by Sara Rosett
Mitch walked through the lobby and paused for the double doors to slide open, then stepped outside. I went to get a refill on my orange juice and had to wait as a hotel employee, a woman with generous curves that stretched her uniform of a cotton polo shirt and polyester pants to the limit, removed an empty pitcher. “Hold on, hon,” she said to me. “Here’s a full one.” She replaced it with a pitcher filled to the brim with orange juice. “So anyway,” she said, turning to another woman, an employee who was wiping tables near her, “they say that Franklin Avery was a miser and didn’t trust the banks.” She hugged the empty pitcher to her chest. “He hid his fortune.” Lowering her voice, she leaned closer to the woman and I inched back slightly to hear her. “It’s somewhere around Smarr,” she hissed.
“Get out,” the other woman said in a normal tone of voice. She tucked the cloth into her waistband, then picked up a stack of plates and silverware. She had spindly arms and black hair pulled back from her head in a long braid.
The woman with the pitcher leaned a hip against a chair, settling in for a good gossip. “I’m serious. I heard it at the gym from one of his relatives.”
I groaned softly and went back to pouring juice. So Felicity was spreading rumors about hidden loot. As if we didn’t already have enough to deal with.
I turned around to head back to the table and smashed into someone in my path. Juice shot out of my glass, spattering my sweatshirt and the floor.
“Excuse me.” The woman who’d nearly taken me down stared at me as if I was the one who’d barreled into her. She was a stout woman of about forty and had small, dark eyes and short pale hair that looked as stiff and dry as the yellow grass outside. She flicked her hand to remove a drop of juice, which sent the black caftanlike sleeves of her coat flapping. She transferred her haughty look to the two hotel employees, who were moving a table so they could clean up the juice. “Well? Don’t you have any towels? Napkins? Something to clean up this mess?”
The employee who’d been clearing tables slammed down a SLIPPERY WHEN WET sign at the woman’s feet and handed her a few paper napkins, then gave a bigger stack to me. “Thank you,” I said as I daubed at sticky droplets on my throat, then pressed the napkins to the stain on my sweatshirt.
The other hotel employee sized up the situation. “I’ll get a mop,” she said before grabbing the empty pitcher and escaping.
“Now—,” the stout woman peered at the name tag pinned to the woman who’d been clearing the tables and said, “Opal, the front desk is unmanned. It’s inexcusable that I should have to track down an employee. I’m already behind schedule. Where are Stan Anderson’s belongings?”
“Umm, let me get a manager,” Opal said.
“That won’t be necessary. Simply give me his suitcase—you must have it stored somewhere around here. It’s a black rolling bag with a brown stripe. He was in Room three-twenty-three.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t do that. I’ll get the manager.”
“Of course you can. I’m his sister. I’ve just spent hours with the police. They told me his belongings were here. I don’t have time to wait. I have a plane to catch.”
“I’m sure the manager won’t mind if you help yourself to breakfast,” Opal said, placatingly. “I’ll be right back.”
The woman sighed elaborately. “I should have known this wouldn’t be simple.”
I finished wiping my hands and tossed the napkins in the trash as the woman looked over the breakfast bar. She wrinkled her nose. Two petulant voices carried across the room.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes you are. Stop it!”
I strode across the room so that I could prevent all-out fighting in the hotel dining room.
“You’re throwing away his clothes?”
I backed out of Grandpa Franklin’s closet, my arms full of men’s shirts, pants, and a few suits, and rammed my elbow into the dresser. Aunt Christine was standing in the doorway with her fingers pressed to her mouth. She looked like someone had just punched her in the stomach.
“No, we’re donating them to charity,” I said as I dropped the load onto the bed and rubbed my elbow. Who’d moved that dresser? It hadn’t been so close to the closet the last time I’d been here.
I shook out my arm, then pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. No cut, but I would have a bruise later. After I’d stopped Livvy and Nathan’s escalating fight at the hotel, I’d returned to the room to change into clothes that didn’t have juice on them. By the time I’d returned to the lobby, Stan Anderson’s sister was gone. Once Mitch was finished with his phone call, we’d loaded everyone up in the van and driven to Grandpa Franklin’s house—I still couldn’t think of it as our house—because we had so much to do. We’d spent an hour walking through the rooms, jotting notes, then I’d tackled the clothes removal. Mitch was in the garage. I wasn’t sure what he was doing out there—getting rid of things, I hoped.
“Oh, are you sure you have to do that?”
“Well, do you know anyone who would wear these?” I asked as I removed the clothes from the hangers.
