by Anna Gerard
Surprisingly, Westcott’s great-aunt had also liked her modern bells and whistles. The stove was a ceramic-topped electric model, and the programmable electric oven and oversized microwave each came with an inch-thick manual. As for the refrigerator, it was a jumbo side-by-side with water and ice in the door.
I grabbed a vintage embroidered dish towel from a drawer and dispensed a double handful of ice cubes for a makeshift ice pack. Then, hoping I hadn’t made a terrible mistake in letting the man inside, I headed back to check on my unwelcome guest.
Chapter Two
I returned to the parlor to find that, per orders, Westcott had stripped off the penguin costume, leaving a puddle of black-and-white faux fur on my faded Persian rug. He lay equally puddled on the sofa where I’d originally left him. Mattie had parked herself on the floor, looking rather like a rug herself. Her wavy black, gray, and white–splotched coat and bobbed Aussie tail made her resemble a bear cub, though I’d never seen a bear with one blue eye and one brown like hers. Stoic as any bruin, her multihued gaze was fixed on our unwelcome visitor’s unmoving form.
I stopped short and did a little staring, too.
Stripped of the yards of baggy faux fur that had previously enveloped him, Westcott had the long, lean look of a dancer. In deference to the heat, all he’d been wearing beneath that portable sauna was a pair of black bike shorts and a matching black tank top. The skimpy shorts emphasized tanned, muscled thighs, while the wife-beater shirt showed off a satisfactory amount of smooth chest and nicely rippled arms.
Then, reminding myself of my Florence Nightingale mission, I gave myself a stern mental shake and headed toward him again.
“You alive?”
I wasn’t kidding with that question. Living in Texas and Georgia all my life, I knew that heat really could kill. And even though he’d ditched his mascot costume and was lying in a nice, air-conditioned parlor now, he was still sweating.
I gave a quick prayer of thanks for the oversized doilies pinned to either arm of the antique couch. Antimacassars, I knew they were called—the nineteenth-century housewife’s solution for protecting upholstered furniture from gentlemen’s hair pomade. In his case, the fragile velvet was protected from an unseemly amount of sweat.
He opened his eyes and frowned, though whether it was at my questions or Mattie’s penetrating gaze, I couldn’t guess. Straightening into a more upright position, he answered in an ungracious tone, “Yeah, I’ll survive.”
“Well, don’t overdo the thanks,” was my own equally snide comeback.
I couldn’t help it. Hunk or not, something about the man set my teeth on edge. Shooing Mattie to one side, I slapped the ice pack on the back of Westcott’s neck, adding, “Here, hold this in place. It’ll help get your core temperature down.”
He winced as the cold bundle contacted skin, but he obediently raised a hand to support the ice-filled towel. While he huddled on the couch in sullen silence, I made a quick foray outside again for my forgotten lemonade.
What caught my eye first, however, was that ridiculous penguin head lying in the grass. If I’d left Mattie outside, no doubt she would have made a soccer ball of it already. Not far from the head was the lavender letter that had taken flight from the porch and now gently fluttered in a welcome bit of breeze. The matching purple envelope had landed nearby. I snatched up both and stashed envelope and letter in the rear waistband of my shorts. Then, grabbing the lemonade glass, I head back inside again.
“You might as well finish this off,” I told Westcott as I thrust the half-full glass at him. “According to my grandmother, lemonade is an old folk cure for combating overheating.”
Westcott obediently took the glass and began drinking again. Meanwhile, I retreated to the matching sofa across from him and debated my strategy.
Kick him out once the lemonade was gone and let him fend for himself? Or, let him stay a few minutes longer while I pumped him for more info so I could report back to my own lawyer on his wild accusation?
I opted for the latter.
“All right, first things first,” I began. “Why in the heck are you running around town in ninety-degree weather in a penguin costume, of all things?”
“It’s not a costume, it’s a mascot outfit,” he corrected in lofty tones. “I have a summer gig depicting Freezie the Penguin, mascot for the Taste-Tee-Freeze Creamery.”
