Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (21 page)

I made short shrift of the remaining boxes and their contents, finding some lovely, though undoubtedly old, cutwork table linens, embroidered handkerchiefs and pillowcases, as well as a multitude of crocheted doilies and place mats, all carefully stored in tissue paper.

Having never seen Mattie do needlework of any kind, I assumed that what I was holding had been done in her salad days growing up in her old Kentucky home. Perhaps she had kept them as mementos of her family's once prosperous holdings, along with some of the fine furniture with which Diane was more and more impressed. But crocheted doilies? If that was the kind of memento that Andrew Cobb wanted, as far as I was concerned, he could have them.

Then, with a deep and hopeful breath, I got down to it. I confess that I'd been putting it off for fear of a great disappointment. But it was time, so I did it.

Putting aside the albums and boxes, I rose to my feet and marched back to the almost empty closet—no light, of course. I'd already searched diligently for a hanging cord to no avail. I leaned over so I wouldn't crack my head on the shelf above and crept to the far corner, feeling my way as I went. And there it was, a small—about the size of a one-drawer file cabinet—unassuming safe covered by a tapestry. Feeling around in the dark, I found the dial on the front.

Etta Mae,
I thought,
you smart girl, you
.

Delighted with the find and eager to try the combination she'd given me, I tried to slide the safe out of the closet. It wouldn't budge. There was nothing for it but to get on my knees so I could see the dial.

That didn't work, either, because I almost couldn't get off my knees. Finally backing out of the closet, I tore through the apartment, hoping to find a flashlight. I could've run down the hall and borrowed one from Mr. Wheeler, but I didn't want him coming back with me, insisting on helping. Whatever Mattie had valued enough to place in a safe that she hid the combination to in a bank was going to be my find and my secret. Whatever was in the safe could possibly justify the many bequests she'd made, as well as purchase a huge air-conditioning unit.

I jerked open kitchen drawers, frantically searching for a flashlight, all the time wondering what could be in the safe. Stock certificates? Jewelry? Deeds to the family farm? Cash from illicit deals? My imagination was running away with me.

Finally I found a flashlight—a small one with a weak battery—which I turned off to save what power was left. Then I scrambled through my pocketbook for the scratch paper on which I'd jotted down the combination that Etta Mae had phoned in to me.

With shaking hands and great trepidation of further disappointment, I crawled back into the closet, hunched down, and began to turn the dial, first left to seven, then right to ten, then left to twenty-three, then right to ten again. Then I pulled down on the handle—and it opened.

I sat back on my heels and stared at the open door, hardly daring to look inside.

Well, for goodness' sake,
I thought,
what's holding you back now?

With the flashlight on its last legs, I felt around inside, surprised at how little space was in such a heavy safe. But a little space was all that was needed, for there was only a shirt box on the one shelf.

Holding the box carefully, I backed out of the closet, sat on
the bed, and looked at what I had. The once white box was tied with twine, and a logo from Rich's in Atlanta was on the front. When, I wondered, had Mattie shopped at Rich's? But I couldn't answer because there was a lot about Mattie that I hadn't known. A long-ago trip to Atlanta was only a tiny part of a long life.

Holding the box from Rich's on my lap, I brushed away the dust around the edges, and picked open the knot in the twine. Then I lifted the lid and found a layer of cotton, which I carefully removed. Under the cotton I found what felt like a framed picture wrapped in a swath of fine, soft flannel and lying on another layer of cotton. I lifted it out—it was about eight inches by twelve inches, perhaps a little larger—but I was reluctant to remove the flannel. I sat there holding it, sure of what I'd find and, knowing what I knew of the future, I could hardly bring myself to look at it. I pictured that young Tommy in his army uniform, a cap set jauntily on his head, with an encouraging smile for his bride who was so many miles away, both actually and otherwise. For it would've been taken, I assumed, after he'd spent months in prison and after Mattie was back in her father's home and before he headed overseas. How she had come to have it, I didn't know. Maybe his family had taken pity on her grief and had slipped it to her after his death.

Teary eyed with the thought of it, I almost put the picture, unwrapped and undisturbed, back in its box and turned to something else. I'm glad I didn't.

Steeling myself against the compassion that welled up for what could have been but hadn't, I unwound the flannel wrapping to discover . . . The breath caught in my throat. It was not a photograph, browned by age, of an army private, or even an enlarged wedding picture to set on a mantel—it was the most remarkable thing I'd ever seen.

