He nodded as the ears on two of the hounds lifted alertly.
“Who’s asking?”
I had to tilt my head to one side so my lips were closer to the narrow space I’d created. I gave him a quick explanation. He rested the gun against the aluminum home and started walking toward me. A woman stepped out from inside the trailer and followed closely on his heels. She appeared far friendlier, quite a feat given that what I could see of her gray hair was up in pink foam curlers and her attire consisted of a faded paisley housedress and slippers that scuffed the dusty ground with each step.
I so didn’t want to leave the relative safety of my car. Reluctantly, I opened the door, my eyes fixed on the six dogs watching my every move. I have a history with dogs, and it isn’t good.
Mr. and—I assumed—Mrs. Bollan walked past the garden of fake flowers and weathered lawn ornaments until we met on neutral ground.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, offering me a sun-leathered hand with dirt and God only knew what else crusted beneath his nails.
I quelled the urge to reach for the Purell in my purse after we briefly shook hands.
“Call me Sleepy and this here is the wife, Wanda Jean.”
“Miss,” she said as she reached around her husband’s girth. “Did I hear correctly? Mr. Walter passed?” she asked.
“Three years ago,” I answered as I felt the first trickle of perspiration slithering down my back.
“We didn’t know.” Wanda spoke for both of them.
Fine with me since I was in no hurry to get a second glance at Sleepy’s three yellowed teeth. I reached back and pulled out my briefcase, dug out the money order, and said, “My firm represents Lenora Egghardt, and until she received this”—I paused and passed Sleepy the money order—“she had no idea anyone was living on the property.”
I think Sleepy scowled. Hard to tell since a serious overbite made him look like a perplexed beaver. Then he explained, “We’ve been here for near on thirty-five years. Used to tend the groves until the canker came a few years back. Now we farm sugarcane and run a few head of cattle.”
“Sleepy,” Wanda interrupted with a smidge of irritation, “let’s go inside where we’ll all be more comfortable.”
I didn’t have high hopes for that option, but I followed along and pretended I didn’t smell the stench of sweaty dog and grease.
The smell of the cooking grease was stronger in the trailer, and once I spied the pots on the stove, I figured I’d taken Wanda away from preparing the evening meal. Two flies zipped around the room, occasionally stopping long enough to visit the flour-dusted chicken thighs sitting out on the chipped Formica counter. Some sort of greens that looked more like they belonged on the shoulder of I-95 sat in a colander near the sink. A thick, yellowish cloud of smoke hung in the air.
“Have a seat,” Wanda said, pointing to an animal-hair-covered chair near the window air-conditioning unit that had dripped condensation down the wall. “Let me get you some iced tea.”
Just to be polite, I said thank you even though I would have preferred coffee. At least with a hot beverage I had the possibility of boiling off some cooties. I perched myself on the very edge of the dirty chair and began taking all the documentation for Walter Egghardt’s estate out of my briefcase.
After handing me a plastic cup of tea, Wanda and Sleepy sat down, swiveling their seats away from the small television balanced on an old orange crate. A cable box teetered atop the machine. Grabbing a remote off the armrest, Sleepy muted Judge Judy.
“I need to get some information,” I began. “And I’ll need to see your lease.”
“We don’t have no lease,” Sleepy said, his tone defensive. “Walter and me was in ’Nam together. That’s when he offered to let me live on this land. We got pinned down in Dak To in ’67. Walter got hit, and after I carried him to the aid station, we, well, we was friends from then on.”
“And you came to live on this property because …?”
Sleepy shrugged and scratched his sizable belly as he took a long pull on a can of generic beer. “We was as different as night and day. Me? My kin ain’t rich like Walter was, so once we were back stateside, he said I could live here. Came back once with some hot redhead in his car. That’s when he gave me a letter that lets me live on this land for life.”
Not good. Not at all good. “So you’re not related to Walter? But you do have a letter or know the name of the woman who was with him?”
“Got the letter someplace. He even had it notaried and all official. The redhead just sat in his car. Never knew her name.”
