by Tena Frank
“Now why would you care? Don’t nobody care ’bout that place no more.”
Tate noticed a hint of anger in Scott’s voice. “Sounds like maybe you do.”
“Mebbe I do. Don’t matter though. I can’t work for nothin’, and that’s the only way anythin’s gonna get done over there since they stop payin’ for the upkeep.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Them damn lawyers, that’s who. They had plenty money, far as I know. But they jus’ walked away from the place. Prob’ly kep’ the money theyselves. Jus’ let the place fall apart. Stop paying me, the maintenance man, everone who kep’ the place in shape.”
“When was that, Scott?”
“Oh, mebbe eight, ten yars ago.”
“Up until then, who paid you?”
“Lawyers, like I said. Name a Page and Smith, or sumpin’ like that. Checks stop comin’ but not me. Kep’ on workin’ for months, waitin’ ta git paid. Finally tracked ’em down where they office was, but they long gone from the looks of it. Empty buildin’, paper tacked ta the winders . . .”
“So, that was the end of it? Did you ever hear from anyone again?”
“Nope. Heared nothin’ and got nothin’. They still owe me hunderds a dollars.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Scott. Sounds like you took good care of the place until that happened.”
“Yep, did best as I could. Funny ole place, that one. Sad, ya know?”
“Sad how?”
“Man who built it kilt hisself right there on the front porch. My daddy were his lawn man. I usta work with him when I were a boy. It was purdy fancy when Mr. Harlan’ first built it, but always strange, you know. Like all the things on that house don’t go together.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.”
“And then when he were dead, the neighbors was real mean ’bout it. Like he were a bad man or sumpin’. He weren’t no bad man. Jus’ a man livin’ in a big ole house by hisself, tryin’ to get by like the res’ of us. ’Cept of course, he had way more money!” Scott chuckled to himself. “He weren’t ’xactly good, but he weren’t bad neither. He were near nice to me sometimes. Give me a li’l money a my own when I worked there with Daddy.”
“Sounds like a nice gesture to me. He didn’t have to pay you extra, did he?”
“Didn’t have to, no. Jus’ seem like he knew it would mean sumpin’ to me, you know, to have a li’l bit a money a my own. And he made sure ta tell my daddy the money were mine ta do as I please.”
“Did you ever meet the man who owns the place now? A Mr. Leland Howard?”
Disbelief flashed across Scott’s face. “Somebody own the place?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how he came to own it . . . or why.”
“Far as I know, no one done owned it since Mr. Harlan’ shot hisself.” Scott looked perplexed. “Why that man let it go fallow?”
“I wish I knew, Scott. Now the City wants it torn down and I want to save it. I hope what you just told me will help me do that.”
“Seem like a big task, ma’am. Don’t know why you care, but if it kin be saved, I hope you save it.”
“Thanks, Scott. I’ll keep in touch, if that’s okay. I have some property over on Maplewood and I’ll be looking for someone to tend the lawn come spring.”
“Always glad for work, ma’am, leas’ so long as ole Blue here’s welcome, too.”
“Your dog is more than welcome on my property, Scott.”
They parted ways, Scott waving a goodbye, Blue gently wagging his tail and Tate highly motivated to track down “them damn lawyers.”
Tate went directly to the library and immediately sought out Carla for assistance. Tate found her at her desk in the reference room.
“Hi, Tate. What can I help you with today?”
“It won’t come as a surprise that I need more information, right?”
Carla smiled. “No, it won’t. And that’s what I’m here for, so what can I do for you?”
“Well, at some point in the past there was a law firm in town named Page and Smith. I checked directory assistance for them but there’s nothing there now, so I figured I’d come straight to the expert for help!”
“What else do you know about them?” Carla turned to her computer and started typing.
“Not much, really. I have an idea they were still practicing law ten years ago, but around that time, they apparently closed up shop.”
“Is this related to that place on Chestnut Street?”
“Of course! I’ve been living and breathing that place since I saw you last. That’s what led me to Page and Smith. They used to pay the gardener for taking care of the lawn, and then the checks abruptly stopped coming to him eight or ten years ago.”
Carla continued searching her data base as they chatted. “I’m not finding Page and Smith. I’m spelling that P-A-G-E. Is that right?”
“I think so, but I only heard the name spoken. I’ve never seen it written. Are there other possibilities?”
“P-A-I-G-E is worth a try. Aha! Here’s something!” Carla pointed to the monitor and Tate read over her shoulder. “Okay, if that’s them, then its Paige and Schmidt. Let’s see . . . according to this article, they closed the practice in 1996, and it looks like they may have been in trouble . . .” Carla summarized the piece, which focused on a complaint by a client that someone in the firm had failed to file paperwork with the court on a timely basis, resulting in the client’s case being dismissed. That client had filed a lawsuit claiming malpractice and won a huge settlement.
“I wonder what was going on,” Tate mused. “Sounds like someone let things slip. That may be what happened over on Chestnut.”
“What do you mean?” Carla seemed genuinely interested, so Tate continued.
