“So sorry for your loss,” he told Miss Dora.
“Thank you, Quentin,” she said.
He gave me a long stare and sat down at the other end of the table. The accordion folder creaked as he pulled out papers. “Is your name Christine or Teeny?”
The way he said my name, you’d think it was toxic waste. “Teeny is my nickname,” I said.
“Are you going to do a reading of the will?” Miss Dora asked.
“Lawyers don’t actually read wills unless the family requests it. We mail them. Anyway, Bing didn’t have a will. He had a revocable living trust, just like his daddy did.” Mr. Underhill turned to me. “But I assume you know this?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“It was set up to avoid probate.” Mr. Underhill handed me a thick document. “Bing designated you as the trustee, along with the First National Bank of South Carolina as the successive trustee.”
Miss Dora crossed her legs, the pantyhose swishing. “What does that mean?”
“That she inherits everything,” Mr. Underhill said. “Bing had properties from North Carolina to Georgia, mostly along the coast. Now they belong to you, Miss Templeton. Well, except for one property. The Spencer-Jackson House on 99½ East Bay Street. Just before Bing died, he sold that property to Miss Natalie Lockhart. She submitted a copy of the sale contract.”
“Sale contract?” Miss Dora blinked. “For what?”
“For the Spencer-Jackson House,” Mr. Underhill said. “As you can see,” he added, “it was signed by Bing and Miss Lockhart on June fifth.”
“The day after I hit them with peaches,” I whispered.
“Pardon me?” Mr. Underhill leaned forward.
“Never mind that,” Miss Dora said. “I’m all confused. Surely you’re not saying that Bing sold the Spencer-Jackson?”
“I was surprised, too, but apparently he changed his mind.” Mr. Underwood showed her the contract.
“I don’t believe it.” Miss Dora reached into her bag, pulled out a pink Kleenex, and dragged it over her forehead. “Bing would never sell that house. Never.”
“Well, he did.” Mr. Underhill blinked. “And the paperwork is in order.”
“Let me see that document,” Miss Dora said.
“It’s notarized,” he told her. “You can view the original at the Register of Deeds office. I’ve spoken with Miss Lockhart, and she has graciously allowed Miss Templeton to remain in the house for thirty days—or until the house sells.”
“Graciously? Here we go again.” Miss Dora rolled her eyes. “May I ask how much Bing sold the house for?”
Mr. Underhill’s cheeks reddened. “$500,000.”
“That’s absurd,” Miss Dora cried. “Even if Bing had changed his mind, he wouldn’t have sold that house for a bargain-basement price. It’s worth millions.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the true story.” Mr. Underhill folded his hands and pressed them against his chin. “Bing had scheduled a meeting with me next week, presumably to change his trust. But he was murdered.”
“Maybe that woman sweet-talked him into selling the Spencer-Jackson House,” Miss Dora said. “Or she got him drunk!”
“Do you have proof?” Mr. Underhill asked.
“Well, no, but—”
“If you find evidence of wrongdoing, I’ll be happy to help you.”
“I’m sure you would.” Miss Dora glared at him. “Just make sure that an allowance is made available to this young lady. She’s practically destitute. And she’s fixing to start a cake baking business.”
“It was my understanding that Miss Templeton is a suspect in Bing’s murder. The trust can’t be settled until her name is cleared, or until—”
“So, she won’t get a dime until the police find who really killed Bing?” Miss Dora cried.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Miss Dora said. “What happens if she’s found guilty?”
“The bank will be the sole trustee.”
“What if she’s found innocent? What then?”
“If this should happen, Miss Templeton would be a wealthy woman. A monthly allowance would be set up, of course. And if she wished to purchase property, she’d have to discuss it with the bank. They would, of course, help her manage the entireties.”
“Entireties?” I asked. “What’s that?”
“The Jacksons’ properties,” he said. “Strip malls, beachfront condos, office buildings.”
“What’s she supposed to live on until the trust is settled?” Miss Dora asked. “Can’t you give her an advance?”
