Ill Will by J.M. Redmann Page A

so-called natural remedies, there is no proof whether they work or not—only anecdotal claims that can be hard to counter. Even if I get what most people would consider evidence, your aunt may not believe it. If he is a true snake oil salesman, he may have protected himself with shell companies, false names, and other subterfuges. In short, if I take the case, I may not be able to give you the results that you want.”
    “I need to do something to help protect my aunt,” he said. Then the first break in his confident tone. “Alas, I’m not a wealthy man, so my resources are limited. However, once my aunt is no longer with us, I could probably—”
    I cut him off. “You want me to wait until your aunt dies to get paid? I’m afraid that’s not possible. If I incur expenses now, I get paid now.”
    He chewed his lip.
    His wife finally spoke. “We can afford one thousand dollars. If you can help us for that amount, we can proceed. We’ll pay half up front and the other half at the end.”
    My estimate of Fletcher went up. He was at least smart enough—or experienced enough—to understand the value of a wife who could handle money and the logistics of life.
    “We’ll expect a report every day, of course,” he added, his bluster back.
    “It’s an hourly expense, and daily reports can eat into that,” I pointed out. “When I’m about halfway through, I’ll give you a verbal report and you can see if what I’m finding is worth your while.”
    This really wasn’t a very complicated case. People who sell things—legal things anyway—have to have a method of reaching the public. That meant they left a paper trail, or increasingly these days, an electronic one. It shouldn’t be too hard to get the information they were looking for.
    Mrs. McConkle and I went over the paperwork while Fletcher and Mr. Williams discussed sports scores. I liked her a lot better than I liked him. She was still shy, but had a practical and no-nonsense side to her. She probably needed it as it seemed unlikely that her husband had much common sense under the bluster. She gave me what info there was to give, the name and address of the aunt, what days I was likely to find Mr. Snake Oil there. She’d even been smart enough to grab one of the empties out of the trash. It was a generic plastic bottle (not recyclable, I noticed) with a printed label pasted on. The label had nice graphics, so money was put into marketing. It was a swirling cascade of green into yellow and blue, so it looked like an abstract green field under a bright sun. Nature’s Beautiful Gift was the brand name.
    It would be a fairly easy thousand—easy enough for me to take the case.
    Fletcher and Mr. Williams seemed to have run out of sports scores just as we finished up.
    I happily escorted them downstairs, noting that both men were breathing rather heavily by the time we reached the bottom.
    Fletcher and his wife got in their car. Mr. Williams took another deep breath. I put my hand on his arm, letting them drive away.
    “So,” I said, “I threw you out on your ear. Why bring me a client?”
    He shrugged. “You were the only person who actually listened to me. At least you were honest and didn’t just treat me like I was a nobody. No scratch, no time.”
    It took me a moment to remember that “scratch” was slang for “money.” “How’d you hook up with the McConkles?”
    “Fate was good to us. I got the call to do a lock replacement at a house they were working on. They heard me talking.”
    I didn’t point out that by now most of New Orleans had heard him talking.
    “I was going on about my nephew and the crap he’s taking. And he mentioned his aunt and what was going on with her. They’re both taking that Nature’s Beautiful Gift crap. So, I thought if you looked into it for them, maybe you could find out stuff I could use as well.”
    No scratch, no time, just good survival instincts. “What I find out is confidential, but they might be nice