Legacy of Silence

by Flo Fitzpatrick

The response came from George Miller, who’d managed to plant himself behind Miranda. “A good one. The market is bouncing back, and that house is a gem. Two-story, four bedrooms, three baths, a huge living room plus a parlor, which we now call a bonus room. There’s a usable attic, gorgeous trees all around the property and a deck in the back that only needs a little sealant to get it into shape. There’s even a storm cellar. I’d suggest an estate sale first...”

  George glanced at Brett, which made Miranda wonder what the Realtor knew about the two wills.

  “Whoever inherits, that is. You know, I’d imagine there’s a ton of antiques in that place,” George continued. “I’ve heard the piano alone is worth several thousand. Do you or Gerik have an appraiser yet?”

  The lust in his voice made Miranda queasy. She spoke up before George could continue his verbal tour of the Radinski property. “I’m sure we can find one when the time comes. Now—no offense, y’all—can we change the subject? This all seems rather ghoulish to me since Miss Virginia has been dead less than a month. And from the very little I’ve read in her journal, she did not have a pleasant life.”

  “What do you mean?” Cort asked.

  “Oh.” Miranda immediately wished she’d kept silent but said, “Well...to begin with, she was in a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Her husband was killed there. Horrible.”

  Tim winced. “No wonder she was so reclusive and seemed to prefer the company of children. Most of them don’t learn how to hate until they reach adolescence.”

  “That’s a gloomy thought,” Dave said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Tim glanced at his daughter. “I feel woefully ignorant. I honestly didn’t know there were camps in the Czech Republic.”

  Miranda nodded. “You’re not the only one who was clueless. I didn’t, either. I looked up Terezin online after I saw the name in her journal. It was very close to Prague, and it housed a lot of artists and musicians. Sounds almost nice, doesn’t it? Yet the death rate at that place was...” She swallowed. “So many talented people who lost their lives...” She smiled wanly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this up. Miss Virginia’s spirit seems to be accompanying me everywhere.”

  Farrah quickly became the good hostess. “Well, let’s hope her spirit leads you to some of her old recipe books. Tim has told me about the baked goods she used to share with everyone in that neighborhood. If you could find her kolache recipe I’d be the only caterer in the city who could deliver authentic Czech pastries.” She smiled. “I know there’s no way you’ll attempt to bake them.” Her tone changed almost imperceptibly, but Miranda swore she caught a whiff of superiority as Farrah added, “Miranda is the world’s worst cook. I’m hoping to get her to the point where she doesn’t have to exist on takeout once she’s back in Manhattan.”

  Miranda gritted her teeth but casually said, “Might as well give that up as a lost cause. My schedule is usually too wacky for me to attempt making home-cooked meals. But Farrah, you’ll be pleased to know that I already found one recipe book in the short time I was in Virginia’s house. I’ll do my best to make sure you get it, even if I have to beg Russ Gerik to sell it to me. At any rate, I definitely don’t have use for it apart from reading, salivating and remembering devouring some of those goodies years ago.”

  Farrah frowned. The men didn’t seem to notice any tension and began discussing Birmingham’s best restaurants. The debate over which local barbecue joint served the juiciest ribs and the closest to homemade biscuits was still raging when Farrah announced that dinner was ready and asked the guests to be seated in the formal dining room.

  Dave Brennan offered Miranda his arm and led the way to the table. He pulled out a chair for her and quietly said, “Farrah Myers Nolan is a very fine chef and her catering business is taking Birmingham by storm. She appears to truly adore your father. That being said, she doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with a grown stepdaughter. My wife, Nancy, could certainly give her a few tips on mothering. I credit her with raising all five of our kids to be reasonably productive members of society who still feel free to come to us for advice and support. The most important thing—what Farrah needs to learn—is that you shouldn’t push.”

  Miranda sank back against her chair. When Dave took his own seat next to her, she whispered, “Feel free to repeat that advice to my dad so he can deter Farrah from planning further ‘let’s find a date for Miranda’ parties. I’m not interested. Right now, I want to focus on doing the inventory with Mr. Gerik.”

