A Comedy of Heirs

by Rett MacPherson

  “Yeah, well, I feel like crap. I feel like a failure. I feel like…” Just what did I feel like? “Did you know that my uncle Jed died?”

  “No,” Hubert said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did he try and contact you in the last week?”

  “No,” he said. “Why? Was his death suspicious?”

  “No,” I said. “Not that we know of. We think he slipped on the ice and fell into the river when he was drunk.”

  “He’s been drunk since he was twenty,” he said. “How did his liver keep going?”

  “I don’t know. I’d written your name down on a piece of paper and it turned up missing. When they fished him out of the river, he had the piece of paper in his pocket. Do you think that he contacted somebody, other than you, who might have wished him harm over this whole thing?”

  Hubert McCarthy thought a moment and then he answered. “No. I think he was just afraid of somebody finding out about the whole mess. So he swiped the piece of paper. I think it was as innocent as that.”

  “Still trying to cover up after all these years,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  Like he could be doing right now, and how would I ever know the difference? I was frustrated and depressed. I had a funeral to attend tomorrow and tons of presents still to buy and wrap for Christmas. I was truly getting tired of thinking about this whole mess.

  “The important thing is, you got them to face it,” he said. “Now, reach in there and get your present.”

  “Mr. McCarthy, I can’t accept—”

  “Oh, just hush up and reach in there and get it.”

  I sorted through the three or four presents in the magazine rack. I found the one that said simply Torie. It was wrapped in the same paper as the other presents. Cheap red paper with snowmen holding presents on it. It was the kind you’d find in the four rolls for a dollar bin at Walgreen’s.

  I opened the present and found my grandfather staring back at me, holding his beloved fiddle in his left hand. The photograph was in a nice wooden frame. He must have been about twenty at the time, young and handsome. You never knew people’s stories just by looking at them. He looked wholesome, happy and pure, not like someone from a horribly dysfunctional family. His hair was parted in the middle and his hazel eyes smiled, even though his mouth was not overly curved. It was a studio picture, professional.

  “It was a promotional picture he had made. Advertising his fiddle playing,” he said. “Never could figure out how hands that worked so hard could caress a fiddle like they did.”

  I’d only heard my grandfather play a few times and he had been old and arthritic. Even then, though, there was a special sound to what he did. I think it was the sound of love. He loved what he was doing.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much. I will treasure it, always.”

  “He was my very best friend,” Hubert said.

  “I don’t remember you at his funeral,” I said.

  “I was there,” he answered. “You were young. Thinking of other stuff. I was in the back of the church.”

  “Well, I should be going. Thank you again,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. I had a whole bunch of pictures of him. A few of him and me,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked.

  “They came up missing,” he said. “I haven’t moved in thirty years, and yet … I haven’t seen those pictures in fifteen years. Don’t know how long they been gone.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” I said. “Maybe they will turn up.”

  Thirty-four

  “Okay, Sheriff, I know this seems strange…”

  “No, it’s not,” Sheriff Brooke said. “You’ve done this to me before. Just hauled me off to some unknown destination because you have a hunch on something.”

  I looked at him sharply to see if he was being facetious or what. “You’re driving,” I said. He looked over at me from behind the wheel of his squad car, in his perfectly laundered tan and brown uniform. I wish somebody would come up with a different color for sheriffs to wear.

  “So?” he said.

  “So I’m not hauling you anywhere. I’m the passenger here.”

  “You have to be the most annoyingly argumentative person that I know,” he said. “Did you go to school to learn that?”

  “No,” I said. “Comes quite naturally. Father’s side of the family.” He rolled his eyes as we made headway down the highway at seventy miles per hour. “Be happy you’re not marrying my father.”

  “I am happy that I’m not marrying your father. Very happy,” he assured me. “So, you want to start from the top on all of this?”

