Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (27 page)

When Coleman's patrol car rolled to a stop in my driveway, Etta Mae and I hurried out to meet him. Etta Mae was ready with the combination in hand, while I was getting more anxious by the minute. What if she couldn't open the safe? What if Cobb had taken the sampler out before he'd moved the safe? And hidden it where we'd never find it?

But, no, not even he would've been that foolish. He wouldn't have struggled to get the safe from closet to trailer, across a gravel parking lot and up a ramp, if it had been empty. It had to be in the safe.

Still, I couldn't wait to get my hands on that shirt box again. So we watched as Coleman swung out of his car, walked to the trunk, opened it, and stood back.

“There you are, ladies,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Safe and secure, just as we left it.”

I leaned in to look, and, yes, there was the safe, but there was also a lot of police gear, including a shotgun, a first-aid kit, a shovel, an extra pair of socks, a rain poncho, a bag of Doritos, and who-knows-what-else. The safe was sitting right where it had been dumped from the dolly, but it had landed upside down with the dial facing the back of the trunk.

“Oh, my,” I said, “it'll be hard to get to, but, Coleman, I don't want you trying to move it. It's too heavy, and you could ruin your
back. Etta Mae,” I went on, turning to her, “you think you can get to the dial with it facing that way?”

“Sure.” And with Coleman's help, she hopped up into the trunk, squatted next to the safe, and went to work. And misdialed the first time. “Phooey,” she said, “I'm doing this upside down, but hold on. I'll get it.”

And she did. She opened the safe, pulled out the Rich's box, and handed it to me. Then Coleman helped her jump out of the trunk.

Coleman looked from me to Etta Mae to the Rich's box, then said, “Is that it? What is it?”

“It's a box,” I said. “A shirt box.”

“Well,” he said, eyebrows raised and a grin on his face, “you went to a lot of trouble for a shirt. I hope there's more to it than that.”

“There is, Coleman. It's just about the sum total of Mattie Freeman's estate, bless her heart, and I thank you for taking care of it. And, by the way, you can have the safe. Tell the sheriff that I'm donating it to the department. Oh, and, Coleman, I was about to forget. How is Andrew Cobb? Etta Mae's concerned about him.”

Coleman grinned. “Last I heard, he's claiming amnesia. Says he doesn't remember anything that happened last night.”

Etta Mae, thinking she'd caused brain damage, moaned.

“He's not going to get away with that, is he?” I was incensed that he'd claim a loss of memory. A lot of us might want to forget what we've done, but it's not that easy—too many other people have good memories.

“Nope,” Coleman said. “In fact, they're drawing up charges against him now—breaking and entering, larceny, abduction—that would be of you, Miss Julia—reckless driving, exceeding a twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, property damage, failure to stop, driving on a sidewalk, public endangerment, and a defective taillight. Oh, and driving under the influence—the fumes in that car would knock your socks off.”

Just as Etta Mae started to speak, I frowned and slightly shook
my head at her to keep her quiet—no need to respond to something that wasn't a direct question.

Coleman didn't notice. He went on with what he was saying. “Cobb's got a lot to answer for, amnesia or no amnesia. But he remembers enough to get a lawyer. They said the first thing he asked for this morning was Mr. Ernest Sitton.”

“What!” I cried, stunned. “Mr. Sitton is representing him? Why, he can't do that. He's Mattie's lawyer. Wouldn't that be a conflict of interest?”

Coleman shrugged. “I don't know, maybe not. The court'll straighten it out.”

“Well, that just beats all I've ever heard,” I said, just done in by Andrew Cobb's audacity and Mr. Sitton's lack of professional sense.

“Etta Mae,” I went on, “let's go in. I'm calling Mr. Sitton right now, and”—I stopped and clutched the box to my bosom—“I need to check this out. We may have to lay a few more charges on Mr. Andrew Cobb.”