“Oh, yeah, that place on the town square with that big neon ice cream cone hanging in front.”
He nodded. I’d stopped there the week before, mostly because of their great retro sign. But the decadent scoop of mocha I tried had been some of the best ice cream I’d ever tasted. Despite the soft serve imagery on the sign, this was the home-churned variety with the optional “slice and dice mixers” on a cold marble slab. And the rolled ice cream offerings in the freezer case looked like something out of a bakery. It didn’t hurt that the husband and wife owners, Jack and Jill Hill—yes, really!—handed out plenty of samples.
Then I frowned, wondering how best to delicately put my next question. After all, a summer spent as a costumed character was a job more suitable for a high school kid than someone his age.
“So, uh, what led you to work as a mascot?”
“I’m not working. I’m acting. That’s what I do … act.”
The look he gave me was chilly as the scoop of mocha swirl ice cream had been. I gave a wary nod in return. When you no longer have to pull the old eight-to-fiver, it’s easy to forget that not everyone else has that luxury. Not that I hadn’t suffered through my share of grunt jobs back before the ex hit it big. But a grown man being paid to dress like a penguin was, well, kind of sad. As for the “acting” claim, I had to wonder a bit at that. Given his hunky good looks, Westcott probably could have landed a leading role on some cable TV show or another if he’d had even a smidgeon of talent.
“So, you’re an actor,” I went on with an encouraging smile. “Have you been in anything I might have seen?”
His expression went slightly more glacial, and I promptly realized my mistake. Kind of like asking a writer if I might have read any of her books, or asking a painter in what galleries his painting hung. The implication was that one should have been familiar enough with the artiste’s oeuvre not to have had to ask.
“Probably not,” he replied, “unless you go for survival horror flicks … you know, zombies and radioactive zoo animals and high school kids being stalked by something they dug up in the neighborhood cemetery. That’s pretty much my gig these days. Oh, I shot a pilot back before Christmas—an undercover cop series—that’s supposed to be shopped around this summer.”
“Great, I hope it sells,” I replied, meaning it. If he did get a full-time gig, as he termed it, maybe he’d forget about me and the house. Speaking of which …
Reaching behind me, I pulled the letter and envelope from my waistband and, reflexively mimicking his previous actions, shook the former in his direction. “Now, it’s time to talk about this.”
“Hey!”
He set down the glass on the table—on a coaster, I was impressed to see—and flailed an arm in my direction. I noticed that his fingernails appeared neatly trimmed and recently buffed, unlike mine. He growled, “That’s my property.”
“Well, it was lying on my property,” I reminded him, easily evading his attempt, “and you know what they say about possession being nine-tenths of the law. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. I just want to see what’s in it that makes you think you should have inherited this house.”
I suspected from his outraged expression that, had he been feeling better, he’d have grabbed hold of my wrist and pried the letter from my hand. But he must have still been suffering the aftereffects of his faint, for he gave a grudging nod.
“Sure, read it. You’ll have a chance to examine it when I take you to court, anyhow.”
The return address was indeed mine: 1957 Pettistone Lane, Cymbeline, Georgia. As for the mailing address, it impressed me a little, since it wa
s a PO box in Hollywood, California. Apparently, good old Harry—or, rather, Mr. Harold A. Westcott III, as he was addressed on the envelope—really was serious about an acting career, though I suspected the PO box was for receiving mail only, and that he’d actually lived in one of the seedier parts of Los Angeles county. The postmark showed the letter had been sent the previous October, which would have been a couple of weeks prior to old Mrs. Lathrop’s death.
I pulled the letter from the envelope, cleared my throat (the perfumed paper was starting to get to me), and began reading the elegant if slightly shaky cursive aloud.
My dearest Harold,
It was a pleasure seeing you last week. I do not like to complain (though, as an old woman, some would say I have earned that right!), but it does seem that the rest of the family has forgotten me, so I am doubly grateful for your attention. And you do know that I have not been well these past few months.