She rubbed the faded fabric of a plaid shirt between her fingers. “I suppose you’re right. They’re too small for any of the men in the family and even Roy would never wear these. They’re not his style.” She picked up a shirt and folded it into thirds. “It’s just such a shame, clearing out everything of his.”
I opened a trunk at the foot of the bed. It contained a jumble of lightweight summer clothing. I closed the lid. I didn’t want to pull out any more clothes while she was here since she was already distressed. I could clean out the trunk later. I walked over and put a hand on her arm. “We have to. I know it’s painful, but if we’re going to rent the house . . .”
“Rent it!” she exclaimed.
“Well, we can’t live here. Mitch’s job is in Georgia. And we won’t be stationed there forever.” Mitch and I had talked about it on the drive over and decided renting was the best solution for now. I steered her out the door and into the living room. “And that way the house will be lived in. We don’t want it sitting empty.”
Mitch had just come inside. “Mitch, can you help Aunt Christine load the landscape print into her car?”
“Already done it.”
Aunt Christine was looking around the living room as if she was checking to make sure nothing had changed. “Well, why don’t you walk her out,” I said, giving him a significant look.
He raised his eyebrows, but took Aunt Christine’s arm and walked her to her car. I stepped onto the porch to check on the kids. The late afternoon sun cut through the tranquil air and warmed the boards of the porch. It was so quiet I could hear the faint swish of the occasional car on the road.
After running around the house and yard for a couple of hours, the kids had discovered several board games in the hall closet. “Look, Mom, wooden checkers,” Nathan had said, fascinated because his games only had plastic pieces. Livvy was sitting sideways in the porch swing with her legs extended across the seat and a book in her hand. I tilted my head to get a better look at the cover and realized she was reading Grandpa Franklin’s memoirs. I’d read it a few years ago when we got our copy and was surprised the stories about fishing and exploring the woods held her attention.
“How’s the book, Livvy?” I asked, and it took her a few seconds to drag her focus away from the book.
“What?”
“Good book?” I asked again.
“Yeah. I like it,” she said, already refocused on the pages. Her blue purse was on the porch beside Nathan. He’d taken the game pieces from the checkers and chess set and spread them onto every available space. I saw a rook, a bishop, and two queens propped on the railing as well as several checkers stacked into a small wall placed in front of a row of pawns. “Don’t lose any of those pieces,” I told Nathan.
“Okay,” he said as he made an exploding sound and used the king to knock down the stack of checkers.
Mitch trotted back up the steps and said, “Those chess pieces are as good as Legos.” We walked into the house together.
“Thanks,” I said. “Aunt Christine was so sentimental about Grandpa Franklin’s clothes. She didn’t want me to give them away. I can’t imagine how she’ll feel when we start to clear out the furniture.”
Mitch eyed the couch. “Ah, Aunt Gwen called this morning and asked what we’re doing with the furniture. If we aren’t keeping the couch, they want it for their waiting room at the office.”
“Aunt Nanette wants it, too,” I said. “Your mom told me last night, but I’d forgotten about it until now.” I rubbed my forehead. “What are we going to do? We’re not going to be able to give everyone what they want.”
“We could draw numbers and then let the person with the lowest number have their pick.”
“Like that present swapping game we play at Christmas? I don’t think that would go over very well.”
Mitch’s phone beeped and he pulled it out to check a text message. “Great. Dan wants to know if we’re keeping the ladder in the garage. He needs one.” Mitch’s mouth quirked down. “Estate sale?”
“I don’t know—someone will be upset if we sell everything. And what would we do if there are things that don’t sell? We’d be right back in the same boat.” I ran my hand over the back of Grandpa Franklin’s chair. “Do your parents want anything?”
“They haven’t mentioned anything in particular to me. They’re too busy with the fire.” Mitch’s parents had left the hotel early that morning to meet the insurance people, the fire marshal, and the cleaning crews at their house. Mitch dropped onto the couch and let his head fall onto the back cushion. I rubbed the back of my neck and sat down in the chair beside him. My shoulders and legs ached from a long day of packing and carrying boxes. I eyed the stack of boxes and trash bags lined up near the front door. So far, I’d only removed things that were either specific bequests in the will or things that I didn’t think anyone would care about. No one was going to want his toiletries, clothes, or stacks of magazines and newspapers. “That reminds me,” Mitch said. “The fire marshal’s finished and says the fire isn’t suspicious.”
“Even considering the note and the fact that your mom doesn’t burn candles?”
“I don’t know about those things, but, apparently, there’s no evidence of anyone setting the fire. I guess candles get knocked over pretty often.”
“Great, another one,” I said.
“What?” Mitch tilted his head so he could see me better.
“Another coincidence. Another thing that looks like foul play, but isn’t.”
