwood. It’s hard for me to imagine someone so attractive, and normal appearing, could have written such a dark story.”
“It’s based on a real case,” Nicole said. “L.A. has a million of them.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can we expect a sequel?”
“Not a sequel, but I am working on another one. It’s also based on a real case.”
“I’m sure it will a blockbuster too.” That Lindemann smile lit up his face and scrunched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
“That would be nice,” Nicole said. “It helps to have friends in high places.”
“Charles Balfour? Your uncle?”
He had done his homework, or someone, probably Rhea, had done it for him.
“He’s been very supportive.” Nicole shrugged. “Kirk Ford didn’t hurt.”
“No doubt about that,” Rhea said. “He is so hot.”
“Pretty is what I tell him,” Nicole said. That got a laugh from Rhea. “There’re actresses who won’t work with him because he steals the scene with his looks.”
Lindemann snapped his fingers. “Like that other guy. Back many years ago.”
“John Derek,” Nicole said. “He couldn’t get work for the same reason. I think he and Kirk look a lot alike.”
“From what I read, he seems to do okay,” Lindemann said. “I see him on TV and in the magazines with a series of beautiful women.”
“That’s true,” Nicole said. “But many so-called serious actresses don’t want to be on-screen with him. He’s too pretty.”
“And here I thought money motivated everyone in Hollywood.”
Nicole gave him a brief nod. “Second only to image, which is everything.”
Lindemann folded his hands in his lap. “I understand Tammy Horton suggested you come see us.”
“She did,” I said.
He nodded. “She’s a trip.”
“Not the word I’d use.” I shrugged. “She’s my ex.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
Yes, he did. No doubt about it. My impression was that not much got past Jonathon Lindemann. Particularly when it came to money and potential investors. My impression was that he laid few cards on the table, carefully guarding his hold cards. Guess that, at least in part, explained his success. Knowledge is power, and power is money. Add to that distraction and manipulation as witnessed by Lorie and Robin and the few other young ladies we had seen during our property tour, and the soup of TLM enticement thickened.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Lindemann continued. “What can I tell you about us?”
“We’ve read several of your papers and articles,” Nicole said. “About planning for success, setting goals, plotting a path to get there, and then actually doing it. Fascinating stuff.”
He leaned forward, obviously basking in Nicole’s flattery. Maybe basking in Nicole. His gaze did move over her, hesitating here and there.
“That’s the gist of what we teach,” Lindemann said. “Our goal is to help our members reach their full potential. Personally, professionally, financially.”
“Each person has a different set of skills and needs,” Rhea said. “Some need to simply see the vision and they can move forward. Self motivators as it were. Others need a bit more hand holding and guidance.”
“Once we get their goals and direction lined up,” Lindemann said, “we show them how to attain financial success.”
Rhea picked it up. “Not only by investing with Jonathon, but we also educate them in sound investing and help them set up a portfolio that will give them sustainable financial growth.”
“Exactly,” Lindemann said. “It’s not simply trusting us to make the proper moves, but also teaching our members how to invest. So they can make intelligent choices themselves.”
Rhea nodded. “Of course, the hope is that they stay with us, and most do once they see the returns.”
“Which tend to be good,” Lindemann said. “We’ve been lucky, I guess. We’ve made very few weak choices.”
“Jonathon’s being modest. He has a knack.” Rhea glanced toward him. “For picking good stocks and bonds and IPOs and whatever. That’s why we don’t charge fees. We take a small percentage of the profits only. Any losses are on us.”
Lindemann popped that electric smile again. “Which means we’re very careful where we place our clients’ money.”
They made an effective and well-oiled sales machine. They’d performed this exact conversation, or song and dance act, many times in the past. Offering the gold ring and doing it with style. Showing potential members what’s behind the curtain of success. Part of which was Lindemann Farms with its beautiful acreage, classy buildings, attractive young women, and the Bentley parked outside. The trappings of success. Seduction at its best. All wrapped in a casual, low-key sales approach. Easy to see why people with too much money would open their wallets. In my experience, money always wanted more money, as if driven by fear of backtracking to a time when money had been scarce and hard work the norm. TLM offered the promise of using that money to scurry up the financial hill. Of course, guided by the charming and successful Jonathon Lindemann.
“I meant to ask earlier,” Rhea said, “but have you attended any of Jonathon’s seminars?”
“No,” Nicole said. “Not yet.”
“We’ll have to remedy that,” Lindemann said.
“I’ll send you a few video files,” Rhea said. “Not the same energy as being there, but they’ll give you an idea of how they work.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
“Let me ask you, what interests you the most?” Jonathon said. “Self-help or investment strategies?”
“Actually both,” I said.
“Good. We’re here to help on both counts.”
“Jake needs the self-help for sure,” Nicole said.
