Where There’s a Will

by Beth Pattillo

  “Just making a deposit,” Paul said. He nodded toward the empty cubicles where the loan manager and other employees had once worked. “A lot of empty chairs these days.”

  Melvin sighed and nodded. “Isn’t the same, is it?” he said. “Seems that everyone’s gone off to Nashville or one of the other cities to find work.”

  “Not always by choice, though,” Paul replied.

  “True.” Melvin slipped off his glasses and proceeded to clean them with a handkerchief he drew out of his pocket. “The town’s economy never recovered after the copper mines shut down,” he said, echoing what John Sharpe had told Paul earlier that afternoon. Melvin put his glasses back on, then with one finger pushed them higher on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t guess it ever will.”

  Paul knew that Copper Mill’s problems weren’t unique. Small towns all across the country struggled with the same dilemma.

  “What do you think it would take to bring the town back, Melvin?” If anyone knew the answer to that question, it would be the manager of the local bank. He had to be more familiar with the business aspect of the community than anyone. Paul wondered why Melvin had never been asked to serve on the chamber of commerce.

  The bank manager shrugged. “There’s no primary industry, like it used to be when the mining company was the biggest employer. Some small towns grow their economies the hard way, one step at a time.” He paused. “Or else they lure manufacturers by giving tax incentives they can’t afford. Or they sweeten the pot with other things.”

  “Other things?”

  Melvin looked Paul in the eye. “Bribes, plain and simple. That’s one way to do it.” He started to take off his glasses as if he meant to clean them again, and then he stopped. “Or there’s the third way.”

  “Which is?”

  “To stick your head in the sand and hope the problem will solve itself.”

  Melvin didn’t have to say any more. Paul knew he was referring to the mayor and the men who ran the town, men like Fred Cowan and John Sharpe.

  “I was curious why more businesses in town aren’t members of the chamber of commerce,” Paul ventured.

  “Not much point. The bank pays in every year, so technically we belong, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than shoot the breeze over coffee at the diner.”

  “Hmm.” Paul didn’t want to say anything against the members of the chamber, so he smiled and said, “Guess I’d better make my deposit and get back to the church. I appreciate your insights, Melvin.”

  The bank manager chuckled. “Well, you’re welcome, I guess. Not sure my insights, as you call them, are worth much around here.”

  Paul patted him on the shoulder, then crossed to the counter where Evelyn and Georgia, veteran bank employees, sat perched on high stools on the other side. “Afternoon, ladies. You’re both looking lovely today.”

  The sisters giggled. “What can we help you with, Rev. Hanlon?” they asked almost in unison.

  Georgia Cline took care of Paul’s deposit and handed him a slip. He bid the twins a good day, waved at Melvin as he crossed the lobby, and walked out into the September sunshine.

  Small towns had so much to offer. A sense of community, a slower pace. But they also had their challenges. As Paul walked toward his pickup truck, he wondered how he could possibly help turn around an economy that had been struggling for such a long time. Perhaps with a little faith and a lot of prayer, an opportunity might present itself.

  Paul certainly hoped so. As delicious as the pies were at the Country Diner and as often as he anticipated enjoying them at future chamber of commerce meetings, he was determined to contribute more to his community than those pies would add to his waistline.

  Chapter Three

  That same afternoon, Kate sat on Ellen Carruthers’ sofa in her small faculty apartment at the college. The living room had a minimal amount of space, but Ellen had excellent taste, and her home was both beautiful and gracious.

  “I appreciate this so much,” Ellen said as she offered Kate a plate of butter cookies. “Your help could make all the difference.”

  Kate took a cookie and set it on the tea saucer she was balancing on her knee. The cookies looked so delicious, she would have liked to have taken more than one, but she had gained a few extra pounds lately and was trying to eat more sensibly. The fact that she often liked to bake while puzzling out one of her mysteries wasn’t helping her waistline any.

