Follow the Dotted Line (23 page)

Toggling wildly between revulsion and humiliation, she heaved herself backwards, propelling her upper torso out of the luggage and forcing her legs into the air. She landed, as nature intended, on her well-bumpered ass.

“Damn it!”

“Andy?” Lorna whispered. “You all right?”

The phone rang again. Once more Andy froze in place; the place being the floor. Her left hip was killing her.

“Fuck,” she fumed.

They all waited for the machine to do its antiquated thing again. Mercifully, it only took two rings.

“I forgot to say—this is Bernie,” the voice explained. “And you can always reach me at the Lodge.” Having corrected his first faux pas, Bernie then went on to repeat his second; once again he hung up without remembering to say good-bye.

Andy had enough. Her heart craved a sedative, she’d scratched her cheek on the zipper of Tilda’s suitcase, and the burgeoning bruise on her left leg demanded an ice pack. The stress of breaking the law was more than her aging biology could tolerate; criminality was clearly for the young of heart and thigh. She needed a medicinal margarita.

“Time to exit,” she called out, righting her wronged body. “Before we all end up in orange jump suits.” She stood, swooned ever-so-slightly, and limped back across the loft.

“But we haven’t got anything,” Harley objected, as his aunt delicately descended the steps.

“I can confirm that Mark is definitely not staying in this house,” Andy said, making her way toward the door. “And from the sound of the Elk on the phone, Mark’s no longer in the marriage. Whatever that might mean. So we’ve got something.” She reached for the door handle and turned back. “Come on, Lorna. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

“I’m busy,” the CPA said, unmoved by Andy’s sudden retreat.

“This isn’t worth it. Please. Let’s go.”

Sighing, Lorna closed a ledger she had been perusing and placed it carefully back in the desk drawer. “I disagree, Andy. If Mark is really a victim of some sort, it’s important we find out as much as we can about what exactly this woman is doing here.”

The throb in Andy’s leg pulsed in sync with the light on the answering machine. “Being in the house is creeping me out, Lorna,” she said in a stage whisper. “Harley, step away from that window. We’re leaving.” She turned back to Lorna. “Just forget it. I don’t care about finding anything else right now.”

Lorna resigned herself to a tactical withdrawal and returned all the remaining papers to the drawer, as well. “You should care, Andy. I know I certainly do.” Pulling a cloth from the pocket of her hoodie, she wiped down the desktop surface.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure I put everything back the way I found it.”

“This is no time to be so anal retentive!” Andy barked.

“It’s exactly the time.” The CPA stepped back from the desk, snapped the dirty cloth in the air to shake out any loose dust, and nodded affirmatively at the job she had just done. “Okay. I don’t think she’ll even know we’ve been here.”

“Does that mean you’re ready to go?” Andy hissed.

Lorna’s eyes circumnavigated the cabin’s interior. “Yup. I think I have everything we need.” Joining her co-conspirators at the door, she wiped down the handle.

“What do you mean ‘everything we need?’” Andy wanted to know.

“Okay. Maybe not
everything
,” Lorna said, unexpectedly pushing the muscles on the right side of her face together in an awkward grimace.

“Did you just try to wink?” Andy asked, staring at her friend.

Lorna’s face immediately resumed not-winking. “Forget that, “ the CPA blanched, taking her cell phone out of her hoodie and holding it up like an Olympic gold medal. “The point is, I got far more than I expected.”

What’s an Elks Lodge?

“What’s an Elks Lodge?” asked Harley Davidson.

They had just been seated at the Honey Bear Restaurant on Pine Tree Boulevard after a successful getaway during which Lorna proved herself an uncommonly competent wheelman, reaching speeds that left the other two scared speechless and unable to ask any questions about what the accountant had discovered among Tilda’s papers.

“It’s a drinking club for old guys,” said Andy, still recovering from the drive.

Lorna removed her gloves with an air of accomplishment that rivaled any cardiologist wrapping up a heart transplant and picked up a laminated menu. “The Elks are also a service organization,” she explained. “They do a lot of charity stuff.”

“When they’re not drinking,” Andy reiterated. “Now, what should we order?” She motioned a young waitress over to the Formica-covered table in a booth that had not been reupholstered in 50 years.

