Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (22 page)

“Yes'm, we all know that. It don't do no good, though, 'cause Miss Bessie not Mr. Robert's wife an' Mr. Robert not Miss Bessie's husband. They never went and tied the knot.”

Well, that put a whole different light on the matter. I leaned back in my chair and blew out my breath. “So she doesn't have a legal leg to stand on, does she?”

“No'm, but she got something better'n a legal leg. She got the Reverend Abernathy, an' he standin' for her. Though he right surprised when he hear how they been livin'. But he don't let that stop him, 'cause he say the church oughta take that house like the will say, then give it right back to Miss Bessie—free an' clear. He say that the Christian thing to do, 'cause nothin' good come from takin' a widder woman's house out from under her.”

I couldn't help but recall the desolation I'd felt when I learned that Wesley Lloyd Springer's will made no provision for me, even after forty-some-odd years of legal cohabitation. Of course, the state of North Carolina came to my rescue, but what a comfort it would've been to have had the Reverend Abernathy by my side at that time.

I nodded to encourage Lillian to go on with the rest of it.

She crossed her arms on the table and leaned over. “See, Miss Julia, the reverend, he say it don't matter if she not a real widder woman. She be jus' as good as. An' the reverend, he get that happy look on his face an' say maybe she write her own will an' leave the house to the church when she pass. So ever'body come out doin' good an' not hurtin' nobody.”

“The Reverend Abernathy is a good man,” I said, “and I hope
the deacons . . . Oh,” I said, looking up at the sound of the doorbell, “that's Diane. Come go up with us, Lillian.”

After greeting Diane at the front door, thanking her for coming, and introducing her to Lillian, I led the way down the hall and up the stairs for the unveiling. Along the way, I noticed Diane's head turning from side to side, scanning the furniture in each room as we passed, evaluating and appraising as she went. I expect she couldn't help it. It probably came naturally for her to pass judgment on any piece of furniture she saw, and I was quite proud of the quality of my home furnishings. They would stand up to anybody's speculative eye.

“Here we are,” I said after retrieving the sampler box from under my winter gowns. Lillian, crossing her arms under her bosom, and Diane, setting down her large bag, gathered beside my bed as I unboxed and unwrapped the sampler. Then I placed it against a pillow so that Diane could get a good view of it. “What do you think?”

Diane leaned over, reached out so that her hand hovered over the glass, then she straightened up, her face flushed with excitement.

Then with both hands flapping as if she were fanning her face, Diane looked at me and cried, “Oh, oh! Oh! It's . . . oh, it's exquisite! A marvel! Where
was
this? How did you find it? Surely I didn't overlook it.”

“Well, the way it happened was like this: I opened Mattie's safe-deposit box at the bank and found absolutely nothing of value, except . . .”

But she wasn't listening. “Oh, Julia, may I hold it? May I just hold it up close?”

“Of course, I want you to. Look at the details, Diane—you'll see more every time you look. And the stitches, there're some I've never seen before. And notice the skin tones on the figures—they're painted in, not sewn. Mixed media, I think it's called.”

Diane picked up the sampler, holding it as gingerly as she would a newborn baby. She brought it close to her face, her eyes running over every inch.

“I'd love to look at this under a microscope and a brighter light, but not sunlight. The colors haven't faded at all—even after so many years—and I don't want to ruin them now. Oh, Julia, this is unmatched! Absolutely unmatched. A marvelous example of funerary art!”

Funerary art,
I thought,
come to light only because of Mattie's passing. Coincidentally? Or had Mattie counted on it being disinterred in the nick of time?

Diane whirled around to me. “You must keep it covered and
safe
. I understand your insistence on secrecy now, and you were right. I wouldn't make any kind of announcement if I were you, to anybody. We need to get it to a textile expert who'll take it out of the frame under the proper conditions and examine it for authenticity as to age and so on.” Then she flapped her free hand again and said, “I think I'm about to hyperventilate.”