Lindemann flashed that smile again. “Don’t we all.” He glanced at his watch. “I have another videoconference in a few minutes with my partners down in Tampa.” He shrugged. “We have a property management company down there and it seems as if there’s always something that needs attending. It’s the bane of my existence.” He stood, indicating the visit was over. “We’re having an event here on Saturday. Please come as our guests. I think you’ll enjoy it, and you can meet some of our members.”
“We’d love that,” Nicole said.
We stood and shook hands with Lindemann.
“Rhea will make the arrangements.” He glanced at her, back to me. “Plan on making a weekend of it. Most of our members do. That’ll give you plenty of time to network and get a feel for who we are.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” I said.
Nicole bumped her hip against mine. “Jake doesn’t have a schedule.” She laughed. “We’ll be here.”
“Excellent,” Rhea said. “We’ll have a suite set up for you.”
CHAPTER 12
“YOU MISSED OUR turn,” I said.
“No, I didn’t.”
I tilted my head to the left. “Gulf Shores is that way.”
“Which isn’t where we’re going.”
“We’re not?”
“Not yet.” She skirted past a slow-moving tractor and accelerated.
“OK, Captain Kirk, where’re we going?” I asked.
“Just up the road, Scotty.”
“And I forgot my di-lithium crystals.”
She glanced at me. “I don’t think so. You always have your di-lithium crystals with you.”
“I do?”
“I’ll point them out later.”
I wanted to suggest she turn around, floor it, and get back to her place pronto where we could play Star Trek games. But her focus on the road ahead meant she was on a mission and wouldn’t likely be deterred. Even by di-lithium. So, I said, “My guess is that we’re headed to Fairhope.”
“Clever boy.”
Clever boy? I think she was elbowing my ribs, metaphorically, which was fair enough given the fact that there wasn’t much else between Magnolia Springs and Mobile Bay except Fairhope. A couple of farm communities but nothing that made an appearance on most maps. We crossed the Fish River, Weeks Bay to our left, and barreled west along U.S. Highway 98.
“Why are we going there?”
“To see a couple of people.”
“Chief Warren?”
“My, you’re on your game today. Someday you’ll make a good P.I.”
“If I ever do, shoot me.”
She laughed. “Then we’ll stop by and see Allison.”
That would be Allison Mullins, the owner of Mullins Bakery where all things sugary and buttery ruled supreme. I could almost smell it.
“I could use a cinnamon roll,” I said.
“Me, too.”
“Maybe we should go see Allison first,” I said. “That way my blood sugar won’t be low when we see Chief Warren.”
She looked my way. “You’d rather be in a cinnamon-roll-induced diabetic coma?”
“I’d be more mellow.”
“Jake, if you were any more mellow you’d be comatose.”
I should have had a clever comeback. I searched my mental files but came up empty. What I did stumble across was that she had thought this through. Talking with Billie Warren and Allison made sense. If the high rollers descended on Lindemann Farms, they’d definitely also descended on Fairhope. For shopping, restaurants, bars, all the cool things Fairhope had to offer. Magnolia Springs was quiet and sleepy, but Fairhope was a different story.
Finally, something came to mind. “You didn’t think I was too mellow last night.”
“Nor comatose.” She brushed a strand of hair off her face. “Well, maybe after.”
We blew past some beautiful farmland and soon rolled into Fairhope. Nicole parked near the entrance to the police department, which meant my cinnamon roll would have to wait. I hate it when she makes executive decisions without consulting me, or my stomach. Inside we found Chief Billie Warren in her office. She looked up as we entered.
“Well, well, look who the cat drug in.”
She stood, we shook hands, and then sat.
“What brings you by?” she asked.
“Wanted to say hello,” I said.
“Happened to be in the neighborhood, did you?” She raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t I believe that?”
“Because you’re a good cop,” I said.
“Let’s have it.” She made a come here motion with the fingers of one hand.
“We want to ask you about TLM and Lindemann Farms,” Nicole said.
She gave a slow nod. “Okay. In regard to what?”
“We assume you’re aware of them.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Any issues?”
“What’s this about?”
Warren was a cop if nothing else, and from the time we spent with her during the investigation of Emily Patterson’s murder, a tough, no-nonsense one. Here we were, snooping around a place that wasn’t that far down the road. Maybe a group she’d had trouble with. So, in true cop form, she answered our questions with questions.
“This needs to be kept under wraps for now, but we’ve been asked to look for a young lady who’s gone missing,” I said. “Her mother’s worried. Her last known location was three weeks ago at Lindemann Farms. Then she went silent, which according to her mother is unusual.”
“Any evidence of foul play?” Warren asked.
I shook my head. “None.”
“But there could be?”
“All we really know is that she hasn’t been seen or heard from and her mother’s concerned,” Nicole said. “But anything’s possible.”
Warren considered that for a few seconds. “What do you already know about TLM?”
Nicole ran through what we had learned, including our visit with Rhea Wilson and Jonathon Lindemann. “To be honest, everything seemed above board.”
