Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (23 page)

“Etta Mae,” I called as I stepped into Mattie's dark, shadowy apartment and locked the door behind me.

“Ma'am?” she whispered right beside me.

I jumped, then patted my chest. “Oh, goodness, I thought you were in the bedroom.”

“No'm, I was waiting for you.”

“Well,” I said, with a laugh to dispel the fright she'd given me, “let's go together and find some lamps.”

“I think they're all packed up. I found three in a box over there.” Etta Mae pointed to a corner of the room, where I could make out the harps of a number of shadeless lamps.

So we felt our way to the hall, swiping our hands against the walls in search of light switches. There was another dim bulb in the high ceiling of the hall, one in the ceiling of the guest room, and another in Mattie's room. One of the two sconces beside the bathroom mirror wasn't working.

“Law, Etta Mae,” I said, scanning Mattie's bedroom from the door. “I never realized how beneficial bedside lamps are. I want both of us in beds tonight, but we could maim ourselves trying to get into them with the switches across the rooms.”

“Um, that's the truth, 'specially with all the boxes on the floor. Let me move some around.” She began to push a few boxes aside to clear a trail. “I'll keep my light on till you get in bed.”

“Let's just keep the bathroom light on in case either of us has to get up. I'll probably have to.”

She giggled and said, “Me, too.”

Using the trail between the boxes, I laid my overnight bag on the bed, then hesitated before opening it. The box with the sampler in it would be right on top, and I didn't want to explain my reluctance to have it out of my keeping. Foolish, probably, but I felt better having it with me.

But Etta Mae was lingering beside Mattie's bed, hesitant, I thought, to go to the guest room alone. Why was that, I wondered, and wondered why I, too, felt ill at ease in the apartment. We'd had no such qualms when we'd dashed over in the middle of the night less than twenty-four hours before.

We should've felt safer after foiling an attempt to steal something else. The sunroom windows had been locked, checked, and rechecked. Deputies with dogs had walked the premises, and every tenant in the building was on the alert.

So why were we so on edge this night?

“Etta Mae,” I said, straightening up, “I'll tell you what. I think we'll sleep better if we do something about that sunroom.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “What?”

“Let's go see. Mr. Wheeler moved the chest-on-chest so he could lock the windows in the sunroom—and he didn't move it back. So if anybody gets into the sunroom, he can walk right through those French doors into the apartment.”

Etta Mae shivered. “I know,” she said, nodding. Then, frowning, she said, “I don't think we can move the chest back by ourselves. That thing is huge.”

“No, I'm thinking of moving something else—several somethings else, if need be—to block the doors. All we really need is something that'll make a lot of noise if it's moved.”

Etta Mae's mouth twisted as she thought of somebody besides us being in the apartment. “You think somebody'll try to get in? Tonight? While we're here?”

“No, not really. I think we're safe—I just want to
feel
safe. Come on, let's go see what we can do.”

Sure enough, not only was there no furniture blocking the French doors to the sunroom, the doors themselves weren't locked.

I walked out into the sunroom, partially lit by the light on the front corner of the building, and looked around. The wicker sofa was still there, now with two wicker chairs upended on it. Two Chippendale chairs that had been in the living room took up most of the center of the room, and a rolled-up Oriental on the floor nearly upended me. There were several taped boxes stacked up around the perimeter of the room, but, still and all, if someone broke a windowpane and unlocked a window, there'd be enough space and light for free access to anything in the apartment.

Maybe I was giving too much credit to the athleticism and determination of a potential thief, but to my mind it was the executor's job to think ahead and plan accordingly. Mattie's apartment was on the ground floor, so even I could've reached the sunroom windows from outside. For me to be able to climb through one of them was another matter, but I doubted that anyone bent on larceny would have to contend with physical limitations like creaky limbs and a stiff back.

Returning to the living room, I shut the French doors behind me. “All right, Etta Mae, let's look around and see what we can put in front of these doors. Not anything real heavy, but a lot of small things that'll tumble over and make enough noise to wake us up.”

“Uh-huh, okay, but what do we do if we hear a noise? I mean, just waking up won't do us much good.”

“Well, we scream and call the police.” I stopped, recalling that I had had Mattie's phone disconnected. “You have your cell phone, and I have mine—I think. Anyway, keep yours close, and at the least little thing, call for help.”