Lillian turned toward the door. “I go get a paper bag.”

“It's all right, Lillian,” I said, smiling. “She's just excited. But, Diane, how and where will we find a textile expert? The closest thing to an expert around here just makes draperies.”

“Don't worry. I have a list—they mostly work for museums. But I'll start making some calls today. Oh, I can't wait to tell them what I've found.”

Well,
I
was the one who had found it, but I let that pass.

I didn't let the big question pass, though. “So, Diane, what do you think it's worth?”

“Wait just a minute,” she said as she propped the sampler against the pillow again, then rummaged in her bag for a pencil and a notebook. And her camera. “I want to take some pictures. Then I'll write down everything on it so they'll know just what we have.”

So I waited as she took pictures of the sampler—some from a distance and others from up close to capture the details. Then she sketched the scene and drew arrows to the names of some of the stitches that she apparently recognized. She drew in the tomb, the man's figure and those of the children, copied the
inscriptions and the alphabet, and indicated where little animals peeked out from under the leaves. It seemed to take forever. I fidgeted, anxious to hear how far along on Mattie's list of bequests the sampler might get me.

Certainly I appreciated the beauty, the age, and the uniqueness of the sampler, but when you get right down to it, it was its
value
that interested me the most. That's what happens to one's appreciation of art when a long list of bequests is made one's responsibility.

“Okay, that's it,” Diane said, stuffing her notebook and camera into her bag. “Oh, I can't wait to get on the phone and tell somebody about this.”

I knew the feeling. “Diane, let me caution you now. Nobody, and I mean nobody—not Helen, not Mr. Wheeler, not your husband or your best friend, can know about this. The word would get around this town like wildfire, and I do not want to have to hire off-duty deputies to protect my home.” Especially from hot-under-the-collar-and-everywhere-else deacons who wanted an air-conditioning unit.

“No worries on that score,” Diane said, smiling at me. “The last thing we want is for word to get around. Then we'd begin to have speculations about its value, and who knows where that would lead. No, Julia, no one but out-of-town experts will hear a word from me.”

“Well, speaking of speculations about the value . . .” I said.

“I couldn't begin to tell you. It will depend on its being authenticated, first of all, but I have no worries about that. Of course I don't have much experience with textiles, but this has to be unique—because of its pristine condition, if nothing else. Then the next thing it will depend on is how many similar samplers Early American museums already have. I do think, however, that this has to be among the oldest—textiles don't age well.” Diane paused and tapped her pencil against her cheek as she studied the sampler again. “And if it goes to auction, it will depend on who and how many museums and private collectors want it. If
everything goes well, I'd venture it'll bring at least forty thousand.”

“Forty . . . ? Good land above!” I stumbled back, stunned and lightheaded. “Lillian, I may need that paper bag.”

“It could go higher, depending,” Diane said, her excitement tempered now as she resumed a professional tone. “My job will be to find the right hands to put it in. He—or she—will know how to handle the rest of it. Oh, and Julia,” she went on, “I was going to tell you until I got sidetracked by this, but the auction house can send a truck Monday morning if that suits you. After I talked with them and sent pictures of Mrs. Freeman's furniture, they'll take everything. The better pieces will go on their prime auction list, and the reproductions will go on a lesser list. They'll take care of it all.”

“What a relief!” I said. “When will I get a check?”

“It could be a few weeks. They'll want to be sure the pieces are correctly listed and advertised for auction. And, anyway, they'll send a check to me. I'll subtract my commission, then get a check to you. Everything,” she said as she noted my look of dismay, “will be properly noted down and confirmed. You need have no concerns about that—we're dealing with the top of the line in auction houses.”

“I'm only concerned about the beneficiaries,” I murmured. “They're getting a bit restless.”

