Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (13 page)

Then, suddenly making a startling, though delayed, connection, I said, “Wait! Did you say the man's name is Cobb? Mr. Sitton, that was Mattie's maiden name.”

Sam's eyebrows went straight up.

Mr. Sitton said, “Yes, I'm aware of that. Nonetheless, red flags went up when he asked if he could stay in his great-aunt's house—that's what he called her, his great-aunt. I had to explain that she'd lived in a rented apartment and had never owned a house. Didn't want to tantalize him, don't you know.”

“Oh, you're right. He can't stay in her apartment. We'll be moving the furniture out in the next week or so. Besides, we haven't gone through everything yet, and I don't want a strange man scrounging around in there before we do.”

“Absolutely. He has a place to stay, anyway. He's living in what he called an Airstream Sport trailer, by which I know to mean an aluminum two-wheeled trailer hitched to the back of his car. He apparently has it unhooked now and parked out at Walmart.

“So my feeling is that if it's been good enough for him so far, he can continue to stay in it. I just wanted to warn you that he might
show up at the apartment while you're there. And, Mrs. Murdoch, to warn you that he can be quite engaging, and we must also keep in mind that he might indeed be who he says he is.”

When we finally hung up, I turned to Sam and said, “Well, wouldn't you know it? An even bigger problem has just reared its ugly head.”

“You mean,” Lillian said, enrapt with what I'd just recounted of Mr. Sitton's phone call, “somebody jus' pop up outta the blue an' say he kinfolk an' say he want to stay in Miss Mattie's apartment so he can look around all he want to? But he don't want nothin'? I don't think I b'lieve that.”

“Me, either, Lillian,” I agreed. “What do you think, Sam?”

“I'm wondering,” he said in a musing way, “if Mattie had something of value that nobody knows about. Something whose value wouldn't be immediately recognized and could be easily hidden. Why else would he want to move in unless he wants to look around when nobody else is there?”

“But what in the world could it be? He told Mr. Sitton that he only wants to look through her letters, scrapbooks, and family pictures.” I stopped and studied the possibilities. “Maybe Mattie has a letter from somebody important whose signature would be valuable. Or maybe there's a picture that shows somebody in a compromising situation. Or maybe there're some old deeds that have suddenly become valuable. Or maybe—well, I can't think of anything else.”

“Anything's possible,” Sam said. Then, somewhat wryly, he went on. “I certainly understand what it takes to research a nonfiction book, though, and if he's really writing a family history he's doing exactly what it takes.”

“Well, I'll tell you one thing—he's not staying in Mattie's
apartment. The idea! Wanting to move in and have the freedom to rummage through her things so I'd never know what he found or what he took away. And I'm the one who's responsible for what happens to everything that Mattie owned. Right, Sam?”

“Absolutely. You're within your rights to refuse him any access at all. Now, if Sitton confirms the man's relationship to her, that might be a different matter. You could allow him access, but under your supervision. But even with that, he couldn't take anything without your permission.”

“Well, Lord,” I said, wiping my face with my hand. “How can I determine the value of an old letter or of a picture of people I've never seen? Or,” I said, jumping up from the table to get the ziplock bag, “a scrap of paper? Look at this, Sam, as an example of what I have to put up with.”

Sam put on his glasses, studied the string of letters and numbers, and said, “Hm-m, looks like seventeen, RIO—or KIO—twelve to the third power, and RIO again. What do you think it is?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, but you certainly see it differently than I do. I found it in Mattie's safe-deposit box at the bank, so it must've meant something to her.”

Lillian said, “It sound Mexican to me. You know, like Rio Grande or something.”

“I don't know, Lillian,” I said. “It could be anything, but how can I know if it's something valuable?”

“You can't,” Sam said soothingly. “But there are people who can. Ask your appraiser. Maybe all of Mattie's papers and scrapbooks should go to the auction house—they'll have historians and other experts who can determine the value of anything. But,” Sam went on, “back to this man who's shown up. If he decides to contest the will, then you have a problem. Or rather, Sitton does.”

“Well, if that happens, I hope to goodness Mr. Sitton is up to the job.”