Warren leaned back in her chair. “That’s my take too.” She glanced toward the window. “They’ve been plopped down over in Magnolia Springs for the better part of a year. Actually, a little longer. I visited them maybe six months ago. A beautiful piece of property and everyone seemed like nice folks. Nothing smelled hinky to me.” She looked back toward us. “Do you think something might’ve happened to this young lady out there?”
“Not really,” I said. “The best bet is she ran off with someone she met there, but we don’t have anything to suggest something more sinister.”
“Not yet anyway,” Nicole said.
Warren gave her a look. “Isn’t it always that way? You get nothing until a big old ‘yet’ pops up and smacks you right in the face.” Warren scratched an ear. “Girls moving on from TLM has happened before. At least once that I know of. We had a local girl who worked out there. A very attractive young lady. She met one of the members, a rich guy, an attorney I think, and ended up moving away with him. Over in Florida somewhere if I remember it correctly. Rumor is they got married.”
“Anything of concern?” I asked.
“Not that I saw. I talked to her mother just a few weeks ago. I ran into her in town. She said Stephanie, that’s the daughter’s name, was happy as a clam and looking to start a family.”
“What’s the mother’s name?” I asked.
“Rachel DeLuca. You planning to talk with her?”
“If she will,” Nicole said.
“Don’t see any reason she wouldn’t. She’s a nice lady and only lives a couple of blocks from here. I’ll get you her address and phone number.”
“Thanks,” I said. “To be clear, you’ve had no trouble from the TLM members or heard anything that concerns you?”
“No, on both counts. They come into town and shop and eat and drink and spend a lot of money. I guess you’d say they’re good for the local economy. From what I can tell so far, not seasonal like the tourists.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why’s this girl’s mother so worried? I mean enough to hire you guys?”
“Other than the usual mother-daughter stuff, according to the mother, the two are close,” I said. Not exactly true based on what Clarice had said, but close enough. “The girl is her only child, the father has passed, and mother and daughter stay in touch almost daily. They did butt heads over TLM. The daughter wanted to join, the mother said no.”
“I hear that place is expensive to join,” Warren said.
“It is,” Nicole said. “But there’s a trust fund involved that the mother controls, for now, and won’t give the daughter access to it.”
“How so?” Warren asked.
“The trust fund kicks to the daughter once she’s twenty-five. She’s only twenty-two now.”
“How much money we talking about here? If you know.”
“Fourteen million,” I said.
Warren expressed surprise. “That’ll get you well in a hurry.”
“It will,” I said. “The mother now lives down in Jupiter, but before that they lived in Tampa where TLM apparently started. The mother actually introduced her daughter to the program. The mother became disenchanted, the daughter less so. She ended up working at the farm. Then, three weeks ago, she dropped off the radar. The mother went to the farm and asked questions but didn’t get any useful answers. Since then all her attempts to contact Lindemann or Rhea Wilson have been unsuccessful. She even went to the sheriff’s office but they told her that her daughter was an adult and could come and go as she pleased.”
“Which is true,” Warren said.
“Still,” Nicole said. “A mother’s instincts are powerful.”
“And sometimes obsessive.” Warren shrugged. “Particularly when it’s an only child.” Warren hesitated as if she expected a response. When none came, she continued. “Magnolia Springs is out of my jurisdiction. It falls under the Sheriff’s Department up in Bay Minette. I have a good relationship with them. Let me give them a call and see if they have anything that might help. Or raises a red flag.”
“That would help,” I said.
“We’ll see.”
“We’re headed over to Mullins Bakery,” Nicole said. “Want to join us?”
“Actually, I’m on my way to the gym. As much as I’d love a bear claw, I need the workout more.”
Actually, she didn’t. Warren was muscular and fit and didn’t carry any visible extra weight. She could afford a donut or two, but I knew her passion was pressing steel. And catching bad guys.
CHAPTER 13
OUR WALK FROM the police department down Fairhope Avenue took only a couple of minutes, and when we got within a half a block of Mullins Bakery the aroma of butter and sugar hit me in the face. Talk about marketing. How could anyone resist going inside?
“Now I’m really hungry,” Nicole said.
“You’re always hungry,” I said.
“Look who’s talking.”
“Smells like something rich and gooey just came out of the oven.”
“Whatever it is, I want one.”
I nodded. “Maybe two.”
“Let’s not forget to get some for Pancake.”
“How could we? If he found out we were here and didn’t grab him a bag of something, actually lots of somethings, we’d never hear the end of it.”
“No doubt he’d know,” Nicole said. “He’d smell it on us.”
“Boy can lock onto food from a mile away,” I said.
“Like a cruise missile.”
As we approached the door, the aromas intensified.
“We’ll load up with enough to require double bagging,” Nicole said.
“You know him well.”
Allison Mullins stood behind the counter, her back to us. She appeared to be loading something into a flat cardboard box. I caught a glimpse of brown and red. Danishes. Cherry or raspberry, or maybe strawberry.
We walked up to the counter as she turned, a pair of tongs in one hand. A smile erupted on her face.
