Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (10 page)

Untangling chains from ropes of pearls and other chains, I began to separate the pieces, laying them in individual piles on the bed. I didn't see anything that made my heart flutter. They looked pretty much like the costume jewelry that Hazel Marie dearly loved, and I doubted they'd be worth the trouble of a trip to Benson's Jewelry on Main. Still, I would take everything and let them have the responsibility of determining their value.

Finally, hoping for something outstanding, I opened the first little box—more pearls, but this strand had what looked like a sapphire on the clasp. Along with the strand was a pair of pearl earrings, each with a small dangling pearl. I put them together in a ziplock bag and set it aside.

The next little box held a brooch. I lifted it out to examine it, but it didn't look any better than when it lay on cotton in the box. It was in the shape of a flower, outlined with gold filigree and studded with a few diamonds. Or maybe gold-
plated
filigree and studded with a few zircons or glass chips—who knew? Into a separate bag it went.

The next box held a ring made of silver, white gold, or platinum—better eyes than mine would have to decide which. The setting was an old-fashioned one with what I hoped was a small diamond surrounded by diamond chips. It looked very much like the engagement ring that had belonged to my mother.

As I studied it, I wondered if Mattie had inherited it or if it
had been her own engagement ring, which made me wonder in turn if I'd ever seen her wear a wedding ring. And I hadn't, because, I assumed, of her swollen arthritic knuckles.

Sighing, I slipped the ring into a bag and opened the next box—another brooch. This one, I was fairly sure, was costume jewelry and hardly worth a careful examination. It was one of those that people wear during December—a Christmas tree–shaped pin with colored stones sprinkled on it. Still, I bagged it and went on.

Earrings, or rather studs, were in the next box, and I did remember Mattie wearing them some time ago. If they were real diamonds, then they would be worth something. I looked at them carefully, then smiled because one of them was missing the little piece on the back that held the earring in place.

I declare, I didn't know why earring makers couldn't come up with a better method. I'd simply stopped wearing the studs I had because they required both good eyesight and nimble fingers to put them on. And once you dropped the little back piece, you could never find it again.

A wide gold bracelet was in the last box. At least I hoped it was gold—it was an etched bangle with a few small dents in it, which indicated that it might be gold. But whether ten, fourteen, or eighteen karat, I couldn't see the markings on the underside well enough to determine.

The drawer was slowly emptying, and I'd yet to find anything that would noticeably increase Mattie's wealth. I opened a larger box and found what the French call a parure—a matching set of necklace, bracelet, brooch, and dangling earrings made up, unfortunately, of tiny jet beads. The image of a Roaring Twenties flapper came to mind, but I seriously doubted that a jet set would thrill a jet-setting millennial.

The last box held another parure of what I assumed were garnets, consisting of earrings, brooch, and ring. Pretty, but garnets, I knew, were not at the top of the value list.

Putting those in a bag, I sighed in disappointment at what I'd found—or not found. The entire contents of Mattie's jewelry
drawer would be unlikely to bring much more than a couple of hundred dollars.

But, I thought with a lift of my spirits, maybe she had a safe-deposit box at her bank. If so, that's where the valuable pieces would be, if she'd had any. I wrote a note to myself to call Mr. Sitton to see if she'd had a lockbox. At least, there was still a hope—though dim at best—of increasing the amount of money I would be able to distribute.

I spent the next few minutes opening every drawer in the bedroom and running my hand under and through underclothes, bedclothes, sweaters, and so forth hoping to find more jewelry boxes. Then, remembering my own attempts at hiding special pieces, I went to the closet and took down three hard-used pocketbooks. Excepting piles of Kleenex, hairpins, a stick or two of gum, and lint, they were empty. I sighed, conceding that I'd probably found the limit of Mattie's jewelry collection.

“Julia?” Helen, holding a yellow legal pad, appeared in the doorway. “I've made a list of the pieces I've been able to reach and examine, but we're going to need some help with the larger pieces.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I figured as much. Have you found anything interesting?”

“Maybe. I just can't get to them. But most of it seems to be fairly good reproductions. If we could hire someone to move things around at the same time we have Diane Jankowski here, we might make some headway.”

“That's your appraiser?”

“Yes, and she knows her business. Do you want me to call her?”

“Yes, but wouldn't it be nice if we could get those twins in here.”

Helen frowned. “What twins?”

“You know. The ones on
Antiques Roadshow
—they could walk in the door and give us an appraisal down to the penny. Of course,” I went on, laughing, “we'd have to listen to a thirty-minute dissertation on Queen Anne legs, claw feet, underside patina, and ebony inlay, complete with hand and arm gestures, but they'd be entertaining.”