  “I’ll do my best,” Kate said, “but I can’t promise anything.” She took a bite of her cookie, then tucked it back on the edge of her saucer. “Your grandfather’s will might be long gone by now. I don’t want to give you false hope.”

  “I have faith in my grandmother,” Ellen said, taking a small sip of her tea. “She would never be careless with my legacy.” Her brow furrowed. “Not as careless as I’ve been about looking for that will at any rate.”

  “I’d love to know more about the paintings,” Kate suggested. “If you’d like to show me the first one...” She let the suggestion trail off.

  Ellen seemed to collect herself. She set her cup and saucer on a small table next to her wingback chair and stood.

  “Of course. If you’ll just follow me.”

  Ellen led Kate from the tiny living room into the even smaller bedroom beyond. As in the living room, the walls were covered with paintings, collages, and sketches. Ellen’s collection was truly impressive. But it was the painting above the bed that caught Kate’s eye.

  It looked as if a child had painted it, but as Kate stepped closer, she realized it wasn’t what it appeared to be at first glance.

  “Your grandmother was a Primitive painter?” she asked with surprise. Definitely not what she’d been expecting.

  Ellen moved to stand beside her. “She had a lot in common with Grandma Moses,” she replied, referring to the well-known American Primitive artist. “Folk art began to move into the mainstream in the early twentieth century. Of course, my grandmother painted these long after that.”

  Kate nodded as she admired the artist’s use of color and line. The picture was deceptively simple. It showed a clearing on a ridge, surrounded by trees. A large yellow sun shone down from the sky. Here and there, a shy deer or squirrel peeped out from behind a bush or tree trunk. Under one particular tree, apples lay strewn about, nature’s bounty having fallen with no one but the animals to enjoy it.

  “Is this a real place?” Kate asked. Even in its artistic simplicity, the painting conveyed a strong sense of peace, giving the landscape a feeling of holiness.

  “That’s High Hoot Ridge,” Ellen answered. “Where the Harrington family ironworks were located. The town of Harrington is a quarter mile farther along the ridge.”

  “Your grandmother painted this landscape from memory?”

  “No. The ironworks were there long before she was born. She must have simply imagined how it looked before man came along to stake his claim.”

  Kate nodded. The painting certainly resonated with her because she longed to capture exactly that feeling in her own stained-glass work—that sense of something more meaningful than human beings or even the natural world, but captured in a simple, austere style. “She was a very talented artist.”

  “Thank you.” Ellen gazed at the painting a moment longer, then turned toward Kate and sighed. “If only I had half of her ability.”

  “You’re a painter?”

  Ellen laughed, the sound tinged with self-deprecation and acceptance. “No, unfortunately. I might pick up a brush now and then, but it’s only for my own enjoyment.” Her eyes darkened as if she was lost in memory, and then they cleared once more. “No, I’m definitely an art historian, not an artist.”

  Kate smiled sympathetically. “I took some art classes in college, but I didn’t have enough talent to justify a degree. Not when it came to painting anyway.”

  “So why are you taking my class?”

  “I found another outlet for my creative impulses.” Kate hesitated. Sometimes wh
en she told people that she worked with stained glass, they looked at her strangely.

  “Which is?” Ellen looked intrigued.

  “Stained glass, actually.”

  “Oh...sun catchers and that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, but I also made a window for our church sanctuary, and I sell some of my work at Smith Street Gifts.”

  A light of respect flickered in Ellen’s eyes, and Kate turned back to the painting, pleased at Ellen’s approval. Even at her age, she still wanted the teacher to like her. “So, what kind of clue do you think your grandmother’s painting gives about the will?”

  Ellen sank down on the bed, turning her gaze back to the painting. She shrugged. “I’ve studied this picture for hours on end, and I still have no idea what it’s meant to tell me.”

  “Did your grandmother ever talk to you about this painting?” Surely she had given Ellen some information.