I looked around, trying to make sense of the way that Helen and Diane had sorted the furniture for the moving van. “Here's an
idea, Etta Mae,” I said. “I don't know why Diane hasn't already packed these things up, but let's clear off this étagère and move it in front of the French doors.”

“Clear off what?”

“Étagère—it's just a whatnot.”

“Oh, well,” Etta Mae said, “I know what a whatnot is.”

We began removing the decorative vases, the Lladró porcelain figurines, and the chubby Hummel child figurines from the crowded shelves. As we moved the ornamental odds and ends of Mattie's collection, I decided that none of the pieces was of great value. Which was probably why Diane had left them for last. The same statuette of a woman in a large hat and a flowing blue gown, for instance, I had seen in several Abbotsville homes.

Etta Mae, on the other hand, seemed entranced with each decorative piece, turning them around in her hands and looking for the makers' marks on the bottom.

“Do you collect anything, Miss Julia?” she asked.

“Ha!” I said, laughing. “Only the odd child or two. But, no, I've never been a collector. On second thought, though, I do have several Limoges boxes—the little, tiny ones, you know, in different shapes. What about you? Do you collect anything?”

“Barbies,” she said. “I collect Barbie dolls. I only have a few because I like the ones that're in fancy dress, like a special evening gown or something. I have the Midnight Tuxedo Barbie, and she's beautiful. And I love the ones with outfits for a special outing, like the Resort Barbie or the Bowling Barbie.” She studied a brightly colored Hummel figure, wrinkled her nose at it as she put it aside, and said, “They're awfully expensive, though, because they're to look at, not to play with.”

I nodded and stored that information away. I'd told Lillian that I'd make it up to Etta Mae for helping me keep Mattie's apartment safe, and now I knew how to do it.

When we'd removed all the knickknacks from the shelves of the étagère, I said, “Okay, let's move it where the chest-on-chest was—right in front of the French doors to the sunroom.”

“Miss Julia,” Etta Mae said, as she helped me slide the étagère over. “This thing is as light as it can be. I mean, it's tall and awkward, but if that big chest couldn't keep anybody out, how can this?”

“We're going to put all the china things back on it. If a thief tries to push through the door, he'll create an almighty crash that'll wake up everybody in the building. Especially us.”

I had a moment of hesitation about putting Mattie's collectibles in harm's way, but I did it anyway. Better a few gewgaws get broken than a thief get in.

I felt so comfortable with what we'd rigged up that I urged Etta Mae to forgo the sofa and sleep in the guest room. That meant that I would sleep in Mattie's bed—with clean sheets, of course—but I closed my mind to what had happened to the last occupant and crawled in. In fact, it didn't bother me at all. I fell asleep right away, safe and secure with Mr. Wheeler at one end of the hall, Etta Mae in the next room, and our homemade alarm system guarding the only means of access.

_______

The next morning as we hurriedly dressed, taking turns brushing our teeth at the bathroom sink, a few second thoughts slowed me down. What was I doing carrying around a highly valuable object everywhere I went? And what was I doing leaving it under a pile of winter gowns or bathroom towels when I had to go out? Lillian couldn't guard it all day every day for me, especially since she had the weekend off.

There was only one thing to do, though I hated doing it. “Etta Mae,” I said, “if we open that safe, then close it, we'd be able to open it again, wouldn't we? I mean, the combination isn't just good for one time, is it?”

She looked at me for a minute, seeming to understand my concern. “Let's try it and see.”

And that's what we did. First, without putting anything in the safe, we closed the door and spun the dial. Then, looking at the
scrap of paper I'd kept in my pocketbook, Etta Mae opened it right back up again. “It'll work, Miss Julia,” she said.

So, with great trepidation, I slid the Rich's box into the safe, closed the door, and respun the dial.

“Lord,” I said in as prayerful a tone as I could manage, “I hope I've done the right thing. But it's back where it's been safe for years and years. I really shouldn't have been carrying it around or trying to hide it in half a dozen different places. Why,” I said, laughing, “I might've forgotten where I'd put it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Etta Mae agreed, “or spilled coffee on it, or dropped it and broken the glass, or had it snatched on the street. It's safer right where it is.”

I hoped she was right.

“Good morning, Mrs. Murdoch,” a strong, confident voice greeted me that morning as I answered the phone right after seeing Etta Mae off to work. “Ernest Sitton here. A few matters have recently come to my attention that might interest you. Would it be possible to meet with me here in about an hour? I'd prefer not to discuss it over the phone.” Which I certainly understood, having had that same preference.