  Dave nodded. “Look, I haven’t met this Russell Gerik but if you’re at all uncomfortable looking through Virginia’s possessions with him, let me know and I’ll send over some eager paralegals or even new associates who’d be more than happy to play chaperone and hoist a box or two in order to impress me.” He gestured at Cort, who was seated across from them.

  “Is he hiring me out again?” Cort snickered. “Honestly, it makes me feel so cheap.”

  “I think you’re safe.” Miranda grinned. “I’ve only met Mr. Gerik once, but I didn’t get the impression I’d be working with the big bad wolf. He wasn’t exactly laying on the charm but he wasn’t howling at me, either. And I have to admit I’m looking forward to learning more about Miss Virginia.”

  “What else did you find in that journal?” Brett asked.

  Miranda didn’t want to use Miss Virginia’s past as dinner party conversation, but she had to say something. She politely answered, “I did find out she was married to an artist. That’s about it.”

  Farrah apparently had no problem with discussing the details of Virginia’s life. She raised her voice slightly so the rest of her guests could hear. “His name was Benjamin Auttenberg? Have y’all ever heard of him?”

  There were negative head shakes from all the guests. Miranda closed her eyes and wondered whether she should gag her stepmother with a napkin or an apron.

  “Who was he?” George asked.

  Miranda tried to find a way out of providing any more information, but Farrah jumped in with, “According to an art dealer Miranda talked with when she was in Manhattan, Auttenberg was on his way to becoming quite a name in the art world before he was sent to the concentration camp. This dealer also said that there are rumors some of his works still exist and if any were found, they’d be worth a fortune.”

  Miranda flinched. She quickly began to describe some of the other items she’d seen at the house, including a wooden bird whistle, numerous wind chimes, an Amish pie safe that had been hidden under never-worn coats and Miranda’s favorite—a picnic basket that screamed church social circa 1912.

  “I think those qualify as odds and ends, so they could be legally mine, even if Mr. King’s client wins the house. Although, I don’t know where I’d put them when I get back to New York.” Miranda smiled. “My apartment is teensy.”

  “You could always stay here, you know,” Dave suggested. “Birmingham isn’t a cultural wasteland and you’d be near your dad, which would make him very happy.”

  “Well, I do have a pretty good career going up north. But it’s a thought. I could always keep the house as a refuge from big-city insanity. Then again, I happen to love big-city city insanity—most of the time. Right now I’m so tired I don’t care where I land.”

  * * *

  MIRANDA REMEMBERED THOSE words when she arrived at Virginia’s house later that night to meet Russ and the poor paralegal who’d been tasked with opening the door and either staying for the inventory session or coming back in a couple of hours to lock up again. Miranda hadn’t lied—she was exhausted. Dave had been a pleasant dinner companion and she was grateful for his attempts to steer Farrah off topics that often slid toward the embarrassing, but she hadn’t been thrilled with most of the other guests. Half of the bachelors had treated her as though she were a new species of plant life because she’d been on Broadway. The other half were so busy try
ing to sell her their services they didn’t care what she did for a living—as long as she spent her earnings with them. And Miranda was still disgusted that Farrah had blithely talked about Miss Virginia as though she’d been some reality-TV star.

  At least all the guests had left shortly after dinner. Farrah had even tactfully retreated to the kitchen to clean up so Tim and Miranda could have a father/daughter chat. They’d missed out on those when Miranda had been a child. Tim had been so devastated by his wife’s death he’d often ignored his daughter, burying himself in his work. Then it had been Miranda’s turn, performing nonstop starting her freshman year at college.

  Miranda turned the corner onto Miss Virginia’s street and immediately realized that her night wasn’t going to be spent dealing with Russ Gerik and a bunch of boxes. Three police cars lined the curb outside of Virginia’s house. Miranda slowed her dad’s car and parked two doors down. Russ was standing in the yard, accompanied by a large canine who appeared to be enjoying the night air.