  Ellen shook her head. “Not specifically. Not that I remember.” She plucked at the bedspread and smoothed out the creases she had made. “I should have paid more attention, I guess. All I know is that there are five paintings meant to lead me to the will.”

  Kate moved around the side of the bed to study the painting in closer detail. “Is there anything unusual in this one? Anything that would be out of place maybe? Or wrong for the scene?”

  “Not that I can tell. She’s captured the line of the ridge perfectly. I think it’s a wonderfully realistic depiction of what it could have looked like before the ironworks were built.”

  Up close, Kate could indeed appreciate the artist’s attention to detail. Though painters in the American Primitive style were often dismissed as folk artists, one couldn’t deny on closer inspection the mastery of technique necessary to turn such simplicity into something so extraordinary.

  “Do you have a magnifying glass?” Kate asked. “Perhaps the clue is so small that it’s undetectable to the naked eye.”

  “I have one somewhere around here. Just a moment, and I’ll see if I can find it.”

  Ellen left the room in search of the requested item. Kate studied the painting a while longer, then she gave up with a sigh. If there was some sort of clue in this ordinary landscape, she certainly couldn’t see it.

  While Kate waited for Ellen to return, she began to look idly around the room. The bed took up most of the space, but a tall chest of drawers occupied one corner, and a set of bookshelves, filled to overflowing, occupied the wall opposite the bed.

  She wandered over to the chest to look at the photographs arranged on top. A number of frames—some new, others obviously from further back in Ellen’s history—took up most of the space. In one of the photos, Ellen wore a wedding gown and was standing beside a thin, pleasant-looking man in a tuxedo. There were other photos of a younger Ellen in graduation gowns. Several shots showed Ellen with people Kate assumed to be colleagues from her teaching days. And then Kate saw a familiar face in a photo at the back. It showed a smiling Ellen pressed against the side of a young man who was obviously delighted to have his arm around the pretty girl. And that young man was none other than Paul Hanlon.

  At that moment, Ellen returned. “Here it is. Sorry it took me so long to—” She stopped short.

  Kate froze as if she’d been caught going through Ellen’s drawers rather than merely looking at a few photographs.

  “I didn’t mean to snoop,” Kate said, her cheeks flushed. “I just—”

  “No, no.” Ellen waved a hand. “Don’t apologize. I invited you here, remember?” She crossed the room toward Kate and glanced at the photographs on top of the chest. Then she laughed. “Oh dear. I think I know what you found.”

  Kate’s blush faded a little at Ellen’s relaxed tone. Surely she’d read too much into the picture.

  “The two of you looked very happy.” It was the only thing she could think of to say. She tried to ignore the sharp pang of jealousy in her stomach. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. That photograph has to be almost forty years old. But however long it had been, it was still difficult to see Paul looking overjoyed to have his arm around another woman.

  “We were very young.” Ellen stepped beside Kate and lifted the picture from the top of the chest. “When you’re that age, you think you know everything.” She was silent for a moment, then she turned to look at Kate. She was still smiling, but in her eyes Kate could see all the grief for what she had lost, for opportunities missed. “I never realized how easily happiness could slip away until I lost Trevor. Now, I guess I treasure my happy memories all the more.”

  “You should come over for dinner one evening. I know Paul would love to see you,” Kate found herself saying before she could stop and consider her words. The invitation was instinctual, a reaction to the pain in the other woman’s face. She was sure Ellen was right. Her relationship with Paul was a part of her history and nothing more.

  “Really?”

  “Of course.” Kate realized that Ellen was probably very lonely. “We’ll set something up soon.”

  “That would be nice.” Ellen reached out and placed her hand on Kate’s arm. “You’re so generous. I’d heard that, of course.” She paused and smiled. They both laughed. “There aren’t many women I know who would invite their husband’s former fiancée over for dinner.”

  Ellen set the picture down and turned back toward the painting, but Kate found herself rooted to the spot. Fiancée? Paul had never said anything about Ellen being his fiancée.