“What can I get you?” asked the bouncy brunette.

“I want the peach cobbler,” Lorna said, boldly.

“Make that two, and I’ll have mine a la mode,” Andy said, upping the ante. “What about you, Harley?”

“Think I could have a hot fudge sundae?”

“No problem,” said Andy. “And we’ll each have a decaf coffee.”

The teenager nodded approvingly.

“Oh, and could you bring me a bag of ice?”

“Ice?”

“Yeah. Just put it in a sandwich bag. And add it to the bill,” Andy instructed.

Unfazed, the girl bounced back through the maze of wilderness kitsch adorning the aging restaurant toward the order window.

“Why would Tilda go to a club for old guys?” asked Harley.

“Little pitchers have big ears,” said Andy, winking meaningfully at Lorna and illustrating precisely how winking should be done.

“Don’t mock me, Andrea,” Lorna warned. “Not everyone is a winker.”

“Huh?” Harley articulated.

“You’re sidetracking us, Harley. Let’s leave the Elks until later. Right now I want to know what my CPA knows. Lorna?”

Lorna pulled out her cell and ruminated—a bit dramatically, in Andy’s opinion, about where to begin. She appeared to be scrolling through something.

“You took photos of the stuff you found in the desk?” Andy prompted.

“I did.”

“Papers?”

“Yes.”

“You’re taking your time, Lorna.”

“We need to approach this methodically, if we want to make sense of it. And glean as much as we can.”

“I don’t have the patience to be methodical.”

“I’ve noticed. On many occasions.” The CPA kept scrolling. “To begin with, the woman keeps very good records.”

Andy snorted.

“Don’t do that, Andrea. It’s unseemly, and it gets us nowhere. We should be thankful she keeps good records. It tells us a lot; it might tell us everything.”

Not the least bit chastened, Andy said, “Out with it, Lorna.”

“Well, let me begin with the reason that Ms. Trivette is here in California and in San Bernardino County, in particular.”

“You actually know?” asked Andy.

“I do.”

Their effervescent server suddenly interrupted Lorna’s analysis with the mother lode of sugar and three cups of coffee, which she set before them on the table. “Anyone want cream with their coffee?” she asked.

“We’re all good,” said Andy, waving her away. “For god’s sake, Lorna, tell us!”

The waitress dangled a baggy of cubes in Andy’s face. “Don’t you want your ice?” she asked.

Andy grabbed at the ice. “Oh, great. Thanks. Now go away. We’re in the middle of something here.”

“If we can’t be patient, Andrea, we can at least be polite,” Lorna said, turning pointedly toward the victimized youth. “This looks wonderful. Tell me about it.” The accountant picked up a fork and tested the cobbler with a slight press of the dough. Andy sensed this was payback for the winking fiasco. She tucked the baggy under her throbbing thigh.

“It’s the house specialty,” said the girl. “People drive for miles just to order our peach cobbler.”

“I’ve never had it.” Lorna sliced the fork into the crusty fruit and began to carve out her first bite. “Is it actually made from fresh peaches?”

Andy could tell the eager beaver server was about to cross from small talk into big talk, so she put her hand on the girl’s arm, smiled sadly, and whispered, “My friend here has type 2 diabetes and gets overly excited about dessert. We never like to encourage her. She could lapse into a coma just from talking about it.”

The marginally comprehending waitress stared, clearly flummoxed.

“Really?” She looked from Lorna to Andy, then back to Lorna. “A coma. Oh my god,” she managed. “I am so sorry.” Then she whirled round and vanished into the plastic forest primeval.

“That was completely out of line, Andrea. I’ve never been diabetic a day in my life.”

“You’re trying to make me crazy, Lorna.”

“A little. Mostly, I’m still processing.”

“Processing what?”

“This.” Lorna took a luxurious bite of her cobbler and handed Andy the cell phone. “Take a look at that.”

As Andy studied the screen, Harley leaned over to take a peek. “What is it?” he asked.

“Some document,” said Andy.

“Not just any document. That’s a joint tenancy grant deed,” explained Lorna. “And from the date stamp, Tilda filed it with the county recorder a few weeks ago. That’s why she came here.”