I checked the urge to correct “notaried” to notarized. Hopefully the letter wasn’t legally binding on Walter’s heir.
“There may not have been no blood bond,” Wanda added. “Mr. Walter’s always been good to us. She reached behind her on the windowsill and took a framed photograph down and handed it to me. “Raised all eight of our children right here.”
I tried to imagine the trailer holding ten people.
“This is L.D., short for Little Donald.”
I glanced at the picture, and “little” would have been the last adjective I’d use to describe the rotund, balding man in the back row.
Wanda continued, “Then Walt, after Walter. Next is Homer—he works as a firefighter in Montana. Lorraine, she’s a nurse. Mary-Claire is raising her own family. This pretty one,” Wanda stopped and stroked the cheek of the girl in the shot, “that’s my Penny.” Wanda’s eyes seemed to inexplicably mist over. “Got us five grandbabies so far. Duane is in the navy, and last is Mitzi. She’s the baby, and we’re real proud of her. Mitzi just finished her third year at the community college.”
“You have a lovely family,” I fudged as I returned the photo. “I’m not sure how to explain this, but Walter dying has changed things.”
“How?” Sleepy asked, his eyes narrowed to beads.
“Well, Mr. Egghardt died without a will, so his niece inherited all of his estate, including this parcel of land.”
Wanda looked at me with bulging, alienesque eyes while Walter just looked really pissed. Red blotches rose from his neck to his face, and I was very, very glad the shotgun was out on the porch.
“Me and Walter had an agreement,” Sleepy insisted. “I don’t see how him dying changes that.”
Now I could hear a stereo chorus of barking and growling dogs. Acoustically, I realized some were in the backyard and others were mere feet away with their snouts pressed against the screen door. Obviously, they’d picked up on their master’s displeasure. I was growing uneasy, wondering if the animals were plotting to attack.
Again Sleepy whistled, and the porch hounds fell silent. The backyard dogs just kept on yelping, growling, and barking. It was hard for me to concentrate, especially when a cat came out of nowhere and snaked its way through my ankles. It had harsh, brittle hair and a jagged scar down its face, leaving it with only one eye and part of one ear.
Wanda made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Come here Lucky,” she coaxed.
“Lucky?” I asked as I watched the cat cross the three or four feet separating us. The thing had more scars on its body, and its tail was little more than a calico nub.
Wanda smiled. “She was a stray. A few years back she got into the kennels. Of course, we hurried out and got her when we heard the ruckus”
“Of course,” I murmured, as Lucky, now occupying Wanda’s lap, gave me a cycloptic glare.
“We fixed her up best we could but didn’t think she would make it. But she’s tough,” Wanda said, scratching the cat between the ear and a half. “That’s why we call her Lucky.”
I’d been there too long because the explanation made perfect sense. It fit that these people wouldn’t do vets. From the decor—early 1970s greens, browns, and avocados—and the antiquated appliances—who doesn’t have a microwave?—and all the other knickknacks, I guessed the Bollans had little if any income.
“What happens with the proceeds from our sugarcane?”
Sleepy asked. “We’ve lived here since the late sixties. Raised all them kids here. You trying to tell me some woman we’ve never met can toss us out? Just like that?”
“It would help if you could find any documentation you have from Mr. Egghardt. And I can assure you,” I began as I rose and started for the door, “we’ll do everything possible to bring this to an amicable resolution.”
“Sound like a load of crap to me,” Sleepy grumbled, not moving an inch as I walked past him.
“Sleepy, mind yourself. This young lady is only doing her job.”
I reluctantly stepped onto the porch, fully prepared to pick up the shotgun and start picking off the herd of vicious dogs. I was spared that unpleasant task by Wanda Jean, who also had perfected the two-fingered, piercing whistle.
The dogs chased me halfway back to the main road. It wasn’t until I saw them in my rearview mirror that I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Glancing at the dashboard clock, I decided to call Ellen and give her the update. It was four fifty, so there was no way I was going to go back to the office. I pressed the preprogrammed number for the firm.
“Dane, Lieberman, Zarnowski and Caprelli. How may I direct your call?” Margaret greeted in a much friendlier voice than when she normally spoke to me.