  “You and Paul were actually engaged?”

  Ellen laughed. “Well, as with a lot of things in the past, I guess the story depends on whom you ask.”

  Kate tried to smile but was only half successful. Ellen was right. The truth about the past often depended on a person’s point of view, but Kate couldn’t help the little flame of worry that sparked to life in her mind. She just wished Paul had given her a little more information about how close he and Ellen Harrington had been. Like any wife, she accepted that her husband had a past, but it came as a bit of a shock to see it immortalized on top of Ellen Carruthers’ chest of drawers.

  Between the two of them, Kate and Ellen managed to lift the large painting off the wall and carry it into the living room for closer inspection. Kate tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but Ellen’s innocent comment had thrown her for a loop. Paul had never mentioned Ellen Harrington being anything other than his college sweetheart, but if Ellen said they were engaged, Paul would surely have known about it. And if he had known, why hadn’t he shared that information with her?

  “How did you know that this painting was one of the clues?” Kate asked, trying to distract herself from obsessing about Paul’s apparent lack of candor. “Did your grandmother tell you?”

  Ellen reached for the cord on the blinds that covered the windows. Outside, the sounds of students traveling to and from classes drifted on the refreshing early-fall breeze. “Yes. In the letter she left me, she listed the paintings and said they would help me find my grandfather’s second will. This painting was on the list.”

  “But I’m still confused about why she hid the will in the first place.”

  “She said she wanted to protect me. If Oliver had known there was another will, he would never have let it rest, even if I’d shown no interest in trying to claim my inheritance. The legal bills alone would have bankrupted my husband and me.” She paused. “Oliver Coats is a very determined man. He would have made our lives miserable until I relinquished any claim to the Harrington property.”

  “But isn’t he quite wealthy already?” Kate knew he owned a construction firm that did projects all across the southeast.

  “It’s not the money that matters to Oliver,” Ellen said with a slight shudder. “It’s the control and the power.”

  “And the other paintings that were on your grandmother’s list?” Kate asked. “Do you have any idea who might have them?”

  “I only know about one. And it belongs to Oliver. Well, to Carol, I guess, technically. But i
t’s all the same thing.”

  “I see.” Kate stared out the window for a moment, lost in thought. So far, the pieces of this puzzle weren’t quite adding up. “So your grandmother hid the will to keep you out of the old family feud?”

  “Yes. I moved away from here to escape all the unpleasantness. Her letter said she left me the clues so I could decide whether I wanted to get involved or not. If I wanted to let it go, well, then no one but me ever had to know there was a second will.”

  “Are you sure no one else knows about it? I can’t imagine how hard it would be to keep a secret like that from the family.”

  “If anyone knows, they never said anything to me.”

  Kate looked at the painting again. “Have you checked under the frame, around the edges, that sort of thing? Perhaps there’s a hidden message there.”

  Ellen nodded. “That was the first thing I thought of when I couldn’t see anything obvious in the painting itself. But there’s nothing. I took the frame off and gave it a thorough going over.”

  “May I see the list of paintings?”

  Ellen reached for a piece of paper on the coffee table. “I’ve written down the information for you. It’s a start at least.”

  Kate took the paper and read it over. Five paintings were listed by title, along with the size of the canvas. High Hoot Ridge. The Beginning. Progress Comes to Harrington. Double Duty. Where My Heart Rests.

  “If only the titles of the last four were as clear as the first one,” Kate said, “it would make looking for them a little easier.” She rubbed her chin with one hand as she held the list with the other and read it over again. “Do you know which one of the paintings your cousin and her husband own?”

  “No. Not a clue.” Ellen paused. “But I still think Oliver’s the best place to start, if you don’t mind going to see him alone. I just don’t think we’d get anywhere with him if I went.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Kate asked.

  Ellen nodded. “Like I said, he’d never agree to see me. But he might agree to see you. He’s always been very proud of his art collection, and he’s been known to give private tours of his home.”