Ten Days in Summer

by Susan Calder

  “On the whole, she liked the Windsors?”

  “She said they were just people like us. That was a benefit we all got from scrubbing rich people’s toilets. You lose your awe when you see their nonpublic lives.” Florence cradled the sugar bowl with both hands. “I don’t expect this is worth a penny without the creamer.”

  “There might be records and pictures or the rest of the tea set to prove it belonged to the Windsors, which could make it quite valuable. I can give you the name of a dealer in antique china.”

  “I may want to keep it to remind me of Willie. This bowl is who she was, in a way. Working dutifully and hard and well and receiving a rich lady’s castoffs.” Florence stepped over a stack of dishes and into the living room.

  Florence’s similar traits, along with her devotion to her ex-mother-in-law, had paid off with a windfall inheritance. Was Garner right this was Florence’s plan, not chance?

  The stairwell door opened. Johnny bounded out and crashed into Florence. Paula grabbed Florence’s waist from behind to steady her.

  “Jesus Christ, Johnny,” Florence yelled. “Watch where you’re going.”

  Paula let go of Florence’s bony hips.

  Florence examined the sugar bowl she had avoided dropping or smashing against the sewing machine. She glared at Johnny. “You’re damn lucky it’s not chipped.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a traffic jam.” Johnny stood precariously close to the open stairwell, his too-large hockey helmet cocked on his head, his black shirt and jeans lightened by soot. He hugged a cookie jar to his chest.

  Paula made a mental note to leave him some hazmat suits and other safety gear, although he probably wouldn’t use them to spite her. Brendan appeared at the entrance to the living room, Sol behind him.

  “There you are.” Brendan stared past Paula at Johnny. “I’ve been …” His nostrils twitched. “What’s that smoky smell? Were you wasting time at Uncle Caspar’s while I—”

  “Not a waste, little bro.” Johnny tapped the cookie jar shaped like a gnome, its cap, nose and bulging belly painted bright red. “I found more jewellery, enough to half fill this little man.”

  “We agreed to leave the small items and take care of the paintings first,” Brendan said.

  “There’s more chance of jewellery giving us serious bread.”

  “It can wait. I want the large pieces out of my place so I can walk around without tripping over everything.” Brendan’s gaze darted to the jumble in the living room.

  Paula waited for Florence to blast Brendan for his dig at her so-called clean-up. Instead, Florence carried the sugar bowl to the kitchen to store it in a cupboard. Sol intently studied the mishmash of living room objects, or pretended he was, to stay out of the fight.

  Brendan’s nostrils flared, from anger or at Johnny’s smoky odour. “Where is Cynthia?”

  “You know she’s always late,” Johnny said. “That’s why I—”

  “Are you coming with me to the art dealers or not?”

  Johnny stroked the gnome’s stomach. “Remember, Brendan, all you and I get from this shit-house are the contents. Why not start with the ones more likely to reap us dough?”

  “The paintings are worth five thousand, according to Sol.”

  “These jewels—”

  “I didn’t promise five,” Sol said. “If you’re lucky, you might—”

  “Okay,” Brendan said to Johnny. “You get the jewels appraised. I’ll take care of the paintings. We’ll cover more ground if we work separately.”

  “Cynthia wants us together.”

  “Why is she running this operation? She isn’t even here.”

  Sol cleared his throat. He surveyed the jungle of papers, furs, dresses and toys covering the sofa and chair. “Where do you want to sit to discuss the building appraisal?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The deck was the only place to sit, and it was perfect. Paula relished the warmth from the morning sun. Its light bounced off the Stampede grounds and downtown towers backdropped by the distant mountains.

  Sol scanned the vista. “I may need to revise my property value estimate upwards.”

  “The view improved when they blew up the old hospital,” Florence said. “It blocked a few buildings.”

  Florence set a chair next to the ones Paula and Johnny had sat on the evening before the parade. Paula tested this third chair gingerly. The hole in its nylon web could use Garner’s handiwork. Florence took the rattan chair, leaving Sol the wooden one. He propped his legs on the footrest, as Johnny had that previous time. Johnny’s sleeping bag on the lounge chair looked like it hadn’t budged since that Thursday. Was he putting her on about sleeping outside? Tonight should be mild and dry enough.