“Well, I tracked down the man who used to do the lawn work over there. Apparently there were caretakers in place for several decades after Freeman’s suicide. This guy, Scott is his name, says his father was the gardener and there was a handyman. I’m guessing the taxes were paid, too. Is there any way we could track that down? Wait . . . I’m sorry. I’m rambling again.”
Carla seemed completely content to let Tate go on unabated. “No, it’s fine, Tate. Really. I’ve been a librarian for a long time, and I don’t remember ever working with someone as fired up as you seem to be about this . . . what is it? A project? A passion?”
“A puzzle! I’ve loved them all my life, ever since my sister started making up word games to play with me when I was only 2 or 3. And this is a big, huge puzzle! Everything I learn seems to create more pieces, more questions. You’re right, I am fired up!”
“Okay, so tell me more. What else did you learn?”
“Well, Scott took over when his father passed and kept the lawn and garden in good shape. The lawyers paid for his services, and there was no problem until suddenly the checks just stopped coming. He finally went to the office only to find it had been closed for some time. The place was vacant. No forwarding address, no way to contact them.”
“What’d he do then?”
“He had to stop doing his work at the house. He couldn’t work for free, even though I got the feeling he loved the place. From the looks of it, the same happened with the caretaker and the taxes. Seems like the law firm just walked away from the place. And I wonder if they were letting it slip a long time before that. The façade is in bad shape. I doubt it has been painted since it was built.”
“Let’s look further, then,” Carla suggested.
After close to thirty minutes of searching, they had formulated a speculative timeline for the rise and fall of Paige and Schmidt. Established in the heyday of the mid-1920s, the firm quickly gained a reputation as top-notch specialists in real estate law and estate planning. Both original founders retired in the early 1940s and their sons took over. The second generation of Paige and Schmidt continued as active partners for another two decades even after their offspring, also sons, assumed stewardship in the late 1960s. During that time, the firm�
��s reputation began to fade.
Carla and Tate found two articles hinting at the eventual downfall. In one case, a junior partner was arrested and convicted of drug use; in the other, a major malpractice suit against the firm was dismissed, but in the aftermath, Paige and Schmidt quickly shrank from five attorneys down to two—the great grandson of the original Schmidt, and the great granddaughter of the original Paige. She married a wealthy Frenchman and moved out of the country, leaving the firm in the hands of the only remaining descendant of the founders. It was under his watch that the firm folded, following the lawsuit that apparently bankrupted it.
“So where do you go from here?” Carla’s question echoed Tate’s own thoughts.
“Where do I go from here? Good question. Maybe I can find someone who can tell me more about these lawyers. And there was a trust fund . . . rather there is a trust fund. Where is it? How do I find out more about it? Who has control of it . . .?
“Looks like you may be heading back to the courthouse, no?”
“I think you’re right, Carla. As usual, you’ve been a great help. I owe you!”
“It’s my job, but I have to say you make it more interesting than usual, so I owe you, too.”
“Well, when I get this all sorted out, we’ll have to celebrate.”
“I’d like that very much, Tate,” Carla said, smiling broadly.
Her inviting response surprised Tate. “Oh . . . okay, then. Well . . . thanks again, Carla.”
Tate left the library and headed for the courthouse, where she learned that the only trustee on record for the property held in Leland Howard’s name was the defunct law firm of Paige and Schmidt. Indeed, they had just closed up shop and walked away.
FORTY
2004
Tate had been so busy thinking about the ramifications of what she had learned through Scott and Carla about Paige and Schmidt that she had little time left to prepare herself for the evening with Cally. That also meant she hadn’t had time to worry about her dinner with Cally. Now she stood before her closet, searching for what to wear and wishing she had nicer choices than her usual jeans and t-shirts. She finally settled on the one pair of black slacks she owned along with her favorite lightweight jacket. Then she shoe-horned her feet into her black cowboy boots with the silver toe and heel guards. The final touches included small gold earrings and dabs of her signature essential oil blend at her wrists and behind her ears.
So much for this not being a date! “Well, it isn’t a date,” she insisted to the image in the mirror as she gave her hair a quick brushing. “I don’t do dates anymore!”
Why not? the image seemed to ask. She locked the front door and headed for her truck, refusing to follow that path of inquiry into the past.
Tate pulled up in front of the Princess Hotel at the appointed time and found Cally waiting for her at the entrance, dressed in an outfit of tailored slacks in slate gray with a hip-length, belted, black leather jacket over a white, cotton shirt, the high collar flipped up behind her neck and accented with a silk scarf in crimson. Stunning! What a gorgeous woman! Tate felt her pulse quicken as Cally climbed into the passenger seat.
“You look great!” Tate smiled self-consciously as she greeted Cally.
“You too, Tate! I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day, especially after that visit with Gampa yesterday. Do you think we could go back tomorrow?”
“Sure, I can work that into my schedule easily.”
“I hope I’m not keeping you from important work. I fear I’ve been monopolizing your time ever since we met.”
“Well, I’m the only boss of me these days, so I make my schedule whatever I want it to be. You don’t need to worry.”
“Okay, then. Tomorrow it is. But I don’t know where I’m going to get good brownies. I promised him, you know.”