  One of the policemen waved at her. He politely waited until she’d crossed the lawn and joined him near the entrance of the house before asking, “Are you Ms. Nolan?”

  “Yes. I’m Miranda.”

  “Great. Please stay out here, miss. Officer Hernandez will join you while we search inside.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OFFICER HERNANDEZ LOOKED as though he’d be more at home running touchdowns than babysitting frightened crime victims, but he greeted her with a cheery “Nice night...but not for this, right?”

  Miranda took the first calm breath since she’d seen the lights flashing on top of police cars. She managed a smile, then glanced at Russ, who was sitting on the curb calmly scratching the dog behind its ears.

  “I’m assuming someone broke in?” Miranda asked. Her voice shook just a little.

  “You’re assuming right,” he replied. “Thankfully no one was home. Things can be replaced, but people? Not so much.”

  Officer Hernandez continued to make small talk, asking Miranda if Miss Virginia’s old car—which still sat in the driveway—had been driven in years, what her favorite musical groups were and finishing with the all-important, “Auburn or Alabama?”

  Miranda smiled. “I’ll never tell. I’ve watched too many feuds break out over the answer.”

  Miranda was not surprised to learn her first impression had been right. Hernandez had played football for Auburn the year before he entered the police academy.

  “What position did you play?”

  “Wide receiver.”

  “Wait, I know you! I mean, I’ve seen you play. What’s your first name?”

  “Ted.”

  “Ted as in Ted Touchdown Hernandez? That’s you, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Wow. You were awesome. Weren’t you going to go pro?” she asked. “Or is that a sensitive subject?”

  “Nah. It’s fine. Everybody in the state was betting on whether I’d be picked up by the Cowboys or the Falcons. They both wanted me. Sadly my shoulder didn’t cooperate with the master plan. It got knocked out of whack too many times that final season and the bowl game finished me off.”

  “Were you disappointed?”

  Hernandez smiled. “At first. But I love being a cop. I get to help people, my employment expectancy is longer, my brains and bones might stay intact—and my mama is proud.” He paused, then shook his head. “I’m also one of those people who believes we get signs from the universe telling us what we really need to be doing.” He shot her a sharp glance. “You can tell me to back off, but I could swear there was a note in your voice when you asked about disappointments. Wrestling with your own decisions, perhaps?”

  “You, Officer Hernandez, are an insightful soul. I’m not sure I’d even call it wrestling at this point, but let’s just say I’m starting to wonder what to do if this house becomes mine.”

  Before Miranda had a chance to confide her concerns, the two officers who’d entered the house waved and motioned for Hernandez, Miranda and Russ to join them. Russ hadn’t said a word to either Miranda or Hernandez and Miranda suddenly felt frightened again, but for Russ. He appeared calm, but he might have been terrified. Russ wasn’t stupid. What if he’d been inside, unable to hear? She shuddered, stopping herself from traveling down that road. And where the heck was the paralegal?

  “We can go in now,” Hernandez said. “If you’re up to it?”

  Miranda straightened her shoulders. “I’m okay.”

  Hernandez glanced back at Russ and signed, You?

  Russ answered, “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  The trio headed inside the house, but Miranda paused at the doorway. “How did the burglar get in? Do y’all know?”

  Hernandez checked the lock, then signed as he spoke. “This lock could have been opened by a ten-year-old with a credit card. You guys need to rekey. Get a strong deadbolt.”

  “I thought the lawyers had changed the locks.”

  Hernandez shrugged. “Well, if they did, they went for cheap.”

  “The paralegal put the key under the geraniums pot next to the front door,” Russ said. “He left a message on my phone telling me where to look. Apparently, he had better things to do. So, even a decent lock wouldn’t have mattered.”