  “Okay. Did I tell you about the old lady, Naomi Cordieu, that worked for the historical society?” I asked and pulled my left foot up under my right leg to get comfortable. I wore my red Converses today, jeans and my big blue sweatshirt that said WEST VIRGINA MOUNTAINEERS. My grandmother bought it for me last year for Christmas. She might have moved from there forty years ago, but she’s never forgotten her favorite football team.

  “I think, vaguely,” he said.

  “She just happened to come into the library and found out that I was asking questions about Bradley Ferguson and the drowning of his brother and all sorts of things. I mean, the ironic part is I would have eventually gotten around to contacting her even if she hadn’t left word for me to do so. Are you following me?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She is the widow of Bradley Ferguson.”

  “And Bradley Ferguson is the one you had me check on. The hunting accident in Africa. Right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Bradley Ferguson was in love with, and I’m fairly sure had an affair with, my great-grandmother, Della Ruth. He was also the little brother to Wil, who drowned in the accident for which Nate Keith was largely responsible.”

  “Okay…”

  “So, when I first visited this Naomi Cordieu lady, she told me that her widow, Bradley Ferguson, was madly in love with Della Ruth before he met Naomi, and they had an affair,” I said.

  “So, why are we going to see her?”

  “Because … here’s where it gets sticky. She also told me that Bradley was the father of my grandfather, John Robert,” I said. The sheriff’s eyebrows went up a bit and he gave a little whistle. “I know, I know. Well, at first, I’m thinking … who am I to say that it wasn’t true? I mean, I found evidence of this affair, so who’s to say she didn’t get pregnant?”

  “Yeah, well, I can see that. Go ahead,” he said.

  “What really convinced me that maybe she might be telling the truth was this story that she told me about how Della Ruth would send Bradley photographs of ‘his son’ John Robert once a year. She had a shoe box full of these pictures and she gave them to me.”

  “Where did she get the pictures?” he asked.

  “Exactly. I believed her, because … how else would she get all these pictures of my grandfather?”

  “So why do you doubt her now?”

  “I went to see Hubert McCarthy last night,” I said. “He gave me a photograph of my grandfather—”

  “Why did you go see Hubert McCarthy?” he asked, a sudden sharpness to his voice.

  “Uh … well, Aunt Ruth—”

  “Torie, blast it!” he said and hit the steering wheel a good one. “You just can’t go off on your own like that. I would have taken you if you’d have asked.”

  “Aunt Ruth had told me that it was a woman,” I said, ignoring his outburst. “She saw somebody in a dress in the front yard before the shot. Hubert’s wife was none other than Harlan Clayton’s daughter.”

  “The one who killed himself,” the sheriff said.

  “Yup, and Nate Keith was killed—”

  “On the anniversary of Harlan’s suicide.”

  “Exactly, so I’m thinking … Hubert’s wife did it and he covered up big time. Well, he says his wife didn’t do it, and he admitted to leaving out the bit of testimony from Aunt Ruth saying it was a woman.”

&nbs
p; “You still don’t know that it wasn’t Hubert’s wife,” the sheriff said. He sounded like he was ready to scold me.

  “No, I know … but as I’m leaving he gives me this picture of my grandfather, right? I say nothing. He mentions the fact that he had tons of pictures of John Robert, but he doesn’t know where they all went to,” I said. “Disappeared on him one day.”

  A smile slowly started in the corner of Sheriff Brooke’s mouth and worked its way across his face until he had a full-grown grin. “So, you’re thinking Naomi stole these pictures of John Robert.”

  “Yes. My only problem with this is why? Why would she steal these pictures? If she did steal the pictures, it makes perfect sense,” I said. “That’s why I wanted you to come along.”

  “I can’t misrepresent myself,” he said. “I can’t say I’m working a case if I’m not.”

  “You don’t have to do that, boy scout. Just look official.”

  “Oh, so I’m like a trophy sidekick,” he said.

  “No, no, look official and make it seem like you’re just checking into a theft reported by Hubert McCarthy.”

  “What?” he asked. “I can’t…”

  I gave him the best pleading look that I could possibly come up with. The one that works on Rudy. Nothing works on my father.