  Sol passed Florence the estimate and leaned across the glass café table to go through the items. Voices flowed from Brendan’s deck below. He had gone down to wait for Cynthia to arrive and Johnny to shower. The higher pitched voice was Leah’s; the lower one, Brendan’s. Paula strained to make out their words but could grasp only the tones, which seemed upbeat, relaxed.

  Sol noted that Caspar’s policy met the co-insurance requirement. “That means—”

  “The building’s insured for at least eighty percent of its value,” Florence said.

  “Most people don’t know that.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “With no replacement cost, the building and Caspar’s contents will be subject to normal depreciation without penalty since the requirement was met.”

  Florence’s finger scrolled down the figures. “Your amount for plumbing is outrageous.”

  “It’s the going rate these days,” Sol said.

  Paula wondered if Leah was still in her sleep shirt. She was inclined to rev up slowly to the day. At this moment, Brendan would be experiencing her coming alive. Paula pictured the two of them seated on mismatching chairs, drinking coffee. Was that Leah’s laugh? Was she placing her coffee on a table so she could prop her bare foot up on the chair and hug her calf as she grew more animated?

  Florence squinted at the paper. “This amount for electrical has got to be wrong.”

  Sol moved his head closer for a look. “You could be right. I’ll make a note to recheck it.” With a glance at Paula that said, “This lady is sharp,” he wrote on his tablet.

  “A lot will depend on whether my daughter decides to take over Caspar’s apartment,” Florence said.

  Paula started. “Cynthia’s thinking of moving in?”

  “She’d enjoy some of your upgrades,” Florence told Sol. “I don’t see the point of granite and fancy knobs.”

  Below, the voices had stopped. Leah and Brendan must have gone inside.

  “I didn’t include amounts for cleaning and hauling away rubbish,” Sol said. “I assume Paula is taking care of that.”

  “Florence and I need to talk about this,” Paula said.

  Florence got up from her chair. “My son and I are handling it.”

  “If you insist.” Paula rose.

  “I assure you, you’ll be satisfied with our work.”

  “I’ll need a complete account of your labour and expenses.

  “How else do you run a cleaning business?”

  Sol flashed a sympathetic smile at Paula.

  Inside, Florence returned to the dishes littering the alcove floor. Paula and Sol continued past the bathroom’s shower noise that muffled Johnny’s warbles.

  “This Becker claim is getting on my nerves,” Paula said when they reached Sol’s car. “I don’t know where it’s going.”

  “The buzz from the fire guys is that homicide isn’t breaking its back to investigate.”

  “Why not?”

  “No proof of arson. Sure, the kids have motive for killing their uncle, but who hasn’t wanted to get rid of a relative sometime?” Sol grinned to show he was joking.

  A dusty Corolla pulled up across the street. Cynthia got out and darted between Paula’s car and Johnny’s pickup. Sol took the opport
unity to leave.

  “I got tied up with my insurance adjuster,” Cynthia said. “He’s giving me a hard time about the hail damage to my car.”

  From this distance, all Paula could see on the vehicle was dirt. “I’ll have a look, if you like.”

  “You’ve helped quite enough already by discovering my uncle’s will.” Cynthia’s tone was ice.

  “Your mother tells me you might move into your uncle’s apartment after it’s repaired,” Paula said.

  “Why would I do that? I already have a house.”

  “She says you’re considering it.”

  “That’s news to me.” Cynthia’s gaze strayed to the side steps.

  Brendan jogged toward them. “It’s about time you got here.”

  “Unlike you, Brendan, I have a life.”

  Rather than listen to bickering Beckers, Paula told them she was going down to talk to Leah. Brendan said she was in the shower. He asked Cynthia to help him load the rest of the paintings.

  “I have to find out about this plan Ma has for me.” Cynthia marched to the front steps.

  While waiting for Leah, Paula helped Brendan wrap paintings and hoist them into the pickup. They secured the load with rope and blankets. Brendan said his next major task was the yard sale, which would start tomorrow and run through the weekend.

