Vultures at Twilight (3 page)

‘There'll be fights,' I commented as I parked and clicked open the locks.

‘No doubt.' She opened the door and with cat-like grace pushed up from the bucket seat. ‘It is a shame, though.'

‘What is?' I asked, following her gaze toward the darkly clad mourners.

‘That,' she said, hoisting her matching bag on to her shoulder. ‘They all come now, a flock of vultures. But if they'd come before . . . when—' She stopped herself as a wave of emotion choked in her throat.

I put my arm around her shoulders, and looked toward the gravesite.

‘Evie just wanted them to visit, and they never did,' she said.

‘I know.' My tears started. I stood, not wanting to move, glad to have Ada beside me, and not caring who saw my grief. I was going to miss sweet Evie. But in truth, I'd already said goodbye as her dementia had worsened and taken away my sharp-witted friend.

‘Vultures,' Ada repeated, looking toward the tent-covered grave, her head resting against my side.

There was such comfort in the closeness and I resisted the impulse to kiss the top of her head, which smelled faintly of green-apple conditioner. ‘You're right,' I said, wishing we could just stay here and watch. ‘So much greed, all jockeying to see what she'd left. All wanting their share.' Again I pictured that damn dog with her bloody prize, snapping and growling not wanting to give it up.

‘Come, Ada,' I said, taking my hand off her shoulder, ‘let's go,' and we tromped across the squishy lawn toward the grave.

Now I'm not superstitious, but as we neared Evie's family, I felt a chill. I took a deep breath, but the usually comforting smells of a fall day were tainted with the scent of decay, and all I kept thinking was:
something bad has come to Grenville
.

TWO

‘
R
ude,' Ada muttered as she hung up on Graham Hennessy, owner of Epoch Antiques. Seated in front of her computer on the carved mahogany desk, from which she'd run
H. S. Strauss
for over thirty years, she typed
Gonif
– Yiddish for thief – next to Hennessey's name, then highlighted it and crossed it out. She fumed as she recalled the conversation.

‘Well,' he had said, after she had described Evie's treasures, ‘what you might think are valuable antiques, may not be worth much. But,' he'd quickly added, ‘I'd be happy to come out and take a look.' His tone had communicated that he thought Ada was either slightly retarded, or headed to the dementia ward at The Hillside Convalescent Home.

This no longer surprised her, having been at this all morning. Why had Evie done this to her? Much as she had loved her friend – the first person in Pilgrim's Progress to welcome her and Harry when they moved in eight years ago – Ada wished she had picked someone else to be executrix. Or at the very least, Evie could have warned her.

One more
, she told herself, scrolling down the list of dealers that she'd cut and pasted from the Grenville Antique Dealers' Association website,
and then a cup of tea.
Before she dialed, it rang.

‘Hello,' she said, bracing for another interaction with one of Evie's sons, sons' spouses, or sons' ex-spouses.

‘Hello,' a man's voice answered, ‘I'd like to speak to Mrs Strauss.'

‘This is she.'

‘My name is Tolliver Jacobs; I was given your name by Attorney James Warren. He said you might need some assistance in liquidating an estate.'

The name was familiar, the accent slightly British, but she couldn't . . . ‘I see, and you are with . . .?'

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I'm one of the owners of Grenville Antiques.'

Ada glanced at her list. She hadn't planned on calling Grenville Antiques, mostly because of its reputation for being the most overpriced store in the Grenville constellation of dealers. While Evie had good taste and had accumulated a few better pieces of eighteenth-century furniture and Chinese Export porcelain, Ada had assumed that the scale of her estate was below what Grenville Antiques – a firm that put multi-page ads in
Architectural Digest
, and catered to high-end designers – would consider.

‘Did Jim Warren give you some idea of the extent of the estate?' she asked, trying to keep excitement out of her voice. While she and Lil would never buy at Grenville Antiques, they loved to browse their well-stocked showrooms, identifying similar pieces that they owned, but had purchased at a fraction of the price.

‘He wasn't at liberty to say, but we've handled a number of estates from Pilgrim's Progress. What most people don't realize is that we liquidate entire estates, everything from high-end Chippendale down to the chipped jelly glasses in the kitchen; we even broom sweep when we're done. It's quite a popular service, because we take care of the whole shooting match. You'd be amazed,' he said, ‘that people are forever choosing the busiest person they know to be their executor.'

