Hidden Riches

by Felicia Mason

  “The first block and clue is a plate of fried chicken.”

  “Maybe she decided to have that rather than a sandwich,” Lester said.

  Several mouths quirked up, but no one said anything.

  “The second block and clue is a North Carolina Lottery scratch-off lottery ticket.”

  Rosalee leaned over to Toussaint and whispered, “That’s the game Ana Mae won all that money on.”

  “What was that?” Delcine asked from across the table.

  “Nothing,” Rosalee said.

  To the lawyer, Delcine asked, “And why is she here again?”

  Rosalee leaned forward and pointed at Delcine. “If it hadn’t been for me,” Rosalee declared, “y’all wouldna even known Ana Mae had any money, Miss High and Mighty.”

  Toussaint patted Rosalee’s hand in a calming gesture. “Mrs. Jenkins is with me,” he said in answer to Delcine’s question.

  Delcine pursed her lips but didn’t say anything.

  “The third block,” Rollings said, moving on as if the skirmish hadn’t even happened, “features images of Diamond Jim and Baby Sue, Ana Mae’s beloved cats.”

  “More like bedeviled,” JoJo said to no one in particular. “Even with the Benadryl, I’m still sneezing.”

  “Look at that detail,” Reverend Toussaint murmured.

  “Indeed, Reverend,” Rollings said. “Mrs. Rogers, the quilt shop owner, told me the workmanship is impeccable.”

  “See, it was worth the five hundred dollars,” Delcine said.

  “That blanket is worth a helluva lot more than five hundred,” Lester said.

  Rollings jumped in. “The fourth block is a teapot and a teacup.”

  Clayton leaned over to whisper something in his partner’s ear. Archer smiled in return.

  “Why don’t you share the joke, Clay?” JoJo asked.

  “Let’s not hold up Mr. Rollings,” Clayton said.

  “Thank you,” the lawyer intoned. “The fifth block and clue is the center of the quilt and features an opened Bible with the words Matthew 25:14–18 embroidered across the bottom. The embroidery is like that found on the label on the backside.”

  “What is that Bible verse?” Archer asked.

  “That’s where the man was burying his talent,” JoJo said.

  Lester looked at her, his mouth open. “Since when did you start reading the Bible?”

  “Probably the day she married you,” Delcine said on a dry and flat note.

  “Very good,” Rollings said in acknowledgment of either JoJo’s assessment of the Scripture reference or Delcine’s wry analysis, and again interjecting to keep the bloodshed among the heirs to a minimum.

  From a shelf, he plucked a burgundy-colored leather Bible. “This is the King James Version, but we can supply a New International Version if anyone prefers that interpretation.”

  Again hearing no objection, he opened the holy book and began reading the Scripture text referenced on Ana Mae’s quilt.

  “For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightaway took his journey. Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made them other five talents. And likewise he that had received two, he also gained other two. But he that had received one went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord’s money.”

  Rollings closed the Bible and placed it on the table.

  “Amen,” JoJo said. “And may the Lord bless those who hear his word.”

  All eyes shifted to her, but JoJo merely clasped her hands together on the tabletop.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Delcine asked. “Is Ana Mae saying she buried a talent she had or that one of us did that?”

  “Mrs. Foster, it is your task to interpret the quilt. As I said, the passage I read is from the King James Version. We can supply a copy of the Scripture to anyone who needs it.” Using the long pointer, he indicated the block again. “The block on Ana Mae’s quilt simply says Matthew 25:14–18, which may or may not mean that that is what she wanted you to look up or refer to. I just wanted to supply you with the information.”

  “Yeah, your fiduciary duty,” Lester muttered.

  “Precisely,” Rollings said with a broad smile. “The sixth block on the quilt is of a sewing machine and a basket of fabric. And the seventh block is an illustration of a man, presumably Jesus, with little children around him.