Fortunately, Hendricks checks in on me when he comes out twice a week to do the landscaping. Oh, and that lovely Gemma Tanaka from the coffee shop—surely you remember her?—brings me a nice meal every Monday. So whenever my number is up, as they so crudely put it, there is a good chance I will be found within a day or so.
But, enough of such morbid thoughts. Instead, let me get to the point of my letter. I will be scheduling a visit with my attorney in the next few weeks, as I feel it is time that I update my Last Will and Testament a final time. As you obviously are aware, your dearly departed great-uncles both left substantial estates to their children—your father, and your aunts and uncles. And that meant, in turn, that you and your cousins would be equally well provided for down the road.
Knowing that, my intention had always been that my estate be liquidated and, save for a few small bequests, have the proceeds given to certain charities that I’ve supported over the years. But I recently learned what your father did as far as his own will, and I must say that I quite disapprove.
I paused and glanced over the letter at Westcott. I had a feeling I knew what his dear old dad had done, but I wasn’t quite crass enough to ask. Fortunately for my curiosity’s sake, he confirmed my guess.
“It was the usual,” he said with a careless shrug that didn’t mask a certain hardness in his expression. “Wealthy, respectable real estate mogul father disapproves of his wastrel son’s choice of an acting career. Father threatens to cut off son without a penny unless he gives up all that foolishness. Son refuses and tells the father that he doesn’t want the father’s money. Father says fine, and cuts the son out of the will. The end.”
“Tough break,” I replied, feeling somewhat sympathetic as I resumed reading.
“As you know, I am a firm believer in real estate as an investment,” I recited; then, flipping the page, I stopped short as I silently read the next line.
Westcott—or, rather, Harry, as I was beginning to think of him, now that I knew his life story—gave me a bland look. Of course, he had the letter memorized.
“Do continue,” he urged. “We’re just now getting to the good part.”
You mean, the part you’re going to hang your lawsuit on. But as I continued to hesitate, he leaned forward and in a swift move snatched the letter from me.
“Now, where were we?” he asked. “Ah, yes here we are.” Ostentatiously clearing his throat, he took up where I’d left off.
As you know, I am a firm believer in real estate as an investment, and so I’ve changed my mind about letting my place be sold for cash when I’m gone. Instead, I have decided that I shall arrange for the house and its contents to go to you, my favorite young relative. I hope you’ll be pleased with that bequest, and that you’ll keep up the place for awhile before you sell it off. I know that you are the only one of the family besides me who truly loves this old house, so I am confident I will be leaving it in capable hands.
But, I must ask you to keep this information to yourself until all the documents are signed. I don’t want anyone else—particularly your father—to find out about my plans and start badgering me to change my mind. Once all is settled, I’ll send you a note to let you know that, no matter what else may happen in the future, you’ll always have a roof over your head.
I shall sign off now and put in a call to the attorney’s office. I hope you’ll make it back here for Christmas, at least for a short visit. Until then, much love from your Great-Aunt Daisy Lathrop.
Finishing his reading, Harry refolded the lavender page and tucked it back into the envelope I’d set on the coffee table. He fixed me with a cool look.
“Unfortunately, Great-Aunt Lathrop died in her sleep a couple of nights before she was scheduled to meet with her lawyer, and so she never had the opportunity to change her will. But you can see from this letter that her intent was obvious.”
I managed a casual shrug, trying to ignore a little frisson of panic welling in the pit of my stomach. Sure, he had a letter, but I had the executed deed along with the copy of the cashed check that had made this house owned by me outright.
Mine, mine, mine, I thought, and mentally stamped my feet for emphasis. But even though the place legally belonged to me, I had to admit that Harry Westcott had had good reason to believe he was supposed to inherit it.
Assuming, of course, that the letter wasn’t some crazy forgery the man was trying to perpetrate. Or a clever con meant to scam me out of the house. He was an actor, after all. No way would I simply take him at his word.
Doing my best impression of Cousin Kit, Esq., I said, “I agree, Mr. Westcott, that your letter is compelling. But why did you wait until after the house was sold to me to bring it up? Why didn’t you contest the will right away?”