  “As long as I don’t really say that, I guess it will be all right,” the sheriff said.

  “Good. Now, don’t let her spinster-superhostess act get the best of you,” I said. Although it did me. “I’m not real comfortable with believing Bradley Ferguson’s misfired gun was actually a misfired gun.”

  “I’ll try not to,” he said. “I was a little surprised by that myself. When I checked into his death, I expected it to be straightforward. I didn’t expect the little inconsistency of a gut wound instead of a facial wound.”

  “Oh, turn here,” I said and pointed to the outer road.

  “Here? Right here?”

  “Yeah, it’s the yellow house there on the outer road.”

  I’ll give the sheriff credit that he kept his comments to himself as we stood on Naomi Cordieu’s picture-perfect country front porch. The door opened and Naomi looked at the sheriff oddly, then looked at me. Recognition registered on her face and then she looked back at the sheriff as if in worry.

  “Hi, Naomi,” I said. “Can we come in for a minute?”

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting company,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t be worried, this is my stepfather,” I said. “We were out … Christmas shopping.”

  She opened the door and let us in. The sheriff gave me a look that would have melted the polar icecaps. I was not a polar icecap, however, and I quickly looked away and followed Naomi into her house. Actually, I was smiling on the inside that I’d found a way to use the sheriff’s upcoming nuptials to my benefit.

  “Have a seat,” she said and pointed to the same couch that I’d sat on during my first visit. Naomi was dressed in a royal blue dress with large, loud yellow flowers all over it. “So, you’re Torie’s stepfather. She never told me that she had such a handsome individual in her family. How fortunate,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m just the most fortunate girl in the world,” I said through clenched teeth. The sheriff’s chest puffed a little and a smug smile cut the corners of his mouth.

  “So, what brings you all here today?” Naomi asked.

  The sheriff looked at me, waiting for me to speak. I, however, had no intention of speaking—for once in my life—and just smiled at him.

  “Well,” the sheriff began and took a deep breath. I knew he really wanted to strangle me right now. But, hey, it’s not like I haven’t wanted to strangle him a time or two. “Torie and I were visiting an acquaintance of ours, Hubert McCarthy.”

  “Oh, really?” Naomi asked. Outwardly I saw no difference in her. But there was a new edge to her voice.

  “Yes, do you know him?” the sheriff asked.

  “Well, of course. Not well, but everybody from these parts knows Hubert and his family. Why?”

  “This is going to sound kind of strange—”

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked abruptly.

  The sheriff looked to me for guidance.

  “Uh, yes. She has wonderful tea,” I said to the sheriff.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said and went off to get her tea cart.

  “Stepfather!” the sheriff semi-yelled as soon as Naomi was out of hearing range.

  “You are … or will be. Just not yet. It’s just one minor—”

  “Lie.”

  “Time discrepancy,” I said.

  He growled at me. I smiled. Naomi came back in wheeling her tea cart about five minutes later and seemed not to notice the frown on the sheriff’s face. “One lump or two?” she asked the sheriff.

  “Uh … two,” he said.

  “So go on with your story,” Naomi said as she poured our tea and doled out our sugar lumps.

  “Mr. McCarthy mentioned a large quantity of photographs that he once owned of John Robert Keith, and that they were missing. That they’d been missing for a while.”

  “Really,” Naomi said.

  “And then, Torie here says that you gave her a box of photographs of John Robert and we were just wondering if there was any way they could be Mr. McCarthy’s,” he said.

  Nicely done, Sheriff.

  “Torie, I already told you how I came by my photographs,” she said.

  “I know, but I was wondering if there was some way that Bradley Ferguson could have actually got them from Hubert,” I said. I followed the sheriff’s lead of not outwardly blaming her but giving her a way out. All she had to do was take it. “I know that you said that Della Ruth sent them to him, but that was before you were married to him. Is there any way that he actually got them from Hubert? Hubert and my grandfather were best friends. It seems likely that Hubert would have pictures of him.”