_______

“Well, Lillian,” I said, after seeing Diane out and making another trip upstairs to hide the sampler under a stack of towels in the linen closet of my bathroom. No need, I thought, to keep it in the same place all the time.

“Well what?” she asked. “You ready for lunch?”

“Oh, anytime is fine with me. I'm just overwhelmed with what that sampler might be worth. But the thought of sending it off to a stranger in New York or somewhere is worrisome. I may have to go with it and you know how I love to fly.”

Lillian laughed. “You got to trust somebody sometime, Miss Julia, so you jus' give that pretty little thing to the FedEx man an' he fly it for you. You don't have to go with it.”

“That's right, and I won't. Actually, Diane might want to hand carry it, which might be the best way. And I'll stay here and try to figure out who'll get what.”

I worried half the afternoon about taking my every-other-day walk with Mildred. I didn't know how I could chat and visit with her while we strolled along and, all the while, keep silent about the sampler. But we had a shower with a few rumbles of thunder about three o'clock, and I knew we wouldn't be walking at all. That was a relief, for I would've been sorely tempted to tell her what I'd found in Mattie's closet. Of all the people I knew, Mildred was the most knowledgeable about art in general, and I would've loved to have shown the sampler to her.

But I knew for a fact that Mildred told Ida Lee everything, so that would be two more who'd know the secret. Ida Lee was, from all I'd seen, absolutely trustworthy, but the further from the source a secret gets, the less the urgency of keeping it secret.

I knew how it worked. A friend will swear to keep something to herself, but she'll tell her husband and not think for a minute that she's breaking a vow of silence. And where it goes from there, well, you'll find out when somebody you barely know calls to tell you the same secret.

_______

When I walked into the kitchen later in the afternoon with a small overnight bag, Lillian stopped what she was doing and demanded, “What you doin' with that? You spendin' the night at Miss Mattie's again?”

“Yes, I am. Lillian, I have to. That furniture is setting over there unprotected at night, and I don't want anything else stolen. It'll just be until Monday, when everything will be on the way to Atlanta.”

“But didn't you get it all locked up better'n it used to be?”

“Well, I hope so. But you never can tell what a determined thief is able to do. I need to be there.”

“Yes'm, and what if that thief come creepin' in while you sleepin'? What you gonna do then?”

“Etta Mae will be with me.”

“Law! You countin' on a lot from that little woman. She s'posed to be on a vacation, an' here you are puttin' her to work lookin' out for you.”

“I fully intend to make it up to her. Besides, she wants to go with me.”

“Uh-huh, and who gonna watch out for what you got upstairs while you both gone?”

I smiled and patted the overnight bag. “It's going with me. In fact, I just might sleep with it.”

“You do that, you break the glass when you roll over.”

“I'll be careful,” I said, getting out silverware from the drawer to set the table. “You'll eat with us, Lillian?”

“No'm, I got to pick up Latisha in a little while, so y'all can help your plates from the stove. 'Less you want me to dish it up in bowls.”

“No, don't do that—too much to wash. But take enough for supper for you and Latisha. How is she, anyway?”

Lillian laughed. “She mad at me right now 'cause I won't let her stay home all day by herself. She go to the day-care center where she have a real good time, but she play like she don't like it.” Lillian laughed again. “She tell me that place be for after school, an' she never heard of after school bein' all day long.”

“Lillian,” I said, laughing with her, “that little girl is as smart as a whip.”

“Yes'm, she pretty smart, but she get downright sassy more times than suit me.”

“Just don't break her spirit. She and Lloyd both will need every bit of gumption they have, the way the world is today. Oh,” I said, glancing up from the table, “I think I hear Etta Mae's car. It's nice, isn't it, having someone come home from work at the end of the day?”

“Yes'm, an' I 'spect she think so, too.”

_______

“Lock the door, Etta Mae,” I said as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. “I don't want anybody barging in and seeing this.” I put my overnight bag on the counter, opened it, and took out the Rich's box. Carefully opening it, I held out the sampler for her to see. “This is what that bright mind of yours uncovered for us.”