“This is Finley calling for Ellen.”
“Oh.” Now I got the tone. “I’m afraid she’s gone for the day. May I connect you to her voice mail?”
“Yes.” I intentionally waited for Margaret to transfer the call, knowing full well I wasn’t going to leave a message. Childishly, I just wanted to force her to take that extra step.
It took me just under a half hour to get back to my place. The sun was still hanging in the sky, and the humidity had picked up considerably. Even though I’d worked up a sweat, I was dying to go through Ellen’s donation bags.
My trunk smelled like cedar, but I smelled like stale tobacco and wet dog, so I had to give that one to the trunk. With some effort, I was able to move all the stuff from the trunk to my house without dropping anything.
After depositing the four bags in the center of the great room, I went back out to the car to retrieve my cell phone. I pressed the little icon for voice mail as I returned to the cottage.
The first was from Jane. She’d forgotten an appointment and hoped I wouldn’t mind pushing dinner back to seven thirty. I texted her back to say that since she was supplying the moo shu, she could name her terms.
A small trickle of hurt mixed with anger slithered along my spine. I know it was stupid, but I still wasn’t over the whole Liam-took-me-home-and-tucked-me-in scenario. That said, I also knew it was important for me to move past it. My friendship with Jane would last long enough that in a few years, we probably wouldn’t even remember Liam’s name.
Only right now I did remember his name. And the hooded sensuality in his gaze. And the chiseled outline of a tanned, sculpted six-pack that made LL Cool J look like a slacker.
I gave myself a mental smack. No lust, no problem.
Not a chance in hell.
As I walked toward my bedroom, I used one hand to brace myself against the wall as I slipped off my shoes. They were cute as sin but the very definition of “killer heels.” I stopped long enough to massage my insteps, then changed into an ankle-length, fuchsia halter sundress with tiny white flowers embroidered on the straps and at the hemline.
Leaving my sore feet bare, I went back into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of red wine as the second message played. It was from my mother, hence the need for the wine chaser.
“Since you haven’t bothered to make your plane reservations, I’ve had to take that on as well.” I raised my glass to her martyrdom as she continued her voice-mail lashing. “Your flight leaves at ten a.m. on Thursday; that will get you into Atlanta at—”
I groaned. “I don’t have Thursday off,” I argued over the rest of the message. I travel a lot like I shop—bargain hunting. It wasn’t like I didn’t know I had to be in Atlanta on Friday afternoon; I did. I even had a fare watcher on Travelocity.com with the trip specifics. Now, thanks to Controlling Cassidy, again I was faced with choosing between bad and worse. I could call her and tell her to change the flight, which would surely result in ugly and prolonged tension. Or I could go to Vain Dane and grovel for an additional personal day off from work. So I could lose my mind or lose a day’s pay.
“Hands down, take the day without pay.” I drained my wineglass, then refilled it.
I had almost an hour and a half before Jane was due, so I decided to entertain myself by going through Ellen’s bags-o-muumuus.
Hiking up the hem of my dress, I knelt down and opened the shopping bag closest to me. Since I’d basically shoved the tattered garbage bag and its contents into the shopping bag to get it out of the trunk, this was my first real look at what was inside.
My suspicions were confirmed as I unrolled a wad of material. Only it turned out not to be an emerald paisley muumuu, but a vintage Von Furstenberg wrap dress. I stared at it for several seconds, trying to imagine Ellen Lieberman in a real dress. Not just any dress, but a classic.
In eight years, I’d never seen her wear anything that clung to any part of her body. Yet each item I pulled from the bag completely contradicted all I knew about her. And there was something else. All the items were vintage: late eighties, early nineties. Oh, and everything was a size two or four, and I’d bet my last dollar—no pun intended—that under her current love of tent dressing, Ellen was still a svelte single digit.
There were several pairs of barely worn Nina shoes—size six—as well as three pairs of boots and four coats. I decided I should make an inventory list for the thrift store, then I could copy it for Ellen so she could get the tax deduction.