My first thought was that I had done, or was doing, something wrong. My second thought was that if so, I'd gladly relinquish all benefits and duties to anyone who was willing to sleep in Mattie's bed. My back was killing me. That mattress had been so old and so soft that Mattie had left a furrow down the right-hand side, and I'd kept rolling into and out of it all night long.

After agreeing to meet with Mr. Sitton, I called Helen and asked her to delay packing up the items on the shelves of the étagère until there was no longer a need to have a guard on duty.

“They're our alarm system,” I told her.

She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “You mean they'll get broken if somebody breaks in? Is that a good idea?”

“As good as I could come up with and be able to get any sleep. Helen, as far as I can tell, none of the items is worth anything. And if you're worried about them, ask Diane to put a price on them, and I'll pay for any breakage. If,” I went on, “it saves something a great deal more valuable from being stolen, it'll be worth
the expense. And if, at the same time, it also saves me from bodily harm and mayhem, it most certainly will.”

“Oh, yes, I see. Don't worry about it, Julia. Diane and I will be there early this morning—there's still so much to do before the moving van comes. But we'll leave whatever's on the étagère until Monday morning. I'm so sorry that you feel the need to stay overnight to protect everything. It's all been a real burden for you, I know.”

After saying our good-byes, I hung up feeling somewhat compensated for all my efforts. At least Helen understood and appreciated the heavy load I was under.

_______

Greeting Mr. Sitton, who had come forth from his inner sanctum upon my arrival, I entered his office, hoping to hear confirmation of Andrew F. Cobb's kinship to Mattie. What a relief it would be to let Mr. Cobb deal with her inflated idea of her estate's worth, and at the same time be able to dump on his shoulders the pleas of the pastor and the board of deacons of the First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville.

But while driving to Delmont, I'd had a sinking feeling about relinquishing control of the sampler, which was still in the safety of Mattie's closet. Even though very few knew of its existence, there was really no telling what Mr. Cobb knew. For all
I
knew, his knowledge of the sampler could've been the reason he'd shown up in Abbotsville in the first place.

I had not told Mr. Sitton of my discovery, and wondered as I took a seat at his conference table if I should maintain my silence. He could be trusted to keep it to himself, but could his secretary? She, by her chilly demeanor, had not inspired in me a whole lot of confidence in her trustworthiness. But, then, not a whole lot of people did.

“Mrs. Murdoch,” Mr. Sitton began. I nodded as he sat across from me and folded his hands on the table. “I have disturbing news. Although as yet unconfirmed, I felt I should share it with you.”

I nodded again, feeling my entire body tighten up as I waited to hear what he had to say. I didn't need any more such news from him. Being named Mattie's executor had been disturbing enough.

“You will recall my telling you the Freeman/Cobb family history as related to me by the retired sheriff in Kentucky. From further research, I am inclined to accept all that he told me as a true account—excepting one thing. The man who has presented himself as Andrew F. Cobb is quite likely not Andrew F. Cobb.”

“Really? You think he's an impostor?” My hands tightened on my pocketbook at the ramifications of this news. “But how could that be? How would he know so much about Mattie and her family?”

“Actually, he doesn't. He himself told me very little other than his name and that Mrs. Freeman was either his aunt or his great-aunt. There was some discrepancy about the specific relationship, which he put down to his being so long away from home and family.”

“So what does this mean for us? I mean, for me? What am I to do?”

“You should continue what you're doing. As long as Mr. Cobb, or whoever he is, makes no move to qualify as Mrs. Freeman's relative and beneficiary, her will stands as the only legal document pertaining to her estate.”

“Well,” I said, able finally to begin thinking of what Mr. Cobb's lack of legal moves might entail. “Maybe the reason that he's made no move to qualify as her relative is because he isn't. It has always struck me as passing strange that he would deny any interest in her estate other than pictures and letters and so forth. I can understand that a roving man would not want the encumbrance of an apartment full of furniture and an old car on its last legs, but I can't understand why he's so indifferent to the cash those things would generate. Nobody, to my way of thinking, would want to be footloose and fancy-free without a penny to his name.”

“Very true.” Mr. Sitton nodded sagely. “I'm in full agreement.
Now, perhaps you'd like to tell me how you're coming along with generating cash from Mrs. Freeman's possessions.”