“That’s up to the bank,” he said. “And the justice system. But there’s another problem.”
“What?” Miss Dora rubbed her forehead.
“Mr. Jackson’s sister is challenging the trust.”
“Oh, come now, Quentin,” Miss Dora said. “We went through this after Rodney died. Eileen challenged his trust—and you told her to skedaddle.”
“I’m merely advising you that it may be a while before the trust is settled.”
Miss Dora and I got up to leave. On our way out the door, Mr. Underhill said, “Remember, Miss Templeton. You can only stay in the house thirty days or until it sells.”
* * *
Since Mr. Underhill’s office was near the Ashley River, Miss Dora invited me to lunch at the Crab House. During the drive across the bridge, she was uncharacteristically silent, touching her pink nails against the steering wheel the way Eileen had tapped the cat carriers. Behind us, the beige Camry hovered at a distance.
We caught the Wappoo drawbridge when it was down and drove over the creek. Finally, she pulled into the Crab House parking lot. So did the Camry.
A waitress seated us next to the window. We ordered coconut fried shrimp with she-crab soup. Miss Dora’s phone kept ringing, and she barked orders to her painters. “They did what?” she cried, and her face tightened. “Oh, for pity’s sake. We’ll discuss this later.”
She threw the phone into her purse and grabbed the waitress’s arm. “Darlin’, bring me a pomegranate martini. Teeny? You need something?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not,” Miss Dora said as the waitress bustled off. “The hysterical society is raising holy hell over my paint colors, inside and out. I should be allowed to paint my house purple if I want. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Life isn’t like a box of goddamn chocolates, Teeny. It’s more like pasta—curly as rotini, versatile as tortellini.”
I dipped my spoon into the she-crab soup. It was thick, with orange roe and a hint of sherry. Almost every restaurant in Charleston offered she-crab soup on the menu, but the Crab House version couldn’t be beat. I took my time, savoring each mouthful. If I had their recipe, I’d die a happy woman.
We shared key lime pie for dessert. As we were leaving, a sailboat bobbed toward the bridge. We got into the Bentley. Miss Dora hit the gas and swerved onto the road, shrouding the Camry with exhaust fumes.
“Let’s lose those nitwits,” she said and pointed at the bridge. “I bet I can beat that sailboat.”
I wasn’t so sure. I stared up at a yellow light and the drawbridge sign. The yellow light turned red, and a pole started to drop over the road.
“Oh, bother,” she said and pushed her foot against the gas pedal.
“Miss Dora, no!” I cried.
“Oh, poo,” she said and mashed the pedal harder.
In the opposite lane, traffic had stopped as the pole continued to fall. A red light flashed in Miss Dora’s sunglasses as she sped under the barrier. The sailboat was almost to the bridge.
“Hit it, Bessie!” she yelled to her car and squeezed the steering wheel. I muffled a scream as the bridge cracked apart and started to rise. The Bentley zoomed up one half of the bridge, the tires singing on the metal seams.
“Stop!” I cried. “I’m getting out.” My heart whooshed in my ears, and
my lunch was trying to come up. I grabbed the door handle, ready to jump.
“Too late now.” She hit the power lock. “They won’t arrest me.”
“Arrest? We could die!”
“Not with me behind the wheel.”
“But—”
“Hush now, and let me drive.”
Each half of the drawbridge inched up and up. My fingers dug into the leather seat. The Bentley rose into the air, leaped over the gap, and shuddered when the tires hit the metal on the other side. I shut my eyes as she drove down the still-rising ramp.
Her front fender broke through the pole. The pieces flew over the car and shattered against the pavement. “Tra la la,” Miss Dora sang as she sped off the bridge.
“See?” She twirled one hand in the air. “Easy peasy. Sorry if I frightened you. But I lost your police escort.”
“They’ll catch up.”
“They aren’t the only reason I’m rushing,” she said. “My supper club meets tonight at six thirty sharp. You just don’t know how compulsive Mary Martha is.”
“Mary Martha?”