“I was in Mexico shooting that pilot. I didn’t even find out that Great-Aunt Lathrop had died until I got back to LA almost two months after the funeral. By then, the executor had already liquidated most of her assets and was putting the house up for sale.”
He muttered a few expletives, and I ventured a quick assumption. “Let me guess, your father was the executor?”
“Give the lady a prize. You got it in one.”
The barely contained outrage in his expression made him look like a brooding antihero from that cable TV series featuring lots of castles, dragons, and swords. Luckily, Westcott was unarmed at the moment; otherwise, I could see him whipping out an oversized dirk and slicing up my nice red velvet curtains as a substitute for disemboweling dear old Dad. No matter the legalities, the man truly believed he had a claim to this house. That, or he was a heck of an actor who deserved every award the Academy could hand out.
But, either way, I had a bad feeling that Harold A. Westcott III wasn’t going to go gentle into that good night … not until he had his sneaky penguin flippers on my house.
Abruptly, I stood.
“This has all been most illuminating,” I told him, “but if you’re recovered enough, I think it’s best you take your costume and leave. If you want to pursue this thing with your letter, you’ve got my attorney’s contact information. Now, do you want me to call you an Uber, or can you walk?”
“I brought my own transportation, thank you very much.”
With those lofty words, he rose from the sofa and scooped up the penguin suit. Then, Mattie doing her herding pup thing by literally dogging his steps, he headed for the door. “No need to show me out,” he added over his shoulder. “I know this place like it was my own.”
If I hadn’t been suddenly terrified that my peaceful small-town life was about to go all to heck, I would have enjoyed the sight of those muscled glutes exiting stage right. As it was, I simply scampered after the pair, making sure Harry didn’t filch a painting or side table on the way out.
Once he reached the porch, he turned and fixed me with a hard look. Then, quite to my surprise, he gave me a genuine smile—the kind of smile that belonged plastered on the cover of People magazine’s latest “Sexiest Man Alive” issue.
“This whole your house/my house quandary aside,” he said, “it was a p
leasure meeting you. I’d heard the new owner was some big-city rich woman looking for a cheap investment. But I can tell you care about the place, too. And you didn’t just roll me out to the curb when I was dying of heatstroke.”
Then the 1,000-watt smile vanished. “See you in court, Nina Fleet.”
So saying, he strode down the porch steps, scooped up the penguin head without breaking stride, and marched toward the front gate. The dramatic exit was marred somewhat when he paused there and pulled on the bulky penguin suit again. Only then did I notice the rusty red men’s bicycle that had been leaning up against one gate pillar. He straddled said bike and balanced the penguin head in the wire basket attached to its handlebars.
Then, like Shane or Clint Eastwood’s Man With No Name, he gave a push off and vanished from sight.
I glanced down at Mattie, who was sitting beside me, canine gaze fixed on the front gate. She hadn’t gone off on the man like a hellhound, which I’d seen her do a time or two in Atlanta when we’d been approached by a sketchy sort. That meant Harry Westcott wasn’t a physical danger to me. But if his case did make it to court, between the letter and his dramatic abilities, I could well find myself in an unpleasant standoff.
“I think I’d better get to know the enemy,” I told Mattie, who gave a soft woof of agreement.
Forgetting about weeding, I hurried back inside and took a quick shower to remove the worst of the accumulated dirt and sweat. Then, leaving Mattie to lounge in the AC, I grabbed my keys, phone, and requisite sunglasses and walked the two blocks to Peaches and Java, the coffee shop on the town square, to check out the penguin’s story.
Chapter Three
Since Cymbeliners tended to rise bright and early, even on the weekend, plenty of my neighbors were out in the steaming Georgia morning. And so I did a lot of waving as I walked, even though I knew most of the folks only by sight at this point. I still found the ritual something of a novelty, given that I’d lived the past ten years in Atlanta. While the state’s capital retained much of its original Southern charm, in a city of almost half a million people, no way were you going to greet every stranger you passed.