“There are a couple of great bakeries in town. We should be able to find something. But don’t expect to fool him that they’re homemade. He has a remarkable ability to tell the difference!”
They had agreed to have dinner at The Corner Kitchen, so Tate decided to take the route through downtown on their way to Biltmore Village.
“This is such a beautiful town, and so much different from when I lived here as a child. I’m so glad I came back—came home! And meeting you is a big part of that for me. It’s like we were destined to meet . . . at least it feels that way to me.” Cally had not taken her eyes off Tate since getting into the truck, and Tate felt a bit uneasy under the intensity of her attention.
“I know what you mean. I’m not surprised, though. Spirit had some reason for getting me tangled up with that house in Montford. Like maybe I found it so I could help you find Leland or something. I don’t know. Does that sound weird?”
“I’ve never been all that religious or spiritual, so it does sound a bit . . . unusual to me. But you clearly feel a connection to things like that—Spirit as you call it, your runners . . .”
Tate welcomed the opportunity to divert Cally’s focus from her. “Yeah, my runners! I’m hoping they’ll find us a good parking space down in the Village.” The two continued to chat amiably, but Tate felt herself pulling back a bit whenever Cally moved the conversation into personal territory.
Thanks to her runners, Tate believed, they quickly found a space within a block of the restaurant and were seated less than ten minutes later. The Corner Kitchen occupied a quaint house dating back to the late 1800s, one of the many original cottages in Biltmore Village, which sat at the entrance to George Vanderbilt’s magnificent estate. They had a choice table near the fireplace in a small dining room across the hall from the open kitchen.
“Do you have any favorites?” Cally asked as she perused the menu.
“I’ve only been here once before, and everything was delicious. I’m thinking about the trout, but the steak sounds good, too. What about you?”
“Yes, the fish, I think.”
They ordered an appetizer to share, and Cally ordered the fish along with a perfectly paired Riesling, while Tate settled on steak and a smoky chardonnay.
“I know I’m supposed to drink red wine with steak,” Tate offered preemptively.
“Really? Why?”
“Well, red wine with red meat, and all that. There are lots of rules, aren’t there?”
“It all depends. Do you like red wine?”
“No! Every time I’ve tried it, I ended up with a massive headache. I’ve been told by people who seem to know about these things that I must be drinking cheap red wine. I think it doesn’t matter. Me and red wine don’t mix.”
“Then there’s no reason to drink it, is there?” Cally took a sip of her Riesling and waited for an answer.
“That kind of surprises me. You seemed to choose your wine carefully, and only after you decided on what you were having for dinner. Me, I always order something white, regardless. I bet you’re one of those who know a lot about wine.”
“In my business, I’m expected to entertain clients, and to do so lavishly. The firm has a huge budget for wining and dining, and they even sent me to wine pairing classes so I could court new top-tier clients. So, yeah, I know a lot about it. But if you don’t like something, you don’t like it, no matter what the experts say.”
“That’s a refreshing attitude. And a relief!” Tate laughed as she tipped her glass in a salute to Cally. “So what is your work, exactly?”
“I’m a publicist. I work in a prestigious firm in Los Angeles, and I have a variety of clients, but mostly I represent companies and people who provide services, like accountants, doctors, hairdressers to the stars . . .”
“Do you like what you do?”
“I’m good at it, let’s leave it there. I fell into it. It’s not what I planned for myself.”
“What did you plan?”
“Nothing, really! I earned my bachelor’s degree in psychology. Then I went to work as a receptionist just until I figured out what I wanted to do next. That was ages ago, and as the years passed
I learned more about the business, moved up the ranks, and they were about to make me a partner before I left town.”
“When do you go back?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure I will.”
“Really?”
“It feels like there’s nothing there for me anymore. My mom died not long ago, my girlfriend left me . . .”
“I’m sorry, Cally. Sounds like you’ve had a rough time of it.”
“You know, I thought so, too, until I spent three weeks driving across the country. That’s plenty of time and distance to get some perspective on your life, and that’s what I did. It’s pretty clear to me that I don’t want to go back, and there’s really no reason to.”
“So what would you do instead?”
“Stay here—move back home. I should be able to find some kind of work here. I have enough money to live on for quite a while, so I could take time to look around. Maybe go back to school. I have a lot of ideas running around in my head, but so much has happened I’m having trouble sorting through all of them.”
“Well, there’s more to add to the mix. Want to hear the latest news regarding that house in Montford and your grandfather?”
“Yes, but I’d also like to get to know you better, Tate.”
Alarms started sounding in Tate’s head again. She paused and took a sip of wine before responding. “I’m sure we’ll get to that, but let me tell you about these lawyers . . .” and she launched into the story of meeting Scott and researching Paige and Schmidt. Cally listened, and by the time dinner arrived, she seemed content to focus on the quest for answers about 305 Chestnut Street rather than pressing Tate for more personal information.
“This trout is outstanding!” Cally offered Tate a taste and Tate reciprocated with the steak, which had been cooked to perfection.
“I’m as impressed this time as I was on my first visit. This may become one of my favorite treats when I’m feeling extravagant.”