“Don't worry,” Sam said with a reassuring smile. “He is.”

Lillian, who was leaning on the counter listening to us, asked, “What that man's name so I know him if he come here?”

Shocked at my lapse in the gathering of all necessary information, I stared at her. “Well, Cobb was all he told me. And that was Mattie's maiden name, which doesn't bode well. But I didn't get the full name. What in the world was I thinking?”

“You'll learn it sooner or later,” Sam said, motioning me back down as I started to go to the phone. “I expect Sitton is already working the phones, finding out who the man is. All you have to do is refuse admittance to the apartment to anybody who comes by.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “and I hope I have the only key. I just hope that Mattie didn't spread any around. But, Sam, the owner or manager or somebody at the building would have a master key, wouldn't they? What if this man goes around me and gets in that way?”

“First thing in the morning,” Sam said, “call a locksmith and change the lock. Get at least two keys—one for you and one for Sitton. Then you'll know who gets in and who doesn't. Of course that means you'll have to be there to let
any
body in.”

“I'm calling one now. That way, he can meet me as early as possible.” I quickly found a locksmith in the Yellow Pages and, after a small discussion about rearranging his schedule, he agreed to meet me at seven the following morning.

“Well, that's done,” I said. “Now the next thing is to call on Mildred in the hospital. I know she's still there because her house is dark.”

_______

Sam wasn't too happy about my making a hospital visit that late in the day, and Lillian kept murmuring about candles burning down to stubs. I promised that I had no intention of spending another night on a recliner, but I felt I had to at least visit Mildred. There she was, lying up there in a hospital bed, all alone except for Ida Lee, with no family within half a world away. A quick visit was the least I could do. Besides, one did not abandon one's friends in their time of need, regardless of the million other things one had to do.

When I arrived in Mildred's room, I found her in bed, as I expected, but the bed had been raised to a semisitting position. Ida Lee had been busy, for Mildred was wearing makeup and her hair was beautifully arranged, except for the flat area at the back of her head.

Ida Lee jumped up from the recliner as I entered, but I insisted that she stay where she was. “I'm here for just a minute. Mildred, you look wonderful. How're you feeling?”

“Terrible. I've been poked and prodded and looked into by every kind of machine you can imagine. But I'm going home in the morning, I don't care what they say. Julia, you won't believe what they want me to do.”

“What?” I asked, holding her hand as I stood beside the bed. I had read that grown people take on childish ways and attitudes when they're sick, and I thought I was seeing that in Mildred. I do believe she was sulking.

“They say I have to lose weight, and I've tried. You know I've tried.”

I knew no such thing. What I did know was that she'd
talked
about losing weight, but I'd seen no evidence of her actually doing it. Still, I nodded in agreement.

“You can do it, Mildred,” I said. “Ida Lee and I will help you. What about trying Weight Watchers? Marie Osmond swears by it.”

“I think she's with Nutrisystem,” Ida Lee said, smiling. “But either one could help.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Mildred said. “Anybody could lose fifty pounds if they ate cardboard every day. I have to lose more than that, and I can't live on prepackaged microwaved meals that pretend to be what they're not.” Mildred shuddered.

Ida Lee moved up to the other side of the bed. “Oh, Ms. Allen, it won't be that bad. And you can do it, I know you can. And if it proves too hard, remember that they gave you another option.”

“That's right, and I'm ready to do it. I think.” Mildred clutched my hand. “Julia, would you let them staple your stomach?”

“Ah, well,” I said, stammering because I knew I wouldn't let a staple gun anywhere near my stomach. “I guess if it was a matter of life and death, I would.”

“Why, that's exactly what they said!” Mildred cried. “Life or death, they told me. One way or another, I have to lose weight. So that's why I'm going home—to make a decision. I mean, who could make a decision in this place where they never leave you alone? Julia, somebody's in here every few minutes. I don't have a minute to myself.”

“I think you're wise to give it serious consideration,” I said in as soothing a tone as I could manage. “And that's best done in the comfort and quiet of your own home.”