  “Come Sunday night, you won’t recognize my apartment,” he said. “My goal is to have the living room and my bedroom cleared out.”

  “Will you stop sleeping in your van?”

  “After I buy a new bed. My old mattress is going straight to the garbage. Do you mind seeing if Florence has more rope to tie these paintings tighter? Johnny drives like a maniac around corners.”

  Paula went inside. Down the hall, Florence, Cynthia and Johnny formed a huddle. Johnny’s gaze lit on Paula approaching. He spoke to the others, who clammed up.

  Johnny grabbed the cookie jar from the sewing machine. “Let’s check out my loot.”

  “Later,” Florence said. “We decided to dispose of the paintings first.”

  “Did I decide?” Instead of his usual black, Johnny wore blue jeans and a plain blue shirt. No cowboy hat or hockey helmet covered his hair, slicked down from the shower. His receding hairline made him look older, or at least his full age of forty-three.

  He carried the jar to the alcove, dropped to the floor and removed the jar’s gnome head.

  Florence hovered above him. “Don’t break—”

  Jewellery clanged to the floor and rolled into china and glassware. Along with Florence and Cynthia, Paula scanned the fragile objects. Miraculously, nothing looked broken or chipped.

  Johnny rifled through the bright gems set into gold and silver metals. “I have my eye on these cuff links. Uncle Caspar must have bought them for the ‘B’ insignia.”

  Cynthia squatted for a closer look. “Are they real gold?”

  “We’ll find out. One is missing its tiny green stone. I’ll have a jeweller add one that matches.”

  “Who says you’ll get them? Brendan might want cuff links. His initials are BB.”

  “He can have this.” Johnny dangled a pendant that spelled out the word ‘Love’ in diamonds or their facsimiles.

  “Obviously, those aren’t real,” Cynthia said.

  “If they are, they’re worth a mint. For fun, let’s each of us choose what we want before we find out the values.”

  “I’m not gambling like that. We determine the worth of every piece before distributing.”

  “After the paintings are evaluated,” Florence said.

  “Why waste time on art we know won’t make any of us rich?” Johnny held out a silver charm bracelet. “Cynthia, this one screams ‘you.’ Or does this?” He exchanged the bracelet for a brooch in the shape of a bucking horse.

  “It’s kind of pretty.” Cynthia leaned over and stroked the creature’s diamondlike body and blue gem eye. She lifted the brooch. Ouch.” The piece fell to Johnny’s palm. “It pricked me.”

  “Sleeping Beauty,” Johnny said.

  “I hate brooches. All they do is poke holes in your shirt.” Cynthia sucked her fingertip to stop the bleeding.

  Footsteps clomped down the hall toward them. “Paula, did you get any—?” Brendan halted at the alcove entrance. His gaze travelled to Johnny and the jewellery spread out on the floor. “Okay, that’s it. I’m driving to the art dealers, whether you two are with me or not.”

  Johnny bolted up. He held the brooch out to Brendan. “I’ve claimed the cuff links. You can have this wild stallion that Cynthia rejected.”

  “I did not,” Cynthia said. “If those diamonds and sapphire are real. And the cuff links aren’t yours yet. I might want them for my son.”

  Brendan scooped the brooch from Johnny’s hand. “This looks like The Treasure.”

  “What treasure?” Cynthia asked.

  “Oma kept it in her sewing machine drawer.” Brendan’s gaze remained fixed on the brooch. “Is that where you found it?” He glanced at the machine blocking the kitchen entry.

  “It was downstairs at Caspar’s,” Johnny said. “Under a table in the living room. The firemen, cops and smoke clean-up crew missed it.”

  “I knew they were incompetent,” Florence said.

  “Oma took it out to show me sometimes,” Brendan continued. “We called it The Treasure. I don’t know why. Maybe because the first time it was after she’d read me a story about kids finding buried pirate treasure.” He walked down the jagged path between the china and glasses.

  “Watch where you step, Brendan,” Florence said.