  “Now, based on what Mrs. Rogers noted, I’ll point out the ninth block before returning to the eighth one,” the lawyer said.

  The ninth one had a mop and a bucket appliquéd on it.

  “This one,” he said, going back to the one he’d skipped, “the eighth block by position, has, as you see, a gravestone. Etched on the stone is R.I.P–A.M.F. with a large flowering tree in the background.”

  “Rest in peace, Ana Mae Futrell,” Toussaint said softly.

  “Possibly, Reverend. I am not at liberty to offer any explanations for any of the quilt blocks.”

  “Well, any idiot can see that’s what that one means,” Lester said.

  Toussaint’s gaze left the quilt and focused on Lester.

  “Oh, sorry. Not you, Rev. No offense. I just meant that . . .”

  “We know what you meant, Lester,” his wife said. “Now please, let Mr. Rollings finish his presentation.”

  “But because of the tree, this block is something of an anchor, according to Mrs. Rogers. Note how the tree’s branches, leaves, and flowers spread out and touch just about every other block.”

  “She put a lot of work into this quilt,” Archer said.

  Clayton glanced at his partner.

  Rollings nodded. “Yes, she did. I must say, before consulting with Mrs. Rogers I had little knowledge of quilts other than their usefulness on a bed for warmth. There are many types of quilts, from art pieces to functional ones and whimsical ones and those that mark occasions, such as a wedding. But I digress,” Rollings said, again consulting his legal pad. “And please note that carved in the trunk of the tree is a heart with the word HOWARD printed inside, in embroidery, of course,” the lawyer said.

  “That’s our family name,” Delcine said. “Howard was our mother’s maiden name.”

  “Yes, I know. My father served the Howard family for many years.”

  “Served them what?” Lester asked.

  “As family solicitor.”

  “Well, la de dah,” Lester muttered under his breath. “For a bunch of dirt-poor folks, you all sure have a lot of lawyers running around.”

  Everyone ignored him.

  “Mr. Rollings,” Clayton said, “is there anything else that we should know about the quilt or about what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  “I fear not.”

  The muted refrains of a Puccini opera suddenly filled the room. Everyone looked around for the offending mobile telephone. Delcine took her time reaching for the handbag housing the cell. She glanced at the display, winced, then punched a button and tucked the phone back into her bag.

  She made eye contact with her husband for the barest of moments.

  “Mr. Rollings,” Delcine began, as if there had been no interruption, “do you have any idea why Ana Mae decided to take this insane treasure hunt approach to fulfilling her last will and testament?”

  “Yeah,” JoJo piped up, “why is she making us do this?”

  “First,” Rollings said, “this is not a treasure hunt, and second, it is well within the rights of any person to stipulate how or even if his or her assets are to be distributed upon death. As for why Miss Futrell chose this particular method, I am sure your sister’s motivations will become apparent as you work through the process of deciphering the quilt squares.”

  When no one said anything, Rollings consulted his notes again, then referred the group to a page in the back of the booklet.

&
nbsp; “We have taken the liberty of creating copies of this page,” he said, as his assistant handed out a sheet of paper to each official heir. “It is a quick reference for you in the event you don’t want to take the full booklet around with you.”

  The single sheet had a color photocopy of the quilt on one side, and the back listed the subject of each block under a heading labeled “Appliquéd blocks of the quilt The Legacy of Ana Mae Futrell.”

  Block 1: A plate of fried chicken

  Block 2: A replica of the winning scratch-off lottery ticket

  Block 3: Ana Mae’s cats, Diamond Jim and Baby Sue

  Block 4: A teapot and teacup

  Block 5: (center square) An open Bible with the Scripture reference Matthew 25:14–18

  Block 6: A sewing machine and basket of fabric

  Block 7: Jesus with little children

  Block 8: A tombstone inscribed R.I.P–A.M.F at the foot of a large flowering tree. In the center of the tree trunk is a carved heart with the word HOWARD.