We talked about the proposed surgery for a few more minutes until Mildred got teary-eyed at the prospect. So I changed the subject and told her about the sudden appearance of an apparent relative—and possible heir—of Mattie's.

“You don't mean it!” Mildred exclaimed, quickly diverted from her own concerns by such an event. “Julia, you better be on guard, and I know what I'm talking about. I don't care if he is kin to her, you have to do what she wanted. You can't let some Johnny-come-lately just walk in and take over.”

“I have no intention of doing that,” I assured her. “And neither does Mr. Ernest Sitton, and Sam says he's a good man to have on your side.” I patted Mildred's hand, preparing to leave. “I'm having the lock changed first thing in the morning, so, Ida Lee, I'm sorry, but I can't stay the night. I still have a number of things to do tonight. Mildred, I declare, this executing a will is not what it's cracked up to be. I hardly know if I'm coming or going.”

“That's why my will is tighter than Dick's hatband,” Mildred said, somewhat complacently. “I've made provisions for every possible contingency. But, I'll tell you this, I have no intention of dying anytime soon. So,” she said, looking from me to Ida Lee, “maybe I've made my decision about that stapling operation.”

“That's good, real good,” Ida Lee said. “But let's get you home first. You might want to try losing some weight on your own for a
few weeks, and keep the operation on hold till you see how you do.”

“That's excellent advice, Mildred,” I said. “Save the operation for a last-ditch effort.” I stopped and reconsidered. “Well, I wouldn't exactly call it last-ditch—a lot of people have it done and get along fine. But you don't want to jump into anything that drastic until you're sure about it. Well,” I added, looking at my watch, “I must run. Mildred, I don't know if you'll feel like going, but Mattie's visitation is at six o'clock tomorrow evening. You can go with Sam and me if you'd like.”

“We'll see,” she said. “I may have to save myself for the funeral. Besides, they gave me a pile of information about the operation, and I want to study it. But come by tomorrow, Julia—anytime. I want to know more about that strange man.”

After a few more good-byes, I left and hurried toward the elevators.
So much to do and so little time
. Then,
Staples?
Like I put in a stack of papers and can never remove without ripping the pages?

Such thoughts were running through my mind as I got on the elevator. As it began to descend, I crossed my arms over my stomach.

By seven-thirty the next morning, Mattie's apartment had a new lock, and I felt as safe and secure as her belongings now were. I had tossed and turned half the night, worried about that so-called relative sneaking his way in somehow. A picture of him frantically searching through Mattie's things in the dark of the night kept running through my dreams.

After paying the locksmith and making a note of my expenditures, I carefully labeled four keys—one went into my purse, one would go to Mr. Sitton, another to Helen, and the last one to Diane. Then I drove to Delmont to Mr. Sitton's office. His receptionist, or rather gatekeeper, did not want me to see him.

“You can leave the key with me,” she said. “I'll see that he gets it. He can't be disturbed now.”

“No,” I said. “This key is going into his hand only, and I will sit here and stare at you until I can give it to him. Please tell him I'm here.”

It took her a few minutes, but finally she let him know I was there. I think being stared at made her nervous.

Mr. Sitton came immediately to the door and invited me in. He seemed both surprised and pleased by my taking the initiative to change the lock. But I had only one thing on my mind.

“Have you found out anything?” I asked. “And what is the man's full name, so I'll know him when he shows up?”

“A little, to the first question, but I'm still on it.” Mr. Sitton
motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, which I took—but only the edge of it. “And to your other question, his name is Andrew—not Andy—Cobb.”

“And we just take his word for it?”

“Hardly.” Mr. Sitton leaned back in his chair and gave the ceiling a thin smile. “I explained to him that as Mrs. Freeman's attorney of record and as an officer of the court, I would have to verify his identity. And that until that was done to my satisfaction, he would not be permitted access to the Freeman property.”

“Very good, Mr. Sitton. And how did he take that?”

“He seemed taken aback at first, but quickly became quite agreeable. Said he not only understood, he expected to be able to prove his identity. Then he handed over his driver's license to be copied and apologized for having no other form of identification. That's when he told me he'd been a traveling man for most of his life—working here and there, then moving on. Apparently he has no permament home, no living family, no passport, no credit cards, nothing but his driver's license. Curiously, though,” Mr. Sitton went on, looking at me over his glasses, “it was either a new issue or it was just renewed. The date on it was three months ago.”