  At the window, he raised the brooch to a beam of light. “The colours used to dance off the diamonds. That was Oma’s word for it ‘dance.’ The horse’s blue eye would change shades.” He swivelled the brooch into different angles. “As a kid I found it amazing.”

  “Oma never showed me The Treasure.” Cynthia spoke softly.

  “Me neither,” Johnny echoed.

  Brendan kept shifting the brooch in the light. “The colours aren’t doing that much. When I was younger, they seemed almost magical.”

  “Doesn’t everything?” Cynthia whispered.

  “Still, I wouldn’t mind keeping The Treasure, for the memory.”

  “We’ll see what it’s worth first.” Cynthia’s voice was back to normal.

  “Paula gave me business cards for a couple of jewellers,” Brendan said.

  “The jeweller in my building is closing shop tomorrow,” Paula noted. “I like him best, but the one downtown will also give you accurate prices.”

  Johnny collected the mass of potential treasures from the floor and dumped them into the cookie jar.

  “Don’t forget the cuff links,” Cynthia reminded him.

  Johnny added The Treasure last and returned the head to the gnome. Why had Paula assumed that all of Caspar’s rubble was worthless or of modest value? The volume of items in this house favoured him picking up a real treasure by fluke. It might be something obvious: a piece of jewellery or that ugly sculpture in the corner or the bowl allegedly owned by the Duchess of Windsor, although probably not a painting. Sol’s eye wouldn’t have missed a true work of art. Or it might be an object no one wouldn’t suspect, such as…. She didn’t know, because she didn’t suspect it, but possibly Caspar had. He may have intended the new will to take care of Florence while giving his nephews and niece an item worth more than the property, even when divided three ways. But how would he be sure they’d recognize the true treasure and not sell it for a few dollars at a yard sale?

  “Do you have more business to discuss?” Florence asked her.

  “Brendan wants more rope.” Paula looked at the door to the stairwell, which would be a faster route to Brendan’s apartment than going outside. “Can I take the interior staircase to go see my daughter?” She waited for Florence to bark at her for asking.

  “Suit yourself.”

  In the dark stairwell, Paula gripped the railing to make sure she didn’t fall down the
steep stairs lit by the single low-watt bulb. Brendan’s door opened easily. Damn. She hated the thought of Leah sleeping behind this unlocked door with Johnny upstairs. With a glance at the piles of sporting equipment in the living room, she passed Leah’s casually-made bed to the deck, where Leah was eating a bowl a cereal, dressed in her sleep wear. They hugged hello.

  “Isn’t this the most fantastic view?” Leah said.

  “Second only to the one above us. Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Solid as a tree. Since I’ve got a few hours before work, I told Brendan I’d price out the fishing gear so we’ll know what to charge at the garage sale tomorrow.”

  “Will you be helping at the sale?”

  “With what time I have. It’s the least I can do for him letting me stay here. He refuses to accept any rent money.”

  Leah finished her cereal and drank the remnants of milk in her bowl. Paula helped her carry the dishes into the apartment.

  “Did they tell you that Florence is loaning me her car?” Leah asked.

  “No.”

  “She generally does her shopping first thing in the morning, which fits with my hours perfectly. Now Jarrett can’t gripe about my taking the Civic.”

  “Are you still meeting Jarrett halfway?”

  Leah paused under the door frame between the bedroom and living room. “I don’t know how I stood him as long as I did. I think I needed to get away to realize that.”

  “You could have realized it at my house.”

  “I don’t know if I could, Mom, with your negative spin on Jarrett.”

  Shifting the negatives to Brendan could equally backfire. “I’m surprised Florence would loan you her car when she doesn’t know you. She’s not exactly the friendly type.”

  “She’s the one who suggested it after Brendan told her about my problem with Jarrett. It pissed her off that Jarrett was being an ass about it.”

  That sounded like Florence. “Are you sure it won’t be a burden for her?”

  “I’m going to buy all the gas as payment.”

  “That’s better than giving her money, so Florence’s insurers won’t view it as her renting you the car,” Paula said. “Do you lock the door to the interior staircase at night?”