Hidden Riches

by Felicia Mason

  Sensing her dislike of his brother-in-law, Archer smiled at Thelma, pulling her attention away from the man who was supposed to have had some sort of experience in the diplomacy field before taking his current and vaguely unspecified position in the Federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. So far he had proved to be anything but diplomatic in his dealings with the people of this small town.

  “Miss Witherspoon . . .”

  Coyly she tapped his arm. “Shoot, honey. You just call me Thelma.”

  “Thank you, Thelma. Do you know where we might be able to locate this junk man’s store or yard?”

  “Shoot, yeah. Everybody knows where Eddie Spencer’s place is.”

  The three men leaned forward. Winslow pulled a slim leather notebook and fountain pen from his inside suit jacket and asked, “Would you mind giving us directions to his place of business?”

  It didn’t take long to track down the box. Long being relative, of course.

  And it didn’t take long for word to get out about what Ana Mae left behind.

  Next door to the barbershop at Junior’s Bar and Grille—where the “E” on “grille” fancied up the place, at least in Junior’s mind—the talk swirled in so many different directions that it was hard to keep up with all the tracks.

  Junior was doing his best, though, based on what his honey pot told him. Seeing Rosalee on the side benefited Junior in more ways than one. If Rosalee got some of that money, she’d share some with him. Junior’s broad smile widened even more, making him appear more than a little slow. Despite his looks, Junior Cantrell was a sharp tack. He could do numbers faster than a calculator and didn’t ever need to write down an order, even if there were several going at once. Since his back room hosted a small-time numbers operation, the skill came in handy.

  “I’m putting my money on JoJo,” somebody said. “She always knew how to smell out a buck.”

  “Yeah,” Luther, another regular, agreed. “Too bad she hooked up with that beer-belly good ole boy.”

  “He ain’t white.”

  “Damn sure look like it.”

  “So does your mama. And she ain’t white.”

  That shut him up for a moment ’cause it was true. “He the palest brother I ever seen then.”

  “You just mad cause JoJo Futrell wouldn’t go to the senior dance with you.”

  Luther snorted. “Shoot, ain’t thinking about that. That was nigh on twenty-some years ago.”

  “And you still ain’t got over it.”

  Though ostensibly watching the baseball game on the TV above the bar, Junior had taken note of the conversation. The business opportunity mentioned therein didn’t slip his notice.

  Leaning toward the two patrons, he refilled their drinks, adding, “On the house. If you want a little action on that.”

  Two brows furrowed. Then Luther grinned, getting it.

  He reached in his back pocket for his wallet. “Junior, I think I’d like to order a full rack to go.” He slipped a bill onto the bar top and nudged his friend. “You in?”

  The man nodded. He eyed Junior for a bit, trying to guess how he might handicap the outcome of the race for Ana Mae’s millions. “I’ll take a full too,” he eventually said. “But I want mine for here.”

  Junior pocketed the money, smiled at the men. “I’ll have your orders delivered when they’re done. One to go, one for here.”

  He knew word would get around to the right folks. Those who wanted to bet on the relatives would place their money on the house—for “here”—getting the cash. Those who thought the relatives would lose, would place their orders “to go.”

  Whether Rosalee came out ahead or not, Junior Cantrell knew he would. He took a thirty percent commission on any and all action at his place. In return, his payoffs and his percentages were the highest among those who dealt in The Business.

  At the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer, the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste stood at the altar in the sanctuary. He’d been trying to pray, but his mind kept wandering back to the lawyer’s office. Seeing Ana Mae on that video had been hard. Harder than he’d expected. Their relationship went back a ways, a long ways. She had been there for him when no one else believed in him. She’d had enough faith for the two of them and then some.

  It was because of Ana Mae Futrell that the man formerly known as Too Sweet—and not because he liked the ladies back then—today was a devout man of God.

  And it was because of Ana Mae that this church, this house of God, would continue to rise up as a beacon in the community.