“Supper club meets at her house tonight. Last year, her own husband showed up late to the dinner. Dessert was being served, and she flat refused to seat him. He had to eat cake in the kitchen, and he’s a big-shot banker. So I wouldn’t like to think what she’d do to me.”
It was only one thirty, plenty of time to make that dinner, but I didn’t dare say so. Miss Dora wasn’t a Charleston native, and she felt as if she had to try extra hard to fit into the world she’d married into.
While she talked about the members of her supper club, rating their decor, she headed back to Charleston. Minutes later, she stopped in front of the Spencer-Jackson House. I looked everywhere for Eileen’s Winnebago, but I didn’t see it.
“Toodle-loo, darlin’,” she said. “Have fun baking.”
“I’ll try,” I said. For once I was glad to be climbing out of the Bentley. My legs were still a little shaky from our race with the drawbridge. I walked toward the palm tree, where the Jackson Realty sign jutted up. When I got closer, I saw a red sticker: SALE PENDING.
twenty-eight
Miss Dora jumped out of the Bentley, leaving the motor running, and joined me beside the palm tree. We gaped at the Jackson Realty sign like it was roadkill.
“We need to find out the closing date,” she said.
“What does it matter?” I shrugged.
“Because if they’re closing soon, you don’t have thirty days. Why, you’ll barely have time to find an apartment. Although Bing has tons of rental property. Don’t worry. I’ll help you decorate your new place.”
I nodded, but paint colors were the least of my woes.
She tapped her chin. “Maybe you should call your lawyer.”
“Why?”
“He might know how to fix this. You know, delay the sale—at least until you’re settled elsewhere.”
She pushed her cell phone into my hand. I reluctantly dialed SUE-THEM and got a recording saying that Mr. O’Malley would be out of the office until next week.
“Well?” Miss Dora said. “Did he answer?”
“No.”
“Let’s go to his house. Get in the car, darlin’.” She grabbed the phone. I’d never seen her this flustered. “Where does he live?”
“Isle of Palms.”
“Maybe he’ll be home.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Is there a problem?” Miss Dora asked.
“Well, no, but—”
“But what, darlin’?”
“He’s probably not home. We shouldn’t barge in.”
“You’re paying him. That means you’re calling the shots.” She steered the car with one hand and punched the cell phone’s keypad with the other.
“Is this Billy Lee King’s answering service?” she said. Billy Lee was her personal lawyer, a partner of the gin-rickied Mr. Bell.
“I don’t care if he’s boating,” she cried. “You tell him it’s a legal emergency and to call Dora Jackson or I’ll hunt him down. You tell him that, you hear?”
Miss Dora hung up and made another call. I thought she’d wear out the keypad before we made it across the Ravenel Bridge. I was just thankful the old bridge was gone. The Old Grace had been the scariest bridge in the Carolinas, if not the world, with its two itty-bitty lanes. I had a deep fear of bridges, but the Ravenel wasn’t scary. You wouldn’t know you were on a bridge. Joggers and bike riders sped down a separate lane. The graceful white cables swept by, two diamonds glinting in the sun. Now that I was in a love triangle, I saw them everywhere.
We drove across the bridge, toward the Isle of Palm Connector. I stared out at the spartina grass and palmettos. A broad view opened up, and I saw homes on pilings and a wedge of blue ocean. I couldn’t stop thinking about the trust. I didn’t want a thing to do with it. Bing had died before he could change the trustee, and only the Lord knew who that would’ve been.
“Don’t look so glum, Teeny. Frowning causes premature wrinkles.” Miss Dora shook her head. “But you’ve got a right to be upset—Bing’s whore has sold the house. And in this market!”
I could believe it. Shelter was a requirement even in the animal kingdom, and the Spencer-Jackson House was a real fine example. I could see why it would sell.
“How much farther is Coop’s house?” Miss Dora asked.
“Once you get to the pier, it’s a half mile.”
“You’ve been here a lot?” She grinned.
“Here’s the turn off,” I said.