With a wave to Coleman as he backed out of the driveway, we went inside to make sure that we had what we wanted. Holding my breath for fear that something else would go wrong, I untied the twine, lifted the lid off the box, and unwrapped the sampler—just enough to peek at it. Reassured, I rewrapped it, put the lid back on the box, and thanked the Lord for travel mercies—it had been through so much.

Then I put it back among my flannel gowns.

_______

“Mr. Sitton,” I said when he answered his phone, and before he could say more than “Sitton here,” I demanded, “What do you mean by representing a thief and a scoundrel? Do you know what he did last night? Do you know he endangered my life? And stole from another client of yours—you know, the one who's dead and can't take up for herself? But I can. I mean, I can take up for her, and I want to know just what you're doing by representing both sides of a criminal case.”

“I presume this is Mrs. Murdoch.”

“You presume correctly, and I want some answers.”

He took a mighty breath as if he were not accustomed to being called to account. “Mrs. Murdoch, Andrew Cobb called me because I was the only lawyer he knew. I have since recommended a few to him, and I assume he's followed up on at least one of them. I assure you that I am not representing him. Under the circumstances, it would be highly questionable if I did.”

“Well,” I said, quickly losing steam, “I should think so.”

“And,” Mr. Sitton went on, “we may have more congress with Mr. Cobb than we want as far as Mrs. Freeman's estate is concerned. I've been notified that prison records and pictures will be in my office sometime tomorrow. We should know by then just who Mr. Cobb is.”

“I can tell you who he is,” I said, suddenly sure of what had to be true. “He is
not
Andrew F. Cobb, unless there're two of them. Why would he have gone to the trouble—and it
was
trouble—to steal her most valuable asset if all he had to do was petition the court as Mattie's nephew and he would've had it all? We're dealing with an impostor, Mr. Sitton.”

“I expect you're right, but we'll know for sure by tomorrow.”

“I'm not going to believe it even if your picture is a dead ringer for that man. I was eager to pass along this entire mess to him at first, but now I will fight him tooth and nail for every penny of Mattie's estate.” Even, I thought, if most of it had to go toward an air-conditioning unit.

_______

“Julia?” Diane Jankowski said, an underlay of excitement in her voice when I answered the phone at seven that Monday morning. “The truck's already left Atlanta. It should be here around eleven. Helen and I are going to meet at the apartment at ten to do a last-minute check.”

“That's wonderful, Diane. I'll be there, too, with Lillian. We'll
have that place cleaned out by suppertime. And, Diane, I can't thank you enough for all you've done.”

“Well, hold off on the thanks,” Diane said, laughing. “You haven't heard it all yet. I've had a pile of e-mails over the weekend, and three phone calls, too. Everybody I contacted is excited about the sampler, but, of course, they want to authenticate it. Most of them want to do it themselves, but I don't want it to be passed around and fiddled with that much. If you agree, I'd like to take it to the Smithsonian, let them examine it, then put it up for auction. How does that sound?”

“Like I was fortunate to have turned to you in the first place,” I told her, feeling a great sense of relief—there was beginning to be a light in the tunnel. “Go ahead and make your plans, Diane, and Mattie will send you to Washington.”

Having not lost a thing in the nation's capital, I thought as we hung up,
Better her than me
. Still, I hated the thought of depleting Mattie's meager bank account for plane tickets and a hotel room, but, as they say, you have to spend money to make money. And the best bet to make money for Mattie—or rather, for Mattie's beneficiaries—was that sampler.

_______

Later in the morning, Lillian, loaded down with mop, bucket, brushes, rags, and several spray bottles of cleaning solutions, followed me into Mattie's building, where we had to stand aside as men were already bringing in furniture padding. Helen and Diane were doing their last-minute check, making sure that the real antiques were properly covered and protected for the trip to Atlanta.

It was amazing to watch the men—only one of whom spoke English, such as it was—as they expertly wrapped and tied padding around each piece of furniture, preparing their valuable cargo for the return trip.

Strangely, with all the activity in and out of Mattie's
apartment, Mr. Wheeler was making himself scarce. It wasn't at all like him to ignore what was going on—none of the tenants could've helped knowing that Mattie's apartment was going through its last roundup. And Mr. Wheeler had always seemed not only willing but eager to help, yet here we were, working away, and he was nowhere to be seen.