“Ouch,” I muttered as I stood on cramped legs. My laptop was in my bedroom, so I got it, and, almost as an afterthought, I also picked up my study guide. At some point, I had to continue studying for my exam.
I began to organize the items, creating a spreadsheet of everything by size, color, and style. As I did so, I carefully folded each item. I’d been at it long enough that I’d become numb to the smell of cedar. My guess was that Ellen had stored all this stuff in cedar trunks and/or a cedar-lined closet. But why?
Taking a quick break before logging the shoes and coats, I sipped my wine and admired the neat stacks of clothing I’d created from four green trash bags. Going to the pantry, I took out a half-dozen shopping bags from high-end stores. Placing my wineglass next to my computer, I then placed a bag with each pile of sorted items.
When I reached down for a suede coat with what I was pretty sure was a coyote collar, I felt a hard bulge in one pocket. It took me a minute to feel my way around the chocolate-colored coat until I found the opening to the pocket. Slipping my hand inside, I let out a sharp squeal of pain.
“Dammit!” I yanked my hand back just as a small flow of blood made a bubble on my forefinger. So it wasn’t reason to call an ambulance—the pinprick still hurt.
As I stuck my finger in my mouth I asked, “Does this qualify as a worker’s comp case?”
I was much more methodical and careful in my second attempt. I turned the coat upside down and just shook it until a small wad of tissue tumbled out and wobbled around until it came to rest against the leg of the coffee table.
As I went to pick it up, I tripped over my hem and sent myself flying, face-first, toward the tile. I hit hard. I hurt my pride and my head.
Standing, I went to the bathroom and grimaced when I saw the small gash at my hairline. Dabbing it with a Kleenex went only so far. In another blow to my self-esteem, I had to place a Band-Aid on my forehead—at least I had the clear kind—and as I did, I felt the beginnings of a goose egg.
My first thought was, what would my mother do if I showed up at the wedding looking one scintilla shy of perfect? My second thought was wondering why I’d had the first thought.
“Whoever said bringing back th
e maxi-dress was a good idea?” I was still irritated as I returned to the great room. I took a sip of wine—hey, it was good enough for the ancient Greeks—then gingerly bent down to retrieve the tissue-wrapped package. It’d better be worth it. The frigging thing had already cost me two personal injuries.
Gently, I peeled away the wrappings. Inside were a bracelet, a pair of drop earrings, and four brooches, including the one that had pricked my finger.
“So what the hell is Ellen doing hiding jewelry inside a coat pocket? Especially this jewelry.” I held one of the brooches up to the light. Just as expected, they were costume but not cheap. No, these had a maker’s marks and brilliant craftsmanship. One-of-a-kind sort of thing. And if Ellen wasn’t hiding it, why did she have it in the first place? I just couldn’t see her wearing frilly, large accessories. No more than I could picture her wearing the acid-washed jeans in stack number five.
Bad decisions make good stories.
seven
I spread the jewelry out on the coffee table. There was a theme to the pieces. The earrings were freshwater pearls with a tiny crown fashioned from silver and what I thought might be cubic zirconia stones attaching them to the shepherd’s hook. The bracelet had tiny crowns—also silver with possible CZ mountings—placed inside circles. All together, the bracelet had five rings of crowns.
The brooches were another story. At least I thought so. I went over to the kitchen junk drawer—yeah, I know, new house, no junk, but that’s not how I roll—and retrieved the jeweler’s loupe Becky had given me. Sounds like a strange gift, but it was actually the lead-up to the real gift, a pretty pink sapphire ring to commemorate my twenty-fifth birthday. Returning to the table, I picked up the first brooch, the smaller of the four, and peered at it through the loupe. The ten-times monocular lens confirmed my suspicions. Though expertly made, the pin was not diamond-encrusted. As on the earrings, the crown motif was repeated. Turning it over, I had to search for a few seconds before finding L.S. & CO. stamped just below the clasp. I wasn’t familiar with the company, but that didn’t mean much. A lot of jewelers placed maker’s marks in their higher-end pieces.
4 Slightly Irregular Page 8