_______

I'd never seen anything like it. Well, yes, I had viewed some of the same kind at a museum display, but none of the same quality. I
sat and studied the framed sampler for the longest time, for the longer I looked at it, the more I saw in it. Even though a glass pane covered it in its simple frame, I could tell upon close inspection that the background was silk and the embroidery done in silk floss—that was high quality right there. Silk on silk, I thought, and was amazed that such delicate materials were in such good condition. There was no fraying or pulled stitches or faded colors. Everyone who had owned it, including Mattie, must've known the care it needed. A framer's sticker on the back, placed there years before, assured me that the sampler was mounted as it should have been on an acid-free mat and covered by a special type of glass.

But the sampler itself! My word, it was a wonder. There were two borders done in a variety of difficult stitches—I knew because I'd done some embroidery years before and had always ended up with a soiled tea towel full of dropped stitches and crooked letters. I recognized the blanket, cable, feathered chain, padded satin, and herringbone stitches, plus some French knots, but there were many that were so intricate, I couldn't put names to them.

In the center, a large rectangular monument had been stitched—a tombstone on which the words
Sacred to Memory
had been inscribed. The figure of a man in a black frock coat and a high stock at the throat stood in profile beside the tomb. He held a large white handkerchief in one hand. Two small children—the girl in a full dress with pantaloons and the boy dressed similarly to the man, even to the black coat—played nearby. I leaned over to see the figures up close and, yes, just as I thought. The flesh color of the faces and hands had not been stitched in. They had been painted onto the silk with gentle strokes of a brush, the features carefully delineated.

Two weeping willow trees framed the scene—typical, I knew, of funerary art of the period. Shrubs and bushes surrounded the scene, and as I studied the variety of stitches and shades of green that made the greenery so realistic, I was amazed to see figures of
small animals—a rabbit, a squirrel, and maybe a fox—emerge from under the leaves.

In the middle of the sampler, below the tombstone and above the two rows of the alphabet, I read the name of the creator of this example of extraordinary stitchery:

Wrought by Henrietta Cobb

In the sixteenth year of her life

1787

And under that in running stitches were the following words:

Comes the sun after the rain,

After the night, the morning.

As I turned the framed piece just the tiniest bit, the greenery shimmered and moved as if a small breeze had brushed past, and in one corner I discovered a single blooming flower—a peony, perhaps. And, perhaps, a symbol of Henrietta's hope.

I don't know how long I sat there holding what I recognized as a sampler of uncommon age and of the highest quality of needlework art. How had it come into Mattie's possession—she, who had been in discord with her family and who had defied not only her father but the law? She, who had been brought home in shame to await the return of her husband in a casket? I didn't know, and likely never would.

But there was this one thing that I did know: the value of Mattie's estate had just gone up. Way, way up.

I wanted to tell somebody. I was so excited that I wanted to call everybody I knew and tell them. And I wanted to show it to Sam, but where was he? Why, out on the bounding main angling for fish and nowhere near or even interested in being near a phone.

Whom could I tell? Who could be trusted to keep such a secret? I knew already. With one theft behind us, the answer was clear—hardly anybody. So I calmed myself down, knowing that I could not broadcast this amazing find.

I carefully rewrapped the sampler and placed it back between the cotton layers in its box. This would be my secret, except, of course, Etta Mae deserved to know. Without her, I would've had to hire a safecracker—a legal one, of course—and who knows who all he would've told.

That brought up another problem—should I leave the sampler in the safe where it had been safe for years? Or should I keep it in my personal care? I sat and pondered the problem and decided it would be safer with me.

Besides, I'd have to show it to Diane and do it in total privacy. She was the only one who would know what to do with it and where to market it. For market it, I had to do. The bequests in Mattie's last will and testament demanded it.

If the sampler had been my own, I would have taken my burdensome tax situation into account and donated it to an Early American museum—the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Folk Art
Museum in Williamsburg, for one. But there were others that might be eager for it. And all to the good as far as I, Mattie's executor, was concerned—let them all vie for the privilege of purchasing it for their collections.

Then I stopped short, my mind sorting through a jumble of questions. First of all, did Andrew Cobb know about this? Was it part of the family lore he'd grown up with? If so, I'd be hard-pressed to refuse him a memento of such high sentimental value. On the other hand, if he did know of it, he would also know its pecuniary value and was probably hoping that we didn't.

But maybe I was overvaluing what might be only one of many examples of many a young girl's needlework. Merely because I'd never seen another sampler like it didn't mean there weren't any. I couldn't let myself be carried away by some fantastic notion of its rarity or its value. Better to calm down than to risk bitter disappointment.

So, after leaving an urgent note to Diane to call me as soon as she got there that afternoon, I carried the box of photograph albums, the shoe box of letters, and the box containing the sampler to my car. By that time, I was about wiped out. I kept hoping that Mr. Wheeler would show up to help me, but his pickup was gone from the parking lot—out picking up supplies from Home Depot, I supposed.