  If he closed his eyes, Toussaint could imagine the new sanctuary, with plush and cushioned pews for several hundred more parishioners. The choir loft would be to the right, instead of behind the pulpit, with a brand-new Hammond and a top-of-the-line drum set.

  And his robe. A grin split his face when he envisioned the robe he’d always wanted. He’d described it to Ana Mae once, and she’d called it Toussaint’s Robe of Many Colors. She’d offered to make it for him, but Toussaint had demurred, saying that was something he wanted to get for himself.

  He nodded as he closed his eyes and lifted his hands toward heaven. In her will Sister Futrell left the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer a goodly amount. So even if he didn’t claim a portion of the rest, there was a lot to thank God about.

  The only thing that ate at Toussaint had been first the news of Sister Futrell having a son, and then the boy not having the decency to show up at his own mama’s funeral.

  Toussaint le Baptiste prided himself on knowing all about the members of the church, even if he wasn’t the senior pastor. As director of outreach ministries, he came in contact with most of the everyday members or their families more often than Reverend Leonard did. It enabled Toussaint to better serve their ministerial needs. That Ana Mae had kept a detail as important as a son secret even from her associate pastor was a blow he took personally.

  “But praise God anyhow,” Reverend Toussaint said, his voice echoing in the empty sanctuary. “Through Sister Futrell, the Lord has provided for his own.”

  After considerable squabbling, the heirs decided to go en masse to Eddie Spencer’s place. The spouses stayed behind, though. They didn’t want to tip off Spencer that he had something very valuable to them. But the three not-exactly-mourning siblings would be a different story.

  Seeing the car drive by her house, Rosalee followed. She didn’t plan to let them get away with anything.

  7

  Let the Games Begin

  Eddie Spencer looked up when the bell over the door to his place jangled. With a sigh, he put down the hot roast beef and cheese sandwich he was just about to sink his teeth into. He had a side of mashed potatoes and brown gravy steaming on the plate. Customers, rare as they sometimes were around here, weren’t to be ignored—even for roast beef and potatoes hot from Junior’s kitchen over at the grill.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered when he saw who it was.

  All three of the Futrells—looking like they’d just stepped off a spaceship and onto a foreign planet. Tall, snooty Delcine was still tall and snooty. She’d barely walked in the door and her nose was already turned up as if she smelled something bad.

  Josephine Futrell was another story. He felt some rumblings down there just looking at her. She’d put on a lot of weight since he’d seen her last, but Eddie liked a woman with some meat on her bones. Doing Delcine would be like having sex with a brittle scarecrow. But JoJo. Now that was a lot of good woman.

  He hoped she hadn’t turned snooty like her sister. Since they’d been back in town, Eddie had heard some things about Ana Mae’s relatives. None of it was good.

  “Howdy. What can I do for you folks?”

  “Good afternoon,” Marguerite said, designating herself as the official spokeswoman. “My name is . . .”

  “I know who you are, Delcine. And your brother, Clayton, and this must be little Josephine.” He grinned at her, giving her another thorough once over from the
big hair to the big tits and on down to the big hips. “You sure done growed up since I last saw you.”

  JoJo peered at him, as if trying to place him. “Have we met?” she asked.

  Eddie chortled.

  “Now I ain’t changed that much, have I, Josephine? Remember that time at Doc Henry’s office?”

  JoJo’s eyes widened. Then on a squeal like a high school girl being asked out by the winning quarterback, she flung herself into his arms.

  “Eddie Spencer! Oh, my, God. I didn’t make the connection. Spence, just look at you.”

  “Look at you, darling. You’re a sight for these sore eyes. How’ve you been doing?” Before she could answer, he remembered the reason the Futrells were all back in town. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said bowing his head for a moment. “I was real, real sorry to hear about Ana Mae. She was good people. Y’all all from some good blood.”

  Clayton raised an eyebrow. As JoJo and Eddie Spencer reminisced, Clayton eased around to get a better look at the man.

  Spence. That name he too remembered. And also in connection with Doc Henry’s place.