‘Ain't that the truth,' she said, finding it hard to keep up her decades-thick New York wariness; there was something likable and familiar in his friendly tone and candid pitch.

‘Anyway, the other reason we get a lot of business is price. We give top dollar for the better things, and if you're not under the gun time wise, we can take anything really good on consignment. That way the heirs can realize the maximum amount.'

‘I had no idea.' Ada wondered if her search might not have come to an end. She liked this one, he wasn't too pushy and the British accent didn't hurt. And then it hit. ‘You're on that show, aren't you? I love
Trash to Cash!
'

‘I am,' he admitted. ‘So would you like to set up a time?' he offered.

‘That would be lovely. Of course,' she added, sounding slightly British herself, ‘I will need to get quotes from at least three dealers.'

‘That's wise,' he agreed. ‘You'll be amazed at the range you'll get back.'

‘Trust me,' she said, looking over her screen filled with crossed-out and annotated names, ‘after a lifetime in New York, little amazes me.'

Tolliver Jacobs chuckled politely, and agreed to meet at Evie's condo in the morning.

Now,
Ada thought, hanging up,
definitely time for tea
. She hummed as she left her office – the condo's converted third bedroom – and went to the galley kitchen that opened on to a light-filled living room/dining room combination. The furniture was a cozy mix of mahogany and walnut Chippendale reproductions that had followed her and Harry from their Brooklyn Heights brownstone, and all new couches, armchairs and a stunning cream and navy Persian carpet she'd purchased following his death three years ago. The man was a cigar smoker and nothing could be done to get rid of the smell.

Finally
, she thought,
progress
. She was half tempted to take the first offer that Mr Jacobs might make. ‘Sorry Evie,' she said as she spooned two heaping teaspoons of sugar into a mug adorned with a bright green cat, ‘but your sons are a piece of work.'

As her fingers worked away at the lid on the four-pound tin of Danish butter cookies from Costco, the phone rang again.

‘Pheh,' she said, picking up the kitchen cordless. ‘Hello?'

‘Mother, it's Susan.'

Ada wondered why her only daughter always felt it necessary to identify herself. ‘Hello dear.' She cradled the phone in the crook of her neck, and continued to work away at the lid.

‘Just called to see how you're doing.'

‘That's nice. How are the kids?'

There was a pause. ‘They're good. Aaron's starting to think about college and Mona's completely boy obsessed.'

‘Well, she is at the age,' Ada said. And before she could stop herself, she asked, ‘Is this one Jewish?'

‘I haven't asked,' her daughter admitted. ‘It would be nice, wouldn't it?'

‘She'd make her grandmother very happy.'

‘So you've told her,' Susan stated.

‘What? I'm not supposed to talk about these things? Do you realize that the intermarriage rate is over fifty percent?'

‘We did our part,' her daughter answered defensively. ‘They both went to Sunday school, synagogue on Fridays. It just doesn't seem to matter. Aaron was in the youth group for a bit, but lately he's more interested in going on the Internet, skateboarding and hanging out with his friends at the mall. I can't think of the last time he went to services.'

‘Do you ask him?'

‘Of course I do. But he's at that age where everything is a potential fight. Sometimes I don't have the energy.'

As the kettle whistled, Ada asked, ‘And how is Jack?'

‘Busy. They're in the midst of another downsizing; he's convinced they're going to lay him off.'

‘Didn't he say that the last time?'

‘I know. He makes himself crazy. He always needs something to get mad about. Now he's convinced that there's something wrong with Aaron.'

Ada stopped, the creamer poised over her mug. ‘Wrong? What do you mean?'

‘I probably shouldn't say . . .'

‘Susan, don't do that.'

Silence stretched. Finally, Susan blurted, ‘Jack thinks Aaron might be gay.'

Ada poured her milk and stirred.
Why doesn't this bother me?
she thought, wondering if perhaps her daughter's words needed to gain momentum.
He could be gay.
‘What's so bad about that?'

‘Mother! Did you hear what I said? Do you know what I'm saying?'