“Julia,” Helen said, smiling, “you're off on a tangent. I think Diane will suit us just fine.”

“Oh, I know. I'm just a little giddy about the amount of work in front of us. But it's still early, so let's see if you and I can move a few things.”

I carefully placed all the jewelry-filled ziplock bags into one of several wadded-up bags that Mattie had assiduously saved, ready to be taken to Benson's Jewelry on Main. Then Helen and I moved, with a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, a large Chippendale chair in bad need of reupholstering so that she could examine the mahogany commode behind it.

Pulling out the top drawer, Helen shook her head. “Very nice, but it's a reproduction. See, Julia, here's the maker's stamp with the year of manufacture—1930.”

“It's a pretty piece, though. What do you think it's worth?”

“Maybe seven or eight hundred retail. Half of that if you sell it to a dealer. If you're lucky.”

“Oh, my. Well . . .” I stopped at the sound of a knock at the door. “Who can that be?”

Opening the door, my eyes lit up with the prospect of some strong-arm help. “Mr. Wheeler, do come in. Can we help you?”

He smiled, standing there with his shirtsleeves lopped up over his elbows and sawdust sprinkling his forearms and a smattering of it in his dark, though slightly graying, hair. “No, I just stopped by to see if I could help you.”

“Well, you're just in time. We'd like to move some furniture around—just a few pieces for now.” Turning to Helen, I said, “Helen, this is Mr. Wheeler. He's remodeling one of the units here and has been kind enough to offer a hand. Mr. Wheeler, this is Helen Stroud, a friend of mine and Mattie's. She knows furniture better than I do.”

Mr. Wheeler's gray eyes took in Helen, specifically—I thought—her carefully manicured but ringless left hand. She, in spite of having crawled around and under tables for the past hour or so, looked as cool, unruffled, and unimpressed as she always
did. He nodded and shook the hand she held out. “Nate,” he said. “Nate Wheeler. Happy to help.”

So for the next thirty minutes we made use of a man with a strong back and muscular arms, for which I make no apologies for noticing. I myself am partial to a well-turned arm. Helen noticed, too, if I wasn't mistaken, although I doubted that she'd be really interested in a man who worked with his hands. She leaned more toward the professional and/or executive suit-and-tie type, who were rarely called upon to sweat while getting their hands dirty. Still, there was a paucity of such types in Abbotsville to choose from, and at one point, probably at her wit's end, she had almost succumbed to the dubious charms of Thurlow Jones. She'd finally come to her senses, though, and settled back into her unmarried state, seemingly with relief for having escaped an even worse existence with Thurlow.

After that fiasco, I doubted that the sawdust-covered Mr. Wheeler had much of a chance with her, although the amount of eye cutting he was doing toward her revealed his possible interest.

“Oh, look, Julia,” Helen called out. “It's a handkerchief table. See how the triangles open out to make a square game table. Oh, this is lovely.” She ran her hand over the green felt on the top of the table. “Surely this is worth something.”

“I truly hope so,” I said, standing back to admire it.

Mr. Wheeler squatted down beside the table. “Look at these casters,” he said, rubbing a finger over the tiny wheels. “They've got to be the original ones—eighteenth century, I'd say. With a little careful cleaning, this brass will shine.”

“Oh,” Helen said, somewhat taken aback, “do you know furniture, Mr. Wheeler?”

“Nate,” he said with a smile. “Not really, just enough to recognize good workmanship. I make a few pieces now and then.”

Helen gave this handyman type an appraising look that seemed to indicate a shift in her thinking. Still, once burned with the likes of Thurlow Jones, twice shy with anyone else, even if he did know good furniture when he saw it.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “we'd do well to move what we've looked at to the guest room. That way we can get to the pieces in the back. Besides,” I went on, “I'd love to get to that cellarette back there, if that's what it is.”

So Mr. Wheeler moved the tea table and the handkerchief table to Mattie's guest room, and Helen and I pulled out the lovely little cellarette.

“Mr. Wheeler, Nate,” Helen said as he came back into the room. “See what you think of this. Julia's in love with it.”

Actually, I was less in love with it than fearful that it might hold a cache of Mattie's bottles. Helen wasn't a gossip, but I'd as soon not share Mattie's secret vice with anyone.

Mr. Wheeler grinned at me, then leaned over and lifted the lid—no bottles, I was relieved to see. “Uh-huh,” he said, “it has the dividers and it's deep enough to hold bottles, and—look here! The key's still with it. That's amazing and probably because it's been in the same family since it was made.”