“Helen,” I said when I found her labeling boxes in the sunroom. “I thought Mr. Wheeler would be around. Is he out of town?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

Uh-oh,
I thought, then said, “He's been so helpful in the past, I thought he'd be here.”

Helen straightened up after drawing a heavy line under the last label. She sighed, and said, “Julia, I asked him not to come by. It would be awkward having him around.”

“Oh, Helen, I'm sorry. I thought . . . Well, it doesn't matter what I thought, but I hope you're all right with whatever happened.”

“I'm fine.” Short and sweet. Then she drew herself up, composed her face, and explained, “He wants children.”

It took me a minute to understand. “Oh, I see. Well, Helen, life can be full without children, and I should know. But it's too bad that you didn't meet when you both were younger.”

Helen gave me a look that could've peeled an onion. “I assure you that age—
my
age—doesn't enter into it. I simply do not wish to have children.”

“Oh, well. Well, good for you, Helen. I admire you for knowing what you want and what you don't.” Then, turning away, I said, “I better go help Lillian.”

I had never really understood Helen, but I appreciated her, and never more than in the past few days when she'd been so much help in sorting Mattie's furniture. But as far as her personal life was concerned, I'd learned my lesson—I was staying out of it. But don't tell me that her age didn't enter into it.

Other than that, I had too much else on my mind to tend to
somebody else's business. Getting Mattie's apartment closed would be a huge step toward ending my executive duties. Sometime during the day, Mr. Sitton would be able to establish Andrew F. Cobb's true identity, and, above all, Sam would be home by nightfall.

He had called the evening before from somewhere in Alabama where they'd stopped for an overnight stay. He'd laughed as he told me that they were in a Sleep Inn right off the interstate.

“Lloyd was disappointed,” Sam said. “He wanted to look for a Motel 6, because they were leaving a light on for us. Oh, and, Julia, you better tell Lillian and Hazel Marie to be prepared. We're bringing home two coolers full of fish.”

“Just so you bring yourself home,” I said. “And Lloyd. Well, and Mr. Pickens, too.” Fish I could do without.

As soon as Mattie's bedroom was emptied, I began sweeping the floor while Lillian wiped cobwebs from the walls. Helen and Diane stood by the door to the hall, checking off each piece of furniture as it was moved to the truck.

When the last chest, the last chair, the last everything was gone, including the last faded oil painting and photograph from the walls, I wandered through the apartment, my footsteps echoing in the empty rooms. I glanced at the trash piles on the floor, the dusty windows, the empty hangers in the closet, and the stained wallpaper, thinking to myself,
“Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

Well, I didn't know that any sweet birds had ever sung in Mattie's apartment, but the bare, ruined rooms gave me such a desolate feeling that I was moved to dredge up the little bit of poetry that had stuck in my mind. Poor Mattie, I thought, almost overcome by the sadness of her life. But, I thought, as I mentally shook myself, if everything that I'd set in motion went well, she would create some happiness for others—like the ten friends she'd remembered in her will, plus a lot of children, many litters of dogs and cats, twelve overheated deacons, and one hotheaded minister.

_______

As Lillian rounded up her cleaning supplies, Diane and I discussed for a few minutes her pending trip to the Smithsonian,
then I thanked her and Helen again. While they took one last look around the rooms, I walked back to Mr. Wheeler's apartment.

I could hear the sound of a power saw from within, so I knew he'd kept working while we emptied Mattie's apartment without him. Under the circumstances as I now knew them, that had probably been a wise course.

“Good afternoon,” I said when he opened the door. “I think we're all finished, but I need to turn in our keys and officially end Mrs. Freeman's lease. Do you know who the owner is?”

“I sure do,” he said with that nice smile. “I am.”

“Well, good. I knew the building had changed hands recently, but I didn't know from whose to whose. So I'll tell you, Mr. Wheeler, Mattie's apartment could use some rehabilitation before you rent it again.”