‘You said that Jack wondered if Aaron was gay, and from your tone I'd say you were having the same thoughts. Not a big deal, as long as he's careful, plus he's only sixteen . . .' She was about to add:
how could he know?
And then stopped, her thoughts catapulted back forty-five years to a schoolgirl crush, and a name attached to a dark-haired beauty with laughing eyes – Miriam Roth. With the memory, a rush of feelings, longing, regret . . . She snapped back. ‘Is this more than suspicion? Does he have a . . . boyfriend?'

‘No,' Susan interrupted, ‘I don't think he's done anything about it.'

‘You have to talk to him about AIDS and condoms. Whether he's gay or not, I hope you've talked to him about safe sex,' Ada said.

‘Mother, I'm not even sure he is gay. He probably isn't, but . . .' Susan stopped in mid sentence.

‘But what?' Ada prompted, her knees rubbery.

‘All right, but I didn't want to tell you this because I know you don't like Jack.'

‘I have never said that I don't like your husband,' Ada corrected, picturing her balding ham hock of a son-in-law, who she frequently referred to as ‘that right-wing Nazi'.

‘Come off it, Mother. Whenever the two of you get together I have to pry you apart before there's bloodshed.'

Ada couldn't hold back. ‘I just don't understand how you could have married someone so close-minded. Anyway,' Ada said, struggling to find her way back to the earlier conversation. ‘What makes Jack think that Aaron is gay?'

‘You can't say anything,' Susan cautioned.

‘That's hardly fair, but OK,' Ada said, having no intention of holding her tongue.

‘How much do you know about the Internet?'

‘Some,' Ada admitted, glancing at the dancing red lights of the router on her kitchen counter.

‘Well, Aaron's been spending a lot of time on the Internet. So Jack asked him what he was doing. And to be frank, I can't blame Jack because Aaron gave some sketchy answers. I mean schoolwork is one thing, but he's on it for hours every day.'

‘So what is he doing?' Ada dunked her cookie in the tea.

‘It's a lot of social network stuff; he's constantly on Facebook and My Space. But he's also in chat rooms where people of like interest talk about things.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Jack went into his computer and pulled up the history of all the places Aaron had been going. Apparently a lot of the rooms he was in were for men looking for other men.'

‘Oh,' Ada said, not liking the tawdry turn this had taken. ‘I've read about that. But isn't that illegal, dear? I mean, he's only sixteen.' She thought about her beloved grandson, and her frequently red-faced son-in-law. ‘What did Jack do?'

‘What do you think?' Susan said. ‘He exploded. Now, he didn't actually come out and accuse Aaron of being gay. He called his son a pervert.'

‘That's ridiculous!' Ada was incensed. ‘A lot of my friends have gay children and grandchildren. Your cousin Joanne is a lesbian! There's nothing wrong with it. Sure, it might cut down on the number of grandchildren, but I don't think that should be the issue. Besides, a lot of gay people have children, look at Rosie O'Donnell and Melissa Etheridge. He could always adopt. Or have a surrogate.'

‘Mother, you amaze me.' Susan sounded annoyed. ‘Here you get on Mona's case for dating non-Jewish boys, yet you don't seem to care if your grandson is gay or not.'

‘Of course I care. And if he is gay, he should find a nice Jewish boy.'

‘I give up,' Susan said, deciding it was best to get off the subject. ‘So how are you? Any luck with the cholesterol?'

Ada eyed her stack of cookies. ‘The doctor wants me on a high-fiber diet. I try, but a bowl of oatmeal every day . . . I just don't like the stuff, unless it's baked into cookies, but then I think the butter cancels the benefit.'

‘It's hard,' Susan agreed. ‘You could always use margarine.'

‘Never touch it. Plus, it's probably genetic.'

‘I hope not. Knock wood mine's been fine,' Susan said.

And Ada selected her favorite cookie with the chunks of crystallized sugar and popped it into her mouth and chewed silently.

‘Otherwise, everything's OK, Mom?'

‘Yes, dear,' Ada replied, wondering if she should mention the gruesome discovery at the auction, and then decided not to. ‘Things are fine. Why don't you tell Aaron to give me a call? From the sounds of it he could use a friendly ear. If he wanted, he could stay the weekend.'