She stood there in her visiting nurse's outfit—light blue tunic and pants—frowning as she studied the sampler. “Cross-stitch?” she asked, skeptically.

“Hardly. Just look at it. It's a remarkable example of needlework, and it's quite old.”

“Well, it's cute, I guess, but I wouldn't want it hanging on my wall. Too depressing. Shoo, Miss Julia, I thought it might be jewelry or stock or stacks of cash—something like that. I'm sorry this thing is all you found.”

“Then let me unsorry you,” I said, smiling. “This
thing
is worth many, many thousands of dollars.”

“Well, good,” Etta Mae said, looking up with a laugh. “It's looking better and better all the time.”

_______

Etta Mae and I lingered at the table when we finished dinner—both too sated to move. Lillian had left us a plentiful and tasty meal—roast beef, rice and gravy, an asparagus casserole, and, along with her yeast rolls, a peach pie. We would have roast beef
sandwiches for lunch the next day and roast beef hash the following evening—all of which suited me just fine.

“Etta Mae,” I said, “I hope you don't mind spending another night at Miss Mattie's. Of course,” I hurriedly added, “you don't have to, if you'd rather stay here. The auction house will be moving the furniture out on Monday, so I have to watch out for it till then. There's too much at stake and it's too close to the end to risk any more thefts.”

“Oh, I'll go with you,” she said, agreeably enough. “Besides, I don't want to stay in this big house by myself.” She grinned. “I'm used to little places.”

“That's good, then. I'll sleep better with you around. See, Etta Mae . . .” Then I stopped, not wanting to frighten her.

“Ma'am?”

“Oh,” I said, drawing back, “I just worry about another break-in, especially now that we've found the sampler.” A growing worry had been occupying my thoughts. It seemed more and more likely to me that the man calling himself Andrew F. Cobb had known of Mattie's treasure all along.

“Anyway,” I went on, “we should take our nightclothes and get ready for bed over there. No need to keep shocking people by traipsing around in our bathrobes.”

“Sure, we can do that. I thought that man—the one we met in the hall last night? I thought his eyes were going to bug out of his head.”

“That was Mr. Wheeler. He's remodeling an empty apartment for whoever owns the building. Although, come to think of it, Sam mentioned that Mr. Wheeler himself might be the owner. He's very nice. And nice looking, as well.” I cut my eyes at her. “He'd be quite a catch, especially if he is the owner. Don't you think?”

“Don't ask me. I'm off men these days. Had my fill of 'em, and then some.” She glanced up and asked, “You think Miss Lillian would mind if I had another piece of that pie?”

“She'd be thrilled. Go ahead, but tell me, why're you off men?” Actually, I'd thought she
liked
them.

“Too much trouble. They're either hanging around all the time, or they're making themselves scarce. There's no in between, and I'm tired of arranging my life around somebody else's schedule. Besides,” she added, putting a slender slice of pie on her plate, “it's a lot more peaceful when you don't have to worry if he's going to call or not.”

Hm-m,
I thought,
this is a major change in attitude. And just when a decent, hardworking man has come along with a spark of interest
in his eyes
.

Well, maybe being decent and hardworking was the problem. There are some women, you know, who like only the bad ones. They can pick them out of a crowd, although, I will admit, some bad boys can eventually be housebroken—just look at Mr. Pickens.

_______

The car crunched and listed over the gravel when I turned into the dimly lit parking area at Mattie's building. The lot was almost full of parked cars—everybody home from work, I supposed. I had to park in a far corner next to, I suddenly realized, Mattie's old Oldsmobile, reminding me that I should get rid of it. Advertise it? Maybe so. It would make a good second car, though I wouldn't take it far from a gas station. Or perhaps it would suit a new driver—a teenager who needed the extra protection it would provide in the inevitable accidents.