  Dr. Henry Miles was one of two black doctors back in the day. He made house calls and carried a black bag, just like Marcus Welby on television. He put quarantine signs on the doors when anybody came down with the measles or the mumps, and he carried peppermint sticks in that medical bag. If you didn’t make a fuss during the examination, he’d give you one.

  His office was an addition built onto his house. And next to it was a little shed that had been converted into a hangout for his son.

  It was in that shed behind Doc Henry’s place that Clayton first discovered he liked boys much better than he liked girls. But it was with an older man named Daniel. Was this Daniel Spencer’s younger brother... or his son?

  JoJo preened under Spence’s gaze. Marguerite cleared her throat.

  “Oh!” JoJo said, as if her sister had pinched her. “Eddie, we’ve come by looking for some things that we need . . .”

  Marguerite interrupted. “They were mistakenly left in the place where apparently Ana Mae always put things out for you.”

  JoJo nodded. “Spence, I didn’t know that you and Ana Mae had a system. I was just trying to clear some things out of the house until we could sort them better.”

  Spencer rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I picked up some stuff from the house. It’s over there.”

  As one, the Futrell trio turned, following the direction of his finger. Trying not to appear nervous or anxious—and failing miserably—they dashed toward the corner.

  Eddie chuckled. His sandwich forgotten, he sat back and watched them. He knew what they were looking for. Rosalee had called on her cell phone and said they’d all been running around like chickens with their heads cut off after throwing out that quilt. That’s what they get for thinking ill of Ana Mae, God rest her soul.

  The first shriek came from the snooty one who now called herself Marguerite and put on even more airs than she did back in the day.

  “This is outrageous!”

  “What?” Clayton said.

  “Look at the price!” Marguerite shoved the tag on a patchwork quilt into her brother’s face. “Five hundred dollars. For this!”

  Clayton took the quilt and shook it out. It had nine blocks with pictures on it. “Are we sure this is the right one?”

  “It’s the right one,” Delcine said.

  Eddie Spencer didn’t blink an eye. “You’re in the antiques section of the place. That quilt is an antique. Hand-stitched. Fine workmanship, too.”

  Clayton lifted a brow, then peered at the stitching.

  Marguerite narrowed her eyes and stalked back toward the counter where Eddie stood. “I happen to know antiques, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Do tell.” He grinned at her. “Then I’m sure you know the value of that particular item. I’m giving you a bargain . . . considering the circumstances.”

  Sure that they were being played but unable to prove it, Delcine gave him the evil eye.

  After a few more empty threats and posturing to no avail, JoJo and Delcine looked at Clayton, who sighed and paid the man—in cash. Eddie wrote up a receipt and beckoned JoJo closer for a private word.

  “You need anything, Josephine, anything at all while you here,” he said, his eyes dipping to her bosom, “you just give ole Spence a call, you hear.”

  He slipped her a piece of paper ripped from the edge of a lined notebook. “Anything,” he repeated. “You know, for old times.”

  JoJo glanced at the paper, saw a phone number, and gave him a smile like they were the only two people in the place.

  “I’m married now, Spence.”

  He grinned. “Shoot, honey. So am I.”

  After the Futrells had been gone about five minutes, Eddie Spencer was still grinning when the bell on the front door of his shop jingled again, and Rosalee bustled in.

  “Did they get it?” she called out.

  Spencer waited until she got to the counter. Then he held out and ticked off the crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

  “Get out of here!”

  He handed her two of the Benjamins. “You were right. They came in here like hell on fire.”

  Rosalee held up the bills. “You sure?”

  “If you hadn’t of called me letting me know what was up, they’d have gotten it for nothing,” Eddie Spencer said. “I didn’t mean to pick up something that weren’t meant for me.”

  “Ana Mae sure would get a chuckle out of one of her quilts selling for five hundred dollars—and to her own kin, to boot. She always gave them away.” After another look at the two hundred-dollar bills, Rosalee tucked the money into her bra. “Who paid?”