  A quick interrogation began, initiated by a tall, bald-headed cop who identified himself as Officer Burroughs and introduced his partner as Officer Williams. Miranda gave her name and her reason for going to a house she didn’t yet own at 9:00 p.m. Russ stayed silent although Hernandez had signed Burroughs’s questions.

  After Miranda explained about the two wills and the scheduling problems, Burroughs laughed. “The judge was Winston Rayborn, right?”

  “Yep. I gather he’s known for coming up with interesting Solomon-like solutions?”

  All three officers nodded and grinned. Burroughs added, “For someone fondly referred to as a nutcase.”

  “So, I assume you never had cause to bust open the lock to the attic?” Officer Williams asked.

  “No! Seriously? It’s broken?”

  Williams nodded. “We found a window open on the right side of the attic. It looks like your intruder left through the window and shimmied right down the old sweet gum tree that’s about to take over the roof.” He pointed and added absently, “That thing needs a good pruning.”

  Burroughs pulled out a notebook. “Do you think you’d be able to tell if anything’s missing?”

  Miranda held back the laugh she feared would lead to hysterics. “Missing? Have y’all seen the rooms downstairs? I have no idea what some thief might have taken.”

  Hernandez turned to Russ and signed, How about you? Any ideas on what might be missing?

  Russ shook his head. “From what I remember, the attic has some old Hanukkah items, rocking chairs, about fifty very small lamps and a couple of old mannequins that still had dresses on them. There were some trunks, too, but they were locked pretty tight so if they’re not broken then I’d imagine no one else got into them. I didn’t see anything else in plain sight and I have no idea if Virginia stored anything valuable up there.” He paused then added. “I’d imagine the thief was hoping to find an original Auttenberg.”

  Officer Burroughs raised an eyebrow. “What’s an Auttenberg?”

  Russ explained to the policemen that Virginia had been married to the late artist Benjamin Auttenberg and that his works were worth a fortune, assuming any had survived. Miranda felt a knife twist in her stomach. How had Russ known about Virginia’s marital status? Because she told him, you dummy. She trusted him more than she trusted you.

  The officers promised to do all they could to find the intruder, but they weren’t optimistic since no one had a clue whether or not anything was missing. The only thing tampered with—the broken padlock on the attic door�
��had been wiped clean of all fingerprints. Rounding up all the wannabe felons in Jefferson County wasn’t an option. Ted Hernandez suggested that Miranda or Russ call their respective lawyers first thing the next morning and ask for better locks and an alarm service. He gave Miranda a friendly hug, shook Russ’s hand, told them to call if they found anything useful and then followed his fellow officers out the front entrance.

  “Well, should we get to work?”

  She whirled around. Russ and his grinning canine were staring at her. She crouched and began petting the dog, who immediately reciprocated with moist kisses. Miranda glanced up at Russ.

  “Can I have a minute to breathe? I’m still nervous knowing this house was broken into.”

  “Too fast! Plus, you seem to be mumbling,” Russ growled. “Hand gestures would be nice. Word has it you’re a good actress. You might consider facing me directly and doing a little pantomime.”

  She straightened up. “Sorry.” She repeated her statement and pointed to the house miming someone smashing windows or jimmying the door, then put her hands to her face in an imitation of the child in the movie Home Alone. Finally she put both hands over her heart and began to pant.

  She wasn’t sure how much Russ had understood since he stared at her without speaking for a good thirty seconds.

  “I got about three words,” he said. “Basically you’re scared.”

  She nodded. For a few moments there was silence. Finally Miranda gestured down at the medium-size yellow and tan canine, who appeared to be a mix of Labrador, shepherd and some sort of terrier.

  “Name?”

  A reluctant smile crossed Russ’s attractive features and Miranda’s heart began pounding harder than it had when she first realized someone had broken into Miss Virginia’s house. “You’ll appreciate this, I’m sure. Miranda, meet Prospero. Spero for short.”

  “A lover of the Bard? Or just The Tempest?” She mimed the burst of a storm as best she could while slowly asking the question.

  Russ obviously understood either the lip movement or her actions.