“It's the next one on my list.” He accepted the new keys I'd had made, and as I started to turn away, he said, “Uh, Mrs. Murdoch, is your houseguest still with you?”

“Etta Mae? No, Sam will be home tonight, so she's back at her place in Delmont.” It flashed through my mind that Etta Mae was young enough, if childbearing age was really Mr. Wheeler's criterion, for his consideration. But somehow I felt that there'd been more to Helen's breakup with him than either her ability or his desire to have children. “Why?” I asked.

“Well, I thought I might give her a call. Unless,” he quickly added, “she's seeing someone.”

Knowing that Etta Mae had seen many someones, I said, “I'm not sure, but I think she's in between right now. But I caution you, Mr. Wheeler, she's as fine a young woman as you'll find, but she has a mind of her own. I wouldn't toy with her if I were you.”

He grinned. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

I nodded, thanked him again for his help, and left, thinking as I went that he'd answer to me if he did.

_______

My cell phone rang as I followed Lillian through the front door of Mattie's building on our way to the car. It took several seconds of rummaging in my pocketbook to find the thing—it rang so seldom that it was rarely to hand.

“Mrs. Murdoch?” Mr. Ernest Sitton said. “Glad I caught you. Your housekeeper once told me that you might not answer. But, be that as it may, I have news for you. Cobb, or the man we know as Cobb, was discharged from the hospital this morning, still claiming amnesia for the events of Saturday night. Of course, he was still under arrest and appeared before the magistrate for arraignment a little while ago. Bond of twenty thousand dollars was set, and he bonded out.”

“He's
out
? After all he's done?”

“He was given notice to appear before the district judge in a day or so because of the felony charges, and a court date will be set then. In the meantime, yes, he's out.”

“Why, Mr. Sitton, what's he going to do? His trailer's wrecked, so he has no place to live. And his car's in worse shape, so he can't get around. Is he just on the street?” I looked around to be sure he wasn't hiding in the bushes by the front door.

“The fact that he has no transportation is probably the reason he was given bond,” Mr. Sitton said, somewhat drily. “His lawyer's found him a bed at the mission.”

“Well, what I want to know,” I said, still hot about the whole situation, “is how did he pay a twenty-thousand-dollar bond? He certainly doesn't appear to have that kind of money, and we know he has no property to speak of, especially since it's all wrecked.”

“A bondsman, Mrs. Murdoch, who, I expect, is now regretting the deal. Cobb is apparently missing. His lawyer dropped him off at the mission, but he never registered with them. Now,” Mr. Sitton continued, “it may well be that he's sitting in a restaurant somewhere or walking down Main Street or a dozen other places. I've been trying to contact him, but nobody's seen him.”

“He could still turn up,” I said, although I doubted it, and
didn't much care if he didn't. “Maybe one of those long-haired bounty hunters will go after him.”

“Yes, well, maybe so. But a warrant will be issued if he fails to appear on his court date, and the sheriff as well as the bondsman will be after him. They'll get him, especially since we now know who he is.”

“We do?”

“I have the pictures and identification that we've been waiting for. I think you'll find them interesting. How soon can you get here, Mrs. Murdoch?”

_______

As quickly as it took me to drive to Delmont, which wasn't very long. I had, however, delayed long enough to take Lillian home and tell her to lock all the doors and not to answer if anyone knocked. If Cobb was on the loose, there was no telling where he'd turn up. He obviously knew that something valuable was—or had been—in Mattie's safe, but whether he'd known what it was, was another matter. He might've been sorely disappointed if he'd opened the safe expecting to find gold coins or bundles of cash and had found, instead, a piece of needlework.

_______

As soon as I walked into Mr. Sitton's office, my eyes locked on a fuzzy black-and-white picture in the center of his conference table.

“Is that him?”

Mr. Sitton nodded. “Andrew F. Cobb, yes. Taken fifteen years ago when he was arrested for larceny and sentenced to six years' incarceration. Released after thirty-six months for good behavior, no further contact with law enforcement.”