Mr. Wheeler squatted beside the small table, running his hand lovingly up and down the slender legs. “Walnut,” he said, “with some kind of fruitwood inlay. I'm guessing a Southern provenance, maybe Tidewater Virginia or the Carolinas. There were a lot of itinerant cabinetmakers making the rounds of the coastal plantations. They'd stay at a place for a few weeks or months, make whatever was wanted, then move on to the next place.”

Helen, if I wasn't mistaken, was captivated by Mr. Wheeler's knowledge. “Do you have any idea what it might be worth?” she asked.

“Not a clue,” Mr. Wheeler said, standing. “I wouldn't even venture a guess. You'll need someone better informed than I am.”

“Yes,” Helen said, nodding. “Julia, I'll see if Diane can meet us here tomorrow afternoon, if that works for you.”

“That'll be fine. Mr. Wheeler, thank you so much for your help. At least we've made a dent in this pile of furniture and have a glimmer of hope that Mattie might have a few things of value.”

By then the hours had edged on toward suppertime, so I put a hold on furniture inspection for the day, although Helen said she could come again the following day and Mr. Wheeler declared himself available anytime we needed him. For myself, I had hoped to get to Benson's before it closed to drop off the contents of Mattie's jewelry drawer, but I didn't make it. So I locked the bags of jewelry in the trunk of my car, then hurried home for supper, after which I would show up at the hospital to keep Mildred company through the night.

Sam wasn't at all thrilled with the prospect of my spending the night at the hospital, noting that Mildred was certainly old enough to stay alone. “Not,” he'd added, “that she won't have half a dozen nurses at her beck and call.”

“I know, but what happened to Mattie in the same situation has her worried.” I stopped, thought about it for a minute, then went on. “Although why she thinks I'd be of use if the Grim Reaper showed up, I don't know.”

Then Lillian chimed in. “You keep on burnin' candles at both ends, you be piled up in bed your own self.”

“I know, I know. But there's a nice recliner in the room, and I intend to get a good night's sleep on it.”

So Sam drove me to the hospital and waited in the lobby for me to send Ida Lee down so he could drive her home. She was reluctant to leave, but I insisted, mainly because I wanted her
rested and in good health to look after Mildred. I'd already decided that one night on the recliner was going to be my limit.

After Ida Lee left and the hospital quieted down for the night, Mildred and I chatted for a while. I asked if she wanted me to try to reach Horace and Tonya.

“Lord, no,” she said. “I don't want either one hovering around, wringing their hands, and worrying about my estate.”

“Oh, Mildred, they wouldn't do that.”

“Huh,” she said darkly, “you just wait. You're just starting on Mattie's estate, which probably doesn't amount to a hill of beans, and already you're having trouble. Think what mine will be like.”

“Well, promise you won't make me your executor,” I said, as lightly as I could manage with such a serious subject.

“Don't worry. I wouldn't do that to you. Anyway, I'll call them both when I get home, when I feel more like dealing with them.”

“All right, let me know if you change your mind.” Then, to change the subject, I asked her what the doctors were saying about the reason for her fall.

“They don't know,” she said with a wave of her hand, then went on to tell me of the various tests she'd had during the day and moaned a few times about how hard it was to lose weight, which was what she'd been told a dozen times she needed to do.

“How many walks do you think we'll have to take for me to lose fifty pounds?” she asked at one point.

“Goodness, Mildred, I don't know. Maybe you should think about hiring a personal trainer.”

“Well, not if I have to wear a leotard.” We both laughed.

Finally, about eleven o'clock a nurse came in with Mildred's medication for sleep. At the same time, she found a blanket and a pillow for me, which I was glad to have. I was about on my last legs after the long, busy day I'd had and figured I'd have no trouble falling asleep and staying that way.

Turning off all the lights except a night light, I wished Mildred pleasant dreams and settled in on the recliner, which I quickly learned did not recline in exactly the same places that I did.

Nonetheless, I had just about drifted off when Mildred said, “Julia? You asleep?”

“Almost. What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to be sure you were here.”

“I'm not going anywhere until daylight, Mildred, so you can rest easy. Nobody's going to come in here and snatch you away.”

“Well,” she murmured, turning ponderously over in bed, “don't forget that Mattie got snatched away in the middle of the night.”

“I'm watching out for you,” I assured her, but I'm not sure she heard me. She murmured off and on as the sleep medication began to take effect, and before long, she was deep in the arms of Morpheus, although from the chest-rattling sounds of her breathing, it's a wonder he didn't dump her out. I no longer wondered why Horace was sailing on the Mediterranean.