Lloyd? My goodness, in a few years he'd be learning to drive, and that Oldsmobile was like an armored tank—just the sort of thing I'd want him in. So I decided to buy it from Mattie's estate, garage it, and present it to Lloyd on his sixteenth birthday. I was well aware that such a vehicle was unlikely to be what he would want, but if it was either that or nothing, he'd be happy enough with it.

Something to talk to Sam about, I thought, recalling as I did so our phone conversation that afternoon. The fishermen were apparently having a good time, except that Mr. Pickens had taken
to smoking a cigar every time he caught a fish. Lloyd, Sam had assured me, was being faithful about applying sunblock, and he himself was enjoying his companions and the seafood. Carefully avoiding any mention of spending another night at Mattie's, I told him that as much as I liked having Etta Mae around, I much preferred him. I had also remained silent about finding the sampler for fear of some unauthorized collection of phone data—whatever that was. You never know who's listening in.

But I put thoughts of Sam aside for a while as Etta Mae and I got our bags from the backseat and headed for our overnight stay. Even though it was not quite fully dark by that time, I was glad that we were presentable and not running from one shadow to another in our bathrobes. Still, I determined to mention to Mr. Wheeler that the parking area needed better lighting. There was a safety light at the back corner of the building and another one at the front corner, but neither reached the full expanse of the parking area. With the poor lighting and the gravel underfoot, it was a hazardous undertaking to walk across it in the dark. I stumbled twice and almost twisted my ankle—a lawsuit in the making for those so inclined, and Mr. Wheeler needed to be made aware of the liability.

When we got inside, I unlocked Mattie's door, put my overnight bag inside, and said, “I'm going to run down the hall and tell Mr. Wheeler that we're here. I don't want him calling the police if he hears us.”

“Okay,” Etta Mae said, brushing her hand against the wall to flip the switch of the overhead light, which couldn't have produced more than forty watts' worth of illumination. “Don't stay too long. It's kinda creepy in here.”

There were more shadows in the room than outside and just as many hazards from the displaced furniture. “It sure is. Find some more lights, if you can. I'll be right back.”

At the last apartment on the other side of the hall, I tapped on the door. Expecting to see Mr. Wheeler in his work clothes with the usual amount of sawdust and paint splatters, I was somewhat
taken aback when he opened the door. He looked as if he were going to another visitation. I quickly took in the nice gray suit, white shirt, traditional striped tie, fresh haircut, and an aroma that wasn't Old Spice but almost as tantalizing.

“Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you that my houseguest and I are spending the night in Mrs. Freeman's apartment. In case, you know, you heard us and thought somebody was breaking in.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” Mr. Wheeler said, treating me again to his nice smile. “But with the furniture all scrambled around, are you going to be comfortable in there? We spent the day sorting it out—all the chairs together, all the chests, and so on—but I can move some things for you, if you want.”

“That's kind of you, but as long as we can get to the beds, we'll be all right. We'll be up and gone early in the morning. Etta Mae has to be at work.”

“Is that her name? Etta Mae? That was my aunt's name, so I've always liked it.” He reached over and switched off a lamp, then said, “I was just leaving. I'll walk down the hall with you. You'll probably hear me come back in. Helen has asked me to dinner, so I won't be late.”

Well, well,
I thought as we said good night at Mattie's door and he left the building. Helen Stroud, so serene and composed, had a dinner date with a carpenter who might be more than a handyman. And from the sound of it,
she
had asked him, not the other way around. It was possible, of course, that more had been going on than I was aware of, so her dinner invitation did not necessarily mean that she had been the initiator of closer contact with Mr. Wheeler.

Still, Mr. Wheeler seemed more than a little interested in Etta Mae, so he wasn't exactly committed to Helen. Unless, as I had speculated earlier, he was a man of varied tastes. In which case, even given his seemingly desirable qualities, I'd as soon that he stayed away from Etta Mae.