  “Bradley wouldn’t have lied to me,” she said. “I don’t think.”

  We could be here all day, I thought. She could never say what we wanted her to say. And even if she did, I wasn’t real sure what to do about it. “Do you have a bathroom that I can use?” I asked Naomi.

  “Yes,” she said. “Down the hall to the right.”

  I followed her instructions. The hallway intersected twice with cross hallways. I found her bathroom, all decorated in pink and roses. I used it as quickly as possible as I didn’t want to miss anything that was going on out there in her living room. I washed my hands, turned off the light and walked out into the hall.

  I thought I’d gone down the correct hall, but I hadn’t. I figured I would still end up at the other end of the house, just one room over. Sure enough, I found myself in the kitchen, which was next to the living room. Her kitchen was bright blue gingham and sunflowers. This lady liked flowers.

  On the kitchen counter was an open bottle of prescription pills. Okay, I knew this was none of my business … but when has that stopped me? At least I felt guilty about it. I walked over and picked up the bottle. Sleeping pills. I read the label. December 5 was the fill date, thirty tablets. December fifth. That was like nine or ten days ago. Then why were there only three pills left in the bottle?

  There was a residue on the counter. Like somebody had ground up the pills quickly. Oh my God. The tea.

  I walked quickly back to the living room and tried to get the sheriff to look at me. But he was intent on the story that Naomi was telling him about one of her many trips around the world. I sat down next to him and noticed that he’d finished his tea. Naomi poured him another cup.

  “You haven’t touched your tea,” Naomi said to me. That’s right, I hadn’t. And I wasn’t about to now.

  “Yeah, I thought you said her tea was so good,” the sheriff said. A thin layer of sweat had broken out on his skin. I had to get him out of there. Depending on the drug it could take as long as an hour to work or ten minutes. I guess it depended on just how many pills she’d ground up and put in the
darn teapot!

  Or there could be another explanation, I told myself. I took a deep breath and gave her the benefit of the doubt. I decided that I could have jumped to conclusions and she hadn’t drugged the tea. Then I noticed the sheriff shaking his head, as if to clear it. I looked at Naomi, who was looking at me. I was not drugged. What would she do with one drugged and not the other?

  “You really should have some tea,” she said.

  “Why don’t you have some?” I asked.

  “Torie,” the sheriff said. “I don’t feel too good. Maybe we should … do this some—some other time.”

  “Sure, Colin,” I agreed. “That sounds good to me.”

  I stood up and held my hand out to him, which he leaned forward to take but only managed to look at before falling back on the couch moaning. “Sheriff, let’s go.”

  He rocked his head back and forth, with his eyes rolling back in his head. He tried to reach up and either touch his head or his eyes, but his hand never quite made it to his head and flopped back down on the couch. My God. Naomi had drugged him just as sure as it was December! I had immediately suspected her of the worst, and now that it was happening, I could barely believe she’d actually done it.

  “Naomi,” I said. “Call 911.”

  Naomi just looked at me. What did she think? Did she think I couldn’t physically overtake her and call the number myself? Her confidence worried me. Did she know judo or something? Did she have a gun somewhere?

  I leaned down and whispered in the sheriff’s ear. “You’ve been drugged, Sheriff. Don’t fight me.” I have no idea if he comprehended what I said or not. I pretended to be crying on his shoulder. Maybe Naomi would feel really secure and make her move, whatever it was. While I was on his shoulder, I reached down and took his gun from his holster. It was awkward at first, because I had to unsnap it and everything.

  As I pulled it out, the sheriff mumbled something and made a vague effort at trying to stop me. I stood up with the gun pointed at Naomi Cordieu, the little old lady from hell.

  “All right, Naomi,” I said, holding the gun on her. I held it like they do in Charlie’s Angels, with my left palm under the butt of the gun, but I had no idea what I was doing. I’d never shot a handgun in my life. Only hunting guns for target practice and skeet shooting. I assumed the safety was on, but I was clueless as to how to turn it off or even where it was. Did I just shoot or did I have to cock something?