_______

Ida Lee was back in the room by seven the next morning, just as the breakfast trolleys began to roll down the hall, infuriating Mildred, who couldn't have anything to eat until after a few more tests. I wished her a good day and took myself off to call Sam to come get me.

“Never again, Sam,” I said as I slid into the car when he pulled up in front of the hospital. “Some things are beyond the boundaries of friendship, although of course it wasn't that bad. It was just that between the recliner that wouldn't fully recline and Mildred's snoring, I feel as if I've been running all night.”

“Why don't you take a nap this morning?” he said. “Lillian has made blueberry muffins for you, so get a good breakfast and then lie down.”

“I may just do that.”

But we'd barely walked through the kitchen door before the phone rang, letting me know that LuAnne Conover had taken the bit between her teeth and was about to run wild.

“Julia,” she announced, “I'm reporting in. Almost everything is arranged. The visitation will be tomorrow night at the Good Shepherd Funeral Home, and don't tell me that's too soon
because it's already in today's paper. And the service will be at the church at two o'clock Friday, with the interment immediately afterward. Now, you haven't seen fit to let me look through Mattie's clothes, and she needs something to wear for the viewing. I'm going to need to get into her closet, although I'll tell you here and now that if she doesn't have anything better to wear than what she usually wore, I'll have to go shopping.”

“There's no money for shopping, LuAnne. Besides, there's no need to buy something new—nobody would recognize her. Let's just use what she ordinarily wore. I can meet you at the apartment anytime you say and you can pick out something.”

“That's just not going to do,” LuAnne said. “All she ever wore was black or gray, neither of which is suitable for a funeral. I mean, they are if you're
attending
a funeral, but not if you're the main attraction. She needs to wear something white—it's her funeral, after all, and I want her to look nice.”

“Well, LuAnne,” I said, “I'm not even sure we should have an open casket, and if we don't, it won't matter what she has on.”

“No open casket? Why, why else do people come if not to see how she looks? And it all reflects on
me,
Julia. People will talk if we have a closed casket. They'll wonder what happened to her, like, maybe her face is bruised or something. We have to let people look, which reminds me that I'm going to ask Velma to go to the funeral home and fix her hair. I hope there's money enough for that.”

My eyes rolled back in my head, but I took a deep breath and tried to calm her down. “LuAnne, I've just spent the night in the hospital listening to Mildred snore, and I have a blue million other things to do today. I don't have time for this. The funeral is entirely in your hands—you can do whatever you want to do, but there's no money for anything extra.”

“Well!”
she huffed. “I'll bet Mattie wishes now that she'd put somebody else in charge, because the visitation will be her last great party, and I know she'll want to look her best.”

“It's up to you, LuAnne,” I said, tiredly. “Just don't send the estate any bills—they won't get paid. The bequests that Mattie
made have to come before anything else, and if it helps to know this, you are on her list.”

There was dead silence on the line. Then, in almost a whisper, LuAnne asked, “She named me as a beneficiary?”

“Yes, along with a number of other women we know and the church as well.”

“Well, why didn't you say so? We certainly do not want to deplete her resources with unneeded outlays, do we? If you can meet me at her apartment right after lunch, I'm sure I can find something in her closet that'll be entirely suitable.”

_______

After Lillian's very nice breakfast, I decided to take Sam's advice and lie down for a while. But not before calling Mr. Sitton to ask if Mattie had a safe-deposit box at one of the banks.

“Yes,” he assured me, “there's a key to one at the First National. It's in one of the envelopes I gave you. You'll need to take a copy of the will so they'll let you access the box.” He stopped, then said, “I hope you haven't misplaced the key. If so, we'll have to have the box drilled.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling backward and totally unprofessional, “I'm sure it's right where you put it. I should've looked more carefully. Frankly, I've hardly had time to go through everything.”

But I immediately made time as soon as I hung up, and found the key in an envelope among several other envelopes with various papers in them. I needed to go over every page to be sure I wasn't overlooking anything else, but, I declare, I was so tired I simply couldn't face another piece of paper.

“Lillian,” I said, teetering on my feet, “I've got to take a nap. If anybody calls or comes by, tell them you don't know where I am or when I'll be back.”

She grinned. “That'll teach you not to spend the night with anybody 'sides Mr. Sam.”

“Don't worry. I've learned my lesson. Mildred will have to watch out for the Grim Reaper by herself from now on.”