  Block 9: A mop and bucket

  “I have a question,” Rosalee said, raising her hand like a schoolgirl.

  “I need another copy,” Reverend Toussaint said at the same time.

  “For what?” Delcine snapped.

  Rollings held up a hand to stave off any other outbursts. He nodded to his assistant, who without question gave the minister a second copy.

  Delcine’s glower made her impression perfectly clear.

  “Yes, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “How long is this supposed to take?”

  “Until someone calls me saying he or she has completed the task. At that point, I will convene a meeting of all the heirs.”

  “Are there any other instructions before we begin, Mr. Rollings?”

  The question to get them back on track came from Clayton.

  They had all been obsessing about the why of Ana Mae’s actions. All Clayton wanted to do was get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible so he could get the hell out of North Carolina and back to civilization. For half of his life, he’d dreamed of one day escaping and never, ever coming back. Now he was stuck here in Drapersville and Ahoskie, fooling around with Ana Mae’s torture from the grave.

  What should have been a two-day—three-day at the absolute maximum—trip to North Carolina was now turning into what quickly and clearly was stretching into a prison sentence. A sentence with no parole.

  He should have opted out, taken the ten grand, and walked away. That would have been the smart move.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Rollings said, answering Clayton’s question.

  Resigned to purgatory, Clayton released a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair.

  Archer placed a hand along the back of the chair. Their gazes met for a moment, and Clayton’s heart kicked over. He relished the small intimacy and dared not move even an inch.

  “Everyone has a booklet with the images of the quilt,” Rollings said. “I estimate that it may take you approximately a week to . . .”

  “A week!”

  Clayton and Delcine shrieked simultaneously.

  “. . . do what you need to do. Please leave with Maria telephone numbers where you can be reached. And Dr. Futrell and Mrs. Foster, a week is just an estimate. If you would like to take longer, that would be fine.”

  “Longer? Here in Drapersville and Ahoskie?” Clayton looked horrified. “I don’t think so.”

  “And as I told Mrs. Jenkins, you may find that you do not need more than an afternoon.”

  “That’s more like it,” Clayton said, jumping up. “Let’s get this farce over with.”

  He didn’t want to spend a moment longer than he had to in this hick town. He’d sworn off North Carolina and all of its tiny hamlets a long time ago. And he had absolutely no intention of getting stuck or sucked back into one at this point in his life.

  He couldn’t stand it, and his relationship with Archer wouldn’t survive it.

  “What’s wrong, Clay?” Archer asked.

  He was having a hard time, that’s what was wrong. “I didn’t anticipate that we’d have to be here that long.”

  Toussaint studied the younger man, then looked at the quilt, his brow furrowed.

  Noticing the minister’s focus on Clayton, Archer asked him. “Something wrong, Reverend?”

  “No, son, nothing’s wrong. I was just admiring Ana Mae’s quilt.”

  In truth, Toussaint was wondering why Ana Mae had him involved in this treasure hunt. That’s all that it really could be called, despite what Everett Rollings said. Sister Futrell had already made a generous contribution to the church—several, in fact—which were far and above a ten percent tithe. Did she mean for him to win and keep the money personally?

  Lord, just the thought boggled his mind.

  But knowing Ana Mae, and they went way back, maybe the millions were for the building fund. The Good Lord knew that without a serious infusion of cash, it would take another ten or so years for the congregation to raise the money that would let them build without debt. There were so many souls out there who needed saving. Ana Mae knew that.

  The additional money from her estate could carry on the kingdom business of bringing souls to Christ . . . or giving them a step up in the world. Everybody needed a little help now and then. Ana Mae Futrell knew that and spent much of her life doing something about it in her own way. The Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer focused on providing that help and uplifting the community through its various outreach ministries.