“O-kay,” Andy nodded robotically. As usual, her accountant’s assessment was miles ahead of her own. Lorna was clearly in view of some significant implications, while Andy’s mind remained a lagging indicator. “Okay,” she repeated. “You mean, Tilda came to California to put her name on the deed to the cabin?”

“That’s right. As a joint tenant. And that tells us a lot.”

“What’s a joint tenant?” Harley wanted to know.

So did Andy; she knew the term but could never recall exactly what it meant.

Lorna enlightened her eager audience. “When two people hold a deed as joint tenants, it means that when one person dies the property passes directly to the other person.”

“She’s trying to get her hands on Uncle Mark’s property,” Harley concluded, just before Andy got there.

“Yes, it definitely tells us that. But it tells us a few other things, as well.” Lorna took her cell back from Andy and looked at her friend’s untouched dessert. “Eat your cobbler,” she ordered. “The ice cream is melting.”

“I can’t. I’m trying to focus.”

“Suit yourself,” Lorna said, enlarging the photo by spreading her thumb and finger across the screen. “Look at the signatures at the bottom of the page here.”

“Tilda’s and Mark’s,” Andy said.

“Uncle Mark signed the paper?” Harley asked.

Lorna tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the screen. “That’s a notary’s signature and seal. A notary in Texas. Mark Kornacky had to be present with a picture ID to sign this. Now look at the date. It’s
after
Mitch received the so-called cremains and
after
you and Harley visited Texas.”

“Mark was still alive? Mark
is
still alive?” Andy stammered, not sure what to think.

“Well, he was. That’s for certain. Whether he is now remains an open question.” Lorna took another bite of cobbler. “You see why this takes a little time to process?”

Andy tried to sift through the perverse possibilities, but her mind kept sticking on the binary thought that Mark was either dead or alive. “So he might be alive. But he might be dead. What does all this mean? I don’t get it.”

“If he’s dead and the cabin is solely in his name, then it would have to go through probate. And that would be a problem for Tilda. But if she files this joint tenancy grant deed
before
he dies, then the property would pass directly to her, without a court proceeding. So she needs to file this if she wants the property.”

“That means he must still be alive? Right?” Andy said.

As a tax consultant, Lorna had a reputation for pointing out worst-case scenarios to her clients. It protected people from the pain of unrealistic expectations. “Not necessarily. Tilda could, theoretically, file it even if Mark were dead. The recorder has no way of knowing. The important thing is that Mark’s signature on the document pre-dates his death.”

“And how does this recorder person know when he died?” asked Harley.

“From an official death certificate.”

“You mean, it’s possible he signed the document one day, and she killed him the next?” Andy ventured.

“Exactly. And she’s living here in Big Bear until she receives an official death certificate and she can file it with the county.”

“So there could be a death certificate, and we just don’t know it yet?”

Lorna nodded, then added. “Or not. We just don’t know for sure.”

Harley had completely exhausted his sundae and looked as if he might ask for another. Instead, he said, “But there are no death certificates for Tilda’s husbands. The only reason we know they’re dead is that Aunt Andy found their obituaries in the paper.”

“And therein lies the rub,” pronounced Lorna.

“The what?”

“Never mind,” said Andy. “The point is, every time one of Tilda’s husbands dies, there’s never a body to be exhumed or a death certificate to be tracked.”

“Which is why this grant deed is so significant,” Lorna said.

“What do you mean?” Andy demanded, growing tired of eating Lorna’s dust.

“Well, it’s fairly easy for Tilda to take a man’s money if it’s in a bank,” explained the CPA. “She simply gets her name on his accounts. But if he owns property, well, that’s a bigger challenge. She not only has to get her name on the deed, but she has to prove he’s dead before she can get her hands on the house. And that always takes a death certificate. You see?”

“I’d like to see, Lorna, but I don’t. I can wink, but I damn well can’t
see
. What in the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“That if any of Tilda’s former husbands owned property, she had to present a death certificate in order to get her hands on it.”

“So we what?”

Harley nearly rocketed out of his seat. “I know,” he said, raising his hand.

“What? What do you know?” Andy asked, feeling as if the dumb were leading the blind.

“We find a relative of one of the husbands, and we ask, right?” he said to Lorna. She nodded, so he sailed onward. “We ask if he owned property. And if he did, we contact one of these recording studios and find out what happened to it. Simple.”