“Oh, my goodness, that sounds suspicious to me.”

“Well, the license was issued in Kentucky, and it listed a post office box number in Versailles as his address—that's pronounced
Ver-sales
in Kentucky. He was born there, according to him, so he keeps it as a legal address.”

“According to Mattie's birth certificate, that was her birthplace, too,” I said. “I guess that makes another connection.”

“His license is only a start, but I can search vital statistics and other forms of identity with that information.”

I studied on what he might or might not find, then said, “Depending on what you find or don't find, it could come down to whether we believe him or not. So, what did you think, Mr. Sitton? Is he telling the truth?”

“Hard to say. He seemed straightforward enough, said right up
front that he'd never met
Great-Aunt
Mattie and had no interest in claiming anything that belonged to her.” Mr. Sitton tapped his pen against the desk, then said, “However, we shall see.”

“Then let me get this straight. As long as he makes no legal claim or contests the will in any way, I should ignore him and go ahead and follow Mattie's wishes?”

“That is correct. Now, as far as letting him look through her papers and things, we will put him off until you've had time to go through them. You shouldn't release anything to him, not even an old postcard, until you're sure it has no value. It's incumbent on you to evaluate everything that belonged to Mrs. Freeman, turn it into cash, and distribute it exactly as she set out in her will. And keep doing that until further notice.”

“Good,” I said, nodding my head. “I just wanted to be sure, but I'll tell you, Mr. Sitton, I wish this Andrew Cobb had never shown up. And I think it's bordering on unbelievable that he doesn't want anything. It seems to me that this is a most convenient time for him to appear—right after Mattie's passing, when she can't identify him, and right before her estate is settled, when we can't.”

“So it seems to me, too, Mrs. Murdoch, thus we must be vigilant. I will let you know if I turn up any more information.”

I thanked him then and turned to go. Mr. Sitton stood up and walked around his desk.

“One interesting and perhaps disturbing detail. His driver's license gives his name as Andrew
F.
Cobb, which, along with some vague references he made to problems in the family, made me take notice.”

I was so intent on leaving that I got to the door before it sank in. I stopped and turned back. “Oh, my goodness. Could it be Andrew
Freeman
Cobb?”

“He smiled when I asked him and said that his mother had told him it could be anything he wanted—Franklin, for his father, or Frederick, for an uncle. or Freeman, for the convict in the family. Then he said he hadn't decided yet.”

“My word!” I said, scandalized at the thought of a convict in Mattie's family, but shocked to the core at the possibility that Andrew F. Cobb was kin to both sides of her family. It was no wonder that she'd taken to drink. I opened the door and stepped out. “Keep me posted, Mr. Sitton, I've heard all I can take at one sitting.”

_______

While driving to Mattie's apartment, I turned over in my mind all—or rather, the little—that Mr. Sitton had learned about our visitor who had turned up with such an unerring sense of timing.

My stomach rumbled as I reached Abbotsville, reminding me that it was time for lunch. It also reminded me of Mildred's possible appointment with a staple gun, but I quickly put that thought aside, thinking instead of Etta Mae's penchant for McDonald's hamburgers. A glance at the clock on the dashboard made me drive right on past the golden arches. Helen and Diane would soon be at Mattie's apartment, but, with the new lock, unable to get inside.

Briefly wondering about the wisdom of distributing keys, I put that aside as well. If Helen and Diane were unworthy of trust, then everyone was, and it was a settled fact that I could not personally guard admission against unauthorized visitors to the apartment at all times, day and night. I had to trust someone.

The two women were, in fact, waiting for me by Mattie's door when I rushed into the hall, apologizing as I approached them.

“I've had the locks changed,” I said as I unlocked the door. “And I have keys for you both, but I must warn you about an unexpected development.” I went on to tell them about Andrew Cobb and the possibility that he might come by. “So whatever you do,” I said, “do not let him in. Mr. Sitton is not sure that he really is kin to Mattie, and until we know who he is, he is not to have access—not even just to look around.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Diane said, patting her bosom. “You think he'll cause trouble?”