  Ana Mae also knew what it meant to sacrifice. That concept was one most people either glossed over or didn’t even believe in these days. Going without so someone else could benefit was anathema to most folks. Ana Mae, however, was different. She’d always been different, and that was one of the things he’d always liked about her, even when they were kids, growing up poor and black in a poor and mostly black town.

  “Does anyone have any additional questions?”

  Rollings’s query drew Toussaint le Baptiste out of his reverie and back on the challenge before him. Right then and there he committed himself to the challenge from Sister Futrell.

  With Rosalee’s help, he knew he would win.

  9

  Secrets to Keep

  Trey Rollings’s main problem working at his father’s funeral home was that no one believed that he had actually followed his father into the family business. While Everett Rollings tended to look the part—a mix of somber empathy and concern—Trey seemed to always come across like a frat boy doing community service before heading out for his next wild weekend of debauchery. He was the exact opposite of his homebody brother, who had to be coaxed to leave Drapersville long enough to go away to college.

  Not for the first time since starting his mortuary apprenticeship, a potential client eyed him with distrust. For today’s client meeting he wore a gray suit instead of the blue blazer, gray slacks, and shirt of a mortuary intern. Dressing the part helped his image as a competent professional.

  “I thought Mr. Rollings was going to be handling the arrangements for my brother,” the octogenarian said. “Are you sure you have enough experience? Everything has to be just perfect for Waldo.”

  “Mrs. Weatherby,” Trey said deliberately, slowing his un-Southern tendency to talk fast, a trait directly attributed to his Yankee mother. “I assure you that the full service and attention to detail that has always been a hallmark of Rollings Funeral Home will be focused on you and your family’s needs.”

  He wanted to call her on the fact that he too was a Mr. Rollings, but he knew better than that, so he did the next best thing. Trey pulled a business card from a small case in his suit coat pocket and handed it to her.

  Taking the card, Annie Weatherby eyed him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You don’t look much like your daddy. As a matter of fact, you tend to favor somebody else. I just cannot put my finger on who, though.”

  He bit back a sigh. He’d heard that before from people of a certain
age who believed in blurting out whatever rude thought crossed their small minds at any given moment. Unlike his father, who steadfastly refused to believe anyone knew their little secret, Trey was sure that plenty of people around town knew but were too polite to say anything.

  Mrs. Weatherby pulled up her glasses from the beaded chain on her neck and peered at the business card.

  “Everett H. Rollings the third,” she read aloud.

  “Yes, ma’am. But people just call me Trey for short.”

  “Hmmph,” Mrs. Weatherby said, clearly not approving of nicknames, or at least his nickname. “Is Mr. Rollings a junior? I didn’t know that.”

  Trey pulled on the reserve of patience his mortuary mentor tried to instill in him. “Yes, ma’am, he is. But since his own father passed away many years ago, he doesn’t use the ‘Junior.’ ”

  For what it was worth, not that Trey would tell the clearly grieving in her own busybody way Mrs. Weatherby, his father didn’t use the “Junior” moniker even before that. Everett Rollings was no one’s junior. On official documents, he was listed simply as Everett H. Rollings II.

  “I find it peculiar that you refer to the elder Mr. Rollings as your father’s father rather than as your grandfather.”

  Trey knew where this was going and had no intention of playing her game. He simply smiled at her.

  When her comment didn’t elicit the favored response, Mrs. Weatherby looked at the engraved business card again. “And what does the H in your name stand for?” she wanted to know.

  Trey was saved from having to answer or engage her any further when the door was pushed open.

  “We’re all ready for you, Mrs. Weatherby,” said Christopher Coles, the senior family counselor who was training Trey.

  “Mrs. Weatherby, I was glad to be of assistance to you. And again, I am very sorry for your loss,” Trey said graciously.

  “Hmmph,” the old woman said, as Trey assisted her from her chair and handed her off to Christopher. “Mr. Rollings sure has a lot of help around here. Does he do any work anymore? I’m not paying good money to have a passel of trainees and amateurs . . .”