  “He did. You know, Rosalee, he looks more like a tennis player or one of them dudes who rides around on a horse saying ‘tallyho.’ ”

  Rosalee shrugged. “You should see his . . .” She wrinkled her brow, uncertain. “I wonder what they call themselves.” Shrugging again, she added, “You’d never guess by looking at him that his boyfriend is like that. Ana Mae always said Archer just hadn’t met the right woman before Clayton found him.”

  “Well, I ain’t got nothing against them dudes,” Eddie said. “You know my brother was like that. Couple of years before he died I went to one of them marches with him. I got a button that said ‘My bro’s gay, and that’s OK.’ I wore that button to his funeral.”

  Rosalee patted his hand, and they both gave a little moment of silence to Danny Spencer’s memory.

  “I don’t think Clayton is the type who’d go to them marches with the men dressed up like women,” he said.

  “You’re probably right.” Then, perking up, Eddie grinned. “I thought Delcine was gonna have a stroke right here on the floor when she saw that five-hundred-dollar tag.”

  “You know, she’s all fancy now,” Rosalee said. “Goes by Marguerite.” She held up her pinkie and adopted what she supposed was a French accent to pronounce the name.

  Eddie Spencer rolled his eyes at that. “Yeah, and my name is Eduardo. I wish she hadda been the one to pay. I’ll gladly lighten her stuck-up load.”

  “So, how’d it go down?”

  “I’d just gotten over there and changed the tag from five bucks to five hundred. I was trying to change the five to a dollar sign and ended up adding a couple of zeroes. I just barely got back to the counter before they came in. Clayton didn’t look too happy about it. But I knew he was gonna be the one to pony up the cash.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Delcine and JoJo both looked at him with this . . .” He put his hands on his hips and cocked his neck imitating a pissed-off woman. “ ‘And you don’t expect me to pay for that, do you?’”

  Rosalee chortled. “Good for you.”

  She finally took note of the congealed gravy on the mashed potatoes on his plate and wrinkled her nose. “Eddie, I think I’m gonna treat you to a fine meal over at Junior’s tonight.” She whipped the money from it
s hiding spot. “I can afford it.”

  “It’s a date,” he said. Then, apparently remembering who she saw from time to time, “Well, you know what I mean. I ain’t stepping on Junior’s toes.”

  Rosalee grinned and waved a hand, letting him know no harm had been done. “I better get back on over to Ana Mae’s and see what they’re up to now.”

  Rosalee left Eddie Spencer’s place. Outside, she squinted as she looked up the street, trying to figure out which way to go. Since the Futrells had the quilt in hand and all of them were together, she figured they wouldn’t go to the lawyer’s first. That would be after they’d had a good look at Ana Mae’s treasure map.

  Rosalee chuckled at that thought, then looked up toward the heavens. “A treasure map. Girl, you sure are keeping things lively down here.”

  Gripping the steering wheel on her Cavalier, she fussed at her friend. “Ana Mae, you let me see all your quilts. How come I didn’t know nothing was special about this one? The most important one. This don’t make any sense, girl.” She let out a loud hoot. “But you sure ’nough made a profit on that quilt.”

  She fell silent at a stoplight, then nodded.

  “I know, I know,” she said, as if Ana Mae were sitting right beside her, riding shotgun. “Ten percent belongs to the Lord. And if it’ll make you happy, I’ll drop fifty in the offering plate on Sunday.”

  A bark of laughter followed that. She glanced around, looking to see if anybody had been looking at her talking to herself. Tears welled in Rosalee’s eyes, and she shook her head.

  “Ana Mae, girl, I sure do miss you.”

  8

  The Legacy of Ana Mae Futrell

  “I wouldn’t pay five hundred dollars for that pile of raggedy scraps,” Delcine said, as the trio piled into the Lincoln Town Car that Clayton and Archer had rented at the airport in Norfolk.

  The seventy-mile drive from Norfolk International Airport in Virginia and across the border into Clayton’s North Carolina hometown had been made in stony silence since he and Archer had little to say to each other these days. Now, however, with his bickering sisters going at it, Clayton longed for the solitude of a peaceful drive.