“I don't know what to think. All I know is that the sooner we clear this apartment, the less we'll have to worry about.”

“I'm going to need a few more afternoons here,” Diane said, giving the door a worried glance. “I've brought my camera to take pictures of each piece of furniture, and that'll take some time. I'll give you a set, I'll keep one, and one will go to the auction house.”

“Excellent,” I said, thinking how fortunate I'd been to have engaged such a meticulous appraiser. “That way there'll be no question about what belonged to Mattie when it goes to Atlanta.”

Helen, who had been looking more and more troubled, said, “What if somebody comes to the door when you aren't here? Do we answer it or what? It could be Nate. I mean, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Maybe you should walk down the hall while I'm still here with Diane. Tell him what's going on and tell him he has to give the password before you'll let him in.”

Helen, who wasn't the most lighthearted of women, frowned. “I didn't know we had a password. What is it?”

“I'm just teasing,” I said with a smile. “But you could make up one and tell it only to him. If you want to.”

“Oh,” she said, her face clearing. “That would work, wouldn't it? That way, we could let him in, but nobody else.”

“That's right,” I agreed, but with a lift of my eyebrows. “Anyway, I'm going to empty Mattie's desk while I'm here. I'll take everything home with me so I can go through it—something I should've done before this. No telling what's in it, but whatever it is, I want to see it before Andrew Cobb does.” I went to Mattie's kitchen and gathered more of the plastic grocery bags to fill with whatever I found in her desk.

On my way back I stopped, rummaged in my purse, and handed a new key to Diane and one to Helen. “Guard those keys with your lives. Be sure to lock the door if you leave before I get back, and call me if anyone comes by.” I had my cell phone with me, because now I didn't leave home without it.

“We won't be leaving anytime soon,” Diane said. “In fact, it's going to take longer than I thought to get all the pictures made.
We haven't even looked in the sunroom yet, though from what I can see around that chest-on-chest in front of the French doors, it's mostly wicker furniture.

“So, Helen,” Diane went on with a smile, “think of a good password because we're going to need Mr. Wheeler to help move some of this stuff around.”

As I turned to go back to Mattie's desk, Diane opened a drawer in the lovely Federal sideboard. “Oh, my,” she said. “Look at this silver.” She began clattering through the pieces stacked in the divided drawer. “Strasbourg by Gorham. There must be, yes, twelve place settings.
Complete
place settings, too, with iced tea spoons, butter knives, salad forks, and soup spoons, to say nothing of a dozen serving pieces. But, my goodness, look at the teaspoons. There must be thirty or more—some are coin silver, monogrammed and very old. Now, why in the world would she have so many teaspoons?”

I smiled. “That means that she got her silver in another era, just as I did. Those spoons are for occasions like a reception, when you're not having a seated meal. You don't need place settings for a coffee or a tea, but you do need lots of teaspoons for stirring.”

“Well, it's beautiful,” Diane said, “but unfortunately it won't bring the retail price. Young women today don't seem to want silver like they once did.”

“That's the truth,” I said somewhat mournfully. “It used to be commonly said that if you didn't get all your silver for your wedding, you'd never get it. But brides nowadays don't seem to care. Instead of registering sterling silver and fine china patterns, they list stainless steel and pottery mugs. Well,” I said, heading back to the desk, “it's their loss.”

_______

Relieved to leave the evaluation in the capable hands of Diane and Helen, I quickly emptied Mattie's small desk of pencils, pens, opened envelopes, address book, and pads covered with
notes, stuffing it all into the bags. In a banker's box beside the desk, I found two years of tax returns and check registers, which would all go into the trunk of my car for later perusal. In the side drawers of the desk, there were instruction booklets, warranties, old Christmas and birthday cards, as well as a number of files. After filling two more bags and making three trips to the car, I left Diane and Helen to it and went home to sift through piles of papers, both those that Mr. Sitton had given me earlier and those that I had just collected. And to eat lunch.