“Until Saturday night,” I reminded him. I approached the table slowly, being of two minds as to what I wanted to see.

Leaning over, I scanned the faxed picture, then snatched it up for a closer look. “Who is this?”

“Andrew F. Cobb, deceased April 26, 2009. Highway accident—here's the police report.” He laid an official form on the table for me to see. “Note also his physical description sent by the warden of the prison.” Another form slid beside the first one.

“My word,” I said as I read it. “He was a big man—over six feet, weighing two hundred ten pounds, and I know these faxed things don't give a true picture of coloring, but it looks to me as if he had black hair and eyebrows. In other words,” I went on, in a musing way, “not anything at all like the man presenting himself as Cobb. But, Mr. Sitton, this description of the real Cobb comes closer to the way Mattie looked than that short, blond, sunburned idiot who almost took us in. She was a large-boned woman, tall, though almost hunchbacked, and dark even with some graying, as you may recall. I see, I think, a family resemblance, especially in the heavy eyebrows. And I hate to say this, but in the mustache as well.”

He nodded. “I'd say it's confirmed that we've been dealing with an impostor.”

“But how did he know about Mattie? How did he know what she had—that she'd be worth robbing? How did he even know she'd died?”

“Remember what I told you about sociopaths. Now look at this.” He handed me another faxed picture.

“Why, it's him!”

“Yes, it's William Lee Smith, or, at least, that's one of the names he's known as. We can be grateful to the warden where they were both incarcerated. When I explained our concerns about the man presenting himself as Cobb, he looked more closely through his files. Smith was Cobb's cellmate for almost Cobb's entire period of incarceration. You may not know this, but it's quite common for cellmates to share personal information to pass the time.”

“But, Mr. Sitton, that was years ago, when Andrew Cobb, according to you and that sheriff you talked to, was a fairly young
man. How would Cobb-Smith-whoever-he-is know about Mattie? And also know that the real Cobb was dead and wouldn't be appearing as the next of kin?”

“Sociopathic behavior, Mrs. Murdoch,” Mr. Sitton said, as if such behavior were nothing new to him. “It doesn't surprise me that he tucked away information that could be of use later on. I have no doubt that the real Cobb revealed the entire history of his family, perhaps even that his aunt Mattie was the caretaker of valuable family items.”

“Including the contents of a
safe
?” I could hardly believe it.

“A safe?” Mr. Sitton asked, eyebrows raised.

“I'll explain later,” I said with a wave of my hand. I needed to first understand sociopathic behavior. “I'm finding it hard to fathom that this Smith could get so much intimate information out of another prisoner, then keep it to himself for years and years.
And
keep an eye out for both Cobb's and Mattie's death notices.”

“Perhaps Cobb's fairly low intelligence quotient speaks to your first concern. And we don't know if Smith actually knew they were both deceased. He may have figured he could get by as Mattie's nephew just long enough to steal something from her, then he'd move on.”

“The cellarette,” I murmured, realizing that if Cobb-Smith or Smith-Cobb was on the run, he had money in his pocket to finance a flight from justice. “No wonder, then,” I went on, “that he had no interest in contesting her will. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself.” I shivered as I recalled how willing—even eager—I'd been to turn over Mattie's estate to anybody who would take it—including a bald-faced liar unconscionable enough to sit as big as you please in the first pew at Mattie's funeral service.

“Well,” I said, turning away from the paper-strewn table, “if you want to know the truth, I'm glad he's gone and I hope he stays that way. I still have too much to do to spend time testifying in a courtroom, revealing, thereby, all of Mattie's secrets. Some of which, Mr. Sitton, you may be interested in.”

Then I told him about finding the unreadable combination that Etta Mae had been able to decipher, the safe and its remarkable contents, and finally I told him of Diane Jankowski's upcoming mission to the Smithsonian.

“Well,” he said, a hint of admiration in his words, “you've certainly been busy.”

“More than you know, Mr. Sitton,” I said, sighing as I thought of a wild Saturday night ride. “More than you know.”