But I was barely paying attention, for something had rung a bell in my mind. Where had I found that remarkable sampler? Why, stored away among Mattie's photograph albums and boxes of letters, that's where. Certainly it had been in a safe, but would the nameless man who called himself Andrew F. Cobb have known that? Or had he known it? Could there be something else of value among the letters and pictures crammed into the boxes that were stacked on the floor of my library?

“I'm sorry? Oh, her possessions.” I was brought back to his question by the twiddling of his thumbs. “A moving van from the auction house will be here on Monday to take everything. After cleaning the apartment, I'll give up the lease. As far as I know, all I have to do after that is wait for the checks to come in. Disbursement of whatever amount I recieve will immediately follow. But, Mr. Sitton, if there's not enough to cover all the bequests, I will need your help in deciding who gets what.

“But I'll tell you one thing,” I went on. “I don't know how your church would respond under similar circumstances, but mine—and Mattie's—is, well, let us say, eager to get its share. We've lost our air-conditioning, and you'd think the world was coming to an end in a ball of fire, beginning in our sanctuary.

“Although,” I continued, somewhat contritely, “I don't believe in discussing the difficulties in my church with a member of another church. So I am depending, Mr. Sitton, upon the constraints of client confidence and upon your discretion.”

“I'm quite familiar with difficulties within a church,” he said, with a twist of his mouth. “Have no fear of anything said in this room going any further.”

“That is certainly reassuring,” I said—and it was, especially since I'd revealed the unwillingness of a certain number of local Presbyterians to suffer a little discomfort. “But what are we to do about Mr. Cobb? Or whoever he is?”

“Yes,” Mr. Sitton said, returning to the main subject, as he
straightened himself in his chair. He had a tendency to slump during long conversations. “What are we to do? I am, of course, continuing to follow every lead to enable us to make a determination of his authenticity. At the moment, I am awaiting word—and, hopefully, pictures—from the state prison in Kentucky where Andrew F. Cobb was incarcerated for a few years sometime ago—I told you about that. It's taking longer than I'd hoped because the sheriff who told me Cobb had been in prison couldn't remember the exact years. He's also checking the local records, even as the state is checking theirs.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, doing some straightening up of my own. “Let me be sure I understand. I know that Mattie's husband had been in prison, but her nephew—or whatever—was also incarcerated?”

“Yes, as a young man and only for a year or so. I thought I'd told you that.”

“You may have. But between the Cobbs and the Freemans and the mess they made of their lives, I keep getting the generations mixed up. Well,” I said, sighing, “it's no wonder Mattie moved to North Carolina. With a background like that, I would've, too.”

In a musing way, as I studied the ceiling and the problem, I said, “If the man who's presented himself as Andrew F. Cobb is not Andrew F. Cobb, then he has to have known or known
of
the real Andrew F. Cobb. How else would he have known about Mattie, where she lived, or anything else about her?”

“True. But according to the sheriff I talked with, when the real Cobb was a young man, he followed the picking seasons. Migrant workers make up a whole subculture, and he would've met and talked—perhaps shared confidences—with any number of people of various stripes. The big question is this: if this man isn't Cobb, where is the real one?”

“Oh, my,” I said, a whole new can of worms beginning to open up. “Do you think . . . ? Could this man have done away with the real one? I mean, if he's not the real one?”

“Not necessarily,” Mr. Sitton hastened to assure me. “It could be that he learned that the real Cobb is deceased, and that gave him the incentive he needed to impersonate him, especially if he'd previously learned something of the Cobb and Freeman families.”

“But it sounds as if this all happened years ago when both would've been young men.”

“Mrs. Murdoch,” Mr. Sitton said with a sigh, “you are apparently uninformed about sociopaths. They store away information like squirrels store acorns, then wait for an opportunity to use it. Mrs. Freeman's death would present just such an opportunity.”

“
Socio
path? Oh, my, that is truly disturbing. Do you really think that's what he is?”

“If he's not Cobb himself, it's a distinct possibility. But, I caution you, Mrs. Murdoch, what
I
say in this office must also be kept in confidence. We should know more when and if I get pictures—mug shots—of Andrew F. Cobb from either the sheriff or the warden of the prison he was in. Preferably both.”

“Well, have mercy,” I said, sprawling back in my chair. “I don't want to have anything to do with a crazy person. I have enough to deal with already.”

It was a settled fact that dealing with Mattie's estate and her kinfolks was getting messier and messier.