She pulled into his sandy driveway. His truck was parked at an angle, in front of Ava’s motorcycle. “You didn’t tell me he was a biker,” Miss Dora said.
“I wish. The motorcycle belongs to his wife.”
“His what?” She hit the brake. Sand filled the windshield, blotting out the house.
“They’re separated,” I said.
“Teeny, I’m shocked. Couldn’t you have picked a single man for your lawyer?”
“Miss Dora, married men don’t give off a smell. I thought he was single.”
“I hope he’s better at the law than he is with relationships.” She pulled off her sunglasses and squinted at the motorcycle. “Look how close she’s parked to his truck—not much separation. She’s got him blocked. He couldn’t leave if he tried. And if they’re separated, why is she here?”
“’Cause she wants him back.”
“Well, that’s obvious. I hate to say this, but could he be a ladies’ man?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where does the wife live?”
“Sullivan’s Island.”
“I’ll just bet her house is gaudy.”
“I bet it’s not.”
She reached for her purse. “Should we go in? It’s your call.”
I was curious about Ava, so I climbed out of the Bentley and picked my way through the hot sand. I climbed the stairs, rapped on the door, and squinted through the glass panes. The foyer looked empty. My breath caught a little when Coop walked around the corner in tan shorts and a gray striped shirt. He looked scrumptious.
He opened the door and smiled. “Hey, I’ve been calling you,” he said.
“And we tried to call you,” Miss Dora called from the bottom of the stairs. “Teeny dialed SUE-THEM.”
She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, major player. Then she turned back to Coop and extended her hand as she climbed the stairs. “It’s so nice to see you again, young man.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Coop said. “Come on in, ladies. Get out of this heat.”
T-Bone suddenly appeared next to Coop, followed by Ava. She leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. A tight little smile creased her face. She looked spiffy in a sleeveless black top and tight pants. She wasn’t wearing shoes, and her toenails were painted a violent shade of red. Barefoot—my Lord, not a good sign.
Coop made the introductions. Ava shook Miss Dora’s hand, then she smiled at m
e. “Lovely to see you again,” she said.
Miss Dora dragged a pink tissue over her forehead. “I hope we didn’t catch y’all at a bad time.”
“Not at all,” Coop said.
Miss Dora sashayed into the foyer. I shuffled behind her, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. The house smelled feminine and sweet. When I passed by Ava, I recognized the source of that aroma: lilacs and ylang-ylang, with a hint of orange.
Miss Dora pointed to the tiny square windows. “Hugh Newell Jacobsen designed this house, didn’t he?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t know.” Coop shrugged. “It’s a rental.”
“Yes, but with great style. Jacobsen is an architect. And those are his signature creations.” Miss Dora pointed to the white bookcases in each end of the foyer.
“Love your black-and-white pottery,” she added.
“It’s his signature color,” Ava said.
Coop shot her a look, then he smiled at me and Miss Dora. “Could I get you ladies something to drink?”
“Something with alcohol would be divine.” Miss Dora dabbed the Kleenex over her chin. “And get Teeny a drink, please. My driving has scared that poor girl to death. But I managed to evade those policemen who’re watching her.”
“How’d you do that?” Coop laughed.
“I had a little help from the Wappoo drawbridge.”
Coop led us into the living room, then disappeared into the kitchen. Ava cut around me and sank down on the leather sofa, tucking one long leg beneath her hips. The dog settled at her feet; his head level with hers.
“Pottery Barn,” Miss Dora said, dismissing the sofa with a wave, then she sat down and smiled at Ava. “We’ve had a day and a half. Funerals, lawyers, and lunch. Have you ever been to the Crab House?”
“Many times,” Ava said.
I perched on the edge of a chair and tried not to look at Ava, or how she was looping her long fingers through T-Bone’s fur. Coop stepped around the corner, holding a tray with four wine glasses, the dark red liquid swaying. He handed one to Miss Dora, then stopped by my chair. Our eyes met. He winked and turned back to the sofa. Ava reached for her glass and thanked him. He sat down on the ottoman.
Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 17