I locked the car doors—the sampler was on the seat beside me—and sat in the hot car while I called Etta Mae.

“Etta Mae?” I said when she answered. “You are the smartest person I know. I not only found a safe, I opened it, thanks to you.”

“Really?”
She sounded as if she couldn't believe she'd been right.

“Yes, and you'll be amazed at what I found. Hurry home and I'll show you.”

She wanted to know right then, but I told her I wanted it to be a surprise. I mean, who knew who might be listening?

Driving home, I kept trying to tamp down my elation. Over and over I speculated about its worth and how many bequests it would cover. Would it bring five thousand dollars? Ten? I had no
idea, but put together with what the handkerchief table, the chest-on-chest, and maybe a few other things might bring, Mattie's estate was slowly mounting up.

Anger flew all over me, though, as I thought of the stolen cellarette. That would've helped considerably, but whatever price it had brought was most likely now resting comfortably in somebody's pocket—or being freely spent. I hoped the thief enjoyed it, because if I ever found out who it was, he wouldn't enjoy anything else for a good long while.

_______

I couldn't stand it. I had to show Lillian. So after she helped me bring the boxes into the house, I asked her to come up to the bedroom, where I made her promise that she wouldn't breathe a word of what she was about to see.

“What you done now?” she demanded, frowning as she eyed me closely.

“Not one thing, except clean out Mattie's closet. Why would you think I had?”

“'Cause you us'lly doin' something you ought not be doin'.”

“Lillian,” I said, just undone at being so misunderstood. “For goodness' sake. This is something that belonged to Mattie and I think it's a jewel of its kind. I simply want to show it to you without being accused of something underhanded. I don't do that sort of thing anyway.” I took the lid off the box. “Look at this and tell me what you think.”

“Why, jus' look at that pretty thing,” she said as the flannel came off and I held it up for her to see. “But it kinda sad lookin', too. Who done all them little-bitty stitches?”

“Henrietta Cobb, Mattie's ancestor, years and years ago. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No'm, 'specially since it showin' a graveyard and people mournin' somebody dead—that's jus' real pitiful. My granny used to do some crochetin', but nothin' like that. What you gonna do with it?”

“Hide it and keep it safe for now,” I said as I put it back in the box. “Of course I'll show it to Diane Jankowski. She's the expert and will know who'll want to buy it—some museum with a huge endowment, I hope. Don't tell a soul, Lillian.”

“My lips is zipped, but where you gonna hide it?”

That stopped me for a minute. “That's a good question. I'll have to think about it. Somewhere that nobody would think to look, I guess.”

“Nobody be lookin' a-tall, if you don't say you got it.”

“Well, there is that. But don't worry, it'll just be me, you, Diane, and Sam, when he gets home, who'll know about it. Oh, and Etta Mae. Why, Lillian, she was the one who figured out what that scribbling was.”

“You mean what Miz Allen say could th'ow a spell on you?”

“She was teasing, Lillian. It was the combination to a safe all along.” I sighed, looked again at the sampler, and said, “I just hope that it's as good as I think it is. I mean, there may be dozens like this stacked up on storage shelves in museums all over the country.”

“Maybe so,” Lillian said, sounding a doleful note. “'Cause they's death an' dyin' an' grievin' people ever'where you look these days. Take Miss Bessie, she still grievin' like nobody's business.”

“Hold on a minute while I put this away.” I walked into my closet and stuck the precious box under a stack of flannel gowns that wouldn't be disturbed until winter came. If it had been safe in Mattie's closet, it should be in mine as well. Until I could think of a better place, preferably one with an unreadable combination to it.

“Now, Lillian, let's go have some coffee or something. I'm ready to turn my mind to something besides responsibilities. I want to hear all about Miss Bessie.”

_______

Deciding to forgo coffee due to the increasing heat of the day, Lillian brought two tall glasses of iced tea—heavily sugared and lemoned—to the table and set each one on a napkin.

“Sit down, Lillian, and tell me about Miss Bessie. I thought she'd be getting along quite well by now. I mean, it's been several months since Mr. Robert died, hasn't it? And I expect she hasn't had a beating since.”

“Yes'm, but they's all kinds a beatin's. An' that mean, sneaky ole man still a-beatin' on her from the grave. You won't b'lieve what he done to her.”

“I can't imagine what else he could do.”

“Well, see, I tole you how he come to find Jesus—the Reverend Abernathy showed him the way, but I 'spect now the reverend wisht he'd left well enough alone.” Lillian stopped and sighed. “I guess I don't really mean that 'cause the Lord, He take every crooked soul what want to come, but, Miss Julia, I declare, it makes me wonder if He wouldn't be better off without Mr. Robert Mobley. We all was sure Miss Bessie would be better off without him, but, see, the last year or two after Mr. Robert got saved, he didn't do nothin' but think about and do for the church. Why, he was over there all the time—it right across the road from his ole house, you know—and he was all the time workin', an' fixin' up, an' sweepin', an' hammerin', an' doin' for that church day in an' day out. An' we 'preciated it, don't think we didn't. It was good to see that ole sinner workin' hard as he was for the Lord. An' he was doin' real good till the day he drop dead shovelin' up that last snow we had.”

“Oh, I thought he'd been sick,” I said.

“No'm, jus' sick in his crazy, ole head. You know what he done, Miss Julia?”

I shook my head, caught up by the indignation in Lillian's voice.

“He write a will, got a lawyer an' all to do it for him so he could leave ever'thing he had, which wasn't nothin' but that ole house Miss Bessie livin' in,
to the
church
. Can you b'lieve that? The church only been puttin' up with him for a year or two, an' she been doin' it for twenty years or more, an' he jus' jerk that house right out from under her feet, an' leave her nothin'.”

Oh, my goodness,
I thought.
Wills and thoughtless bequests
again
. I couldn't get away from the trouble they caused
.

But then, struck by the memory of something similar that had happened to me, I sat up straight and said, “Well, wait, Lillian. I don't think he can do that.”

“I know,” Lillian said with a judicious nod of her head. “An' the reverend, he tell Miss Bessie that, but at the time he don't know all there is to know. An' he get in hot water with the deacons 'cause they want that house to sell an' bring some money in to build us a add-on buildin' with a kitchen and extra Sunday school rooms. Which would be a blessin' 'cause we need 'em, but what would pore ole Miss Bessie do while we enjoyin' a new buildin' settin' right across the road from where she ought to be?”

So,
I thought,
now it was not only wills but deacons, too
.

“Well, Lillian,” I said, hoping to reassure her. “It probably won't come to that. I doubt Mr. Robert's house would bring enough to even lay the foundation of a new building.”

“Yes'm, I thought the same thing, but that was 'fore a Red Dot grocery store come wantin' to buy the house. It got a real big lot, you know. An' we sure could use a grocery store without havin' to drive way across town to get to one. So lotsa people standin' with the deacons an' not the reverend.”

“That certainly changes . . .” The telephone interrupted me just as I'd begun to get a glimmer of the moral predicament in which the Reverend Abernathy found himself.

Lillian handed the phone to me—she always insisted on answering it first.

“Miss Julia? It's Diane Jankowski. I got your note. You wanted me to call?”

“Yes, Diane. I'm wondering if you would mind coming over to my house to look at, well, an object I found at Mattie's this morning. I brought it home with me for safekeeping, and I'd like your opinion on what it might be worth.”

“Well, yes, I can, but you could bring it with you the next time you come by. If it's not too heavy, that is.”

“It's not heavy at all. The thing is, Diane, I think the fewer people who know about it, the better. Not that I distrust anybody, but it could be mentioned to any number of other people. I think you'll understand when you see it. I'd as soon keep it between the two of us for the time being. Has Helen gotten there yet?”

“Yes,” Diane said, her voice noticeably lowered. “She rounded up Nate Wheeler to come move some things around for her. I offered to help, but she thought he'd want to do it.” Diane summed up the situation with an indulgent laugh, as I thought,
Well,
well
.

“Can you make an excuse to run out for a while?” I asked. “I mean, without saying why? I'm probably being overly cautious, but I'd rather have your appraisal before anybody knows about it.”

There was a brief silence on her end, as I heard a muffled conversation in the background. Then, slightly raising her voice, Diane said, “Mr. Wheeler is helping Helen get the drawers out of that block-front chest in the guest room, and I'm just waiting for them to finish. So if Mrs. Freeman's lawyer is that anxious to get a set of the furniture pictures, I can run them right over to you.”

I was impressed by Diane's ability to light upon a plausible reason to leave—just in case anyone wondered. A good woman to do business with. “I'll be here,” I said, smiling.

“Sorry, Lillian,” I apologized as I hung up. “Mrs. Jankowski is on her way, but we have a few minutes before she gets here.”

I picked up my glass and wiped the condensation from the outside. “So back to Miss Bessie and the church,” I said. “There is a way they can work things out to the benefit of both. In this state, a husband can't leave his wife destitute, regardless of what he puts in his will. So Miss Bessie will get half of Robert's estate—whatever the house brings—and the church will get the other half.”