“Ellie . . .” Mitch closed his eyes. “We’re not going there. There’s no foul play.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued, “Anyway, Uncle Bud’s got a demolition crew coming tomorrow. There was water damage to the carpet and the ceiling in the living room, so they’re going to have to completely redo that, and the roof, too.”
Okay, I wasn’t going to press my point about the suspicious things that had been happening. No matter how he tried to ignore them, they were still happening and it looked like I was the only one in the Avery family willing to try and figure out what was going on. I stared at the shaft of sunlight streaming in the front window and watched Livvy’s head bowed over her book. Let the other stuff go, for now, I told myself, and tried to focus on what Mitch had been saying as he purposefully steered the conversation in another direction.
I rotated my shoulders. I had to at least make an effort. “How long will that take?”
“Quite awhile. Mom said since they have to rip out the drywall in the living room, they should go ahead and redo the kitchen, too.”
“That’s a long time for them to stay in a hotel.” I sat up straight as a thought occurred to me. “Mitch, why don’t they stay here?”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“It’s perfect—they can stay here while the repairs are done at their house. You know how that goes. It always takes longer than you think it will. They could stay here and we could leave everything in the house—all the furniture—and we won’t hurt anyone’s feelings.”
“That could work, but we’ll have to clear the place out eventually.”
I slumped back against the cushion. “True, but we could come back and do it this summer when we have more time. And by then, well, maybe we’ll have figured out a way to divide all the stuff. We can even keep working on it—in fact, I need to call that number that your mom gave me this morning for the book recycling. If we can get that taken care of, think of all the space it will free up in the garage.”
Mitch nodded. “It could work. The house wouldn’t be empty. Mom and Dad are going to need a place to stay and this isn’t that far from their house.”
I jumped up and went to get my purse and phone. “It’s perfect. We’ll do as much as we can. We’ll start with the garage because your parents will need all the stuff in the house—the furniture, dishes, and linens. After the repairs are finished on their house, we can come back and clear out the house this summer. It’ll be easier to rent during the summer, too, I bet, since that’s when most people want to move anyway.”
I called the recycling company and set up an appointment for them to remove the boxes. Their first opening was over a month away, but I made the appointment and asked them to call me if they had a cancellation. I’d have to make sure someone could meet the truck since we’d be back home by then. I clicked the phone closed and turned back to Mitch. “Well, that’s a relief. One less thing to worry about.”
I heard a car crunching over the gravel, then the slam of a car door. “I hope that’s not someone coming to claim a lamp or the TV,” I said.
Mitch laughed. “That TV is so old we’re going to be lucky if Goodwill takes it. No, I think that’s the babysitter.”
“Hello . . . anyone home?” a female voice called as footsteps came up the porch steps.
“We are!” Nathan said, and Queen trotted through the open door, tail swishing.
“What? Do we need a sitter?” What was I saying? We could always use a sitter.
“Remember how I said we needed to get away on our own? How does dinner at Quincy House sound?”
“Ah–nice, but will they let me in the door, looking like this?” I asked, pointing to my dusty jeans and sweatshirt.
“I had the rest of our clothes sent out to be cleaned this morning. They should be back by now. So, dinner? Just you and me.”
I smiled. “You have to ask?”
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
Genealogy
Discovering your family history generates a lot of information. To organize family data:
• Create a filing system for each family name you’re researching. You’ll want paper files for hard copies as well as an organized filing system on your computer.
• Create subcategories for legal documents (marriage, birth, and death certificates), family charts, interviews, correspondence, etc. As your research grows, you can expand your filing system. For instance, begin with a file for correspondence. As it expands you can separate it into Correspondence “A–M” and “N–Z.”
• Copy and/or scan important documents, then work with the copies, to preserve the original documents.
• Store original documents in archival-safe storage boxes or albums.
Chapter Eighteen
Mitch looked up from the menu. “Wings? Mozzarella sticks?” We were in Jody’s, a hip bar a couple of blocks from the community college. “Mozzarella sticks sound good,” I said, nearly shouting so Mitch could hear me over the din. I’d actually been ready to leave for our date early and we had thirty minutes to kill before our dinner reservation. Amazing how much easier it was to decide what to wear when I only had about four choices. My little black dress would have been perfect, but the thought of wearing it made me feel sad since I’d just worn it to Grandpa Franklin’s funeral. And I didn’t want to be mela
ncholy tonight. I was already feeling nervous and edgy at the thought that Mitch was going to tell me what had been weighing on him for so long. Since my choices weren’t that extensive, I’d dressed up my long-sleeved white T-shirt, jeans, and quilted red jacket with a floral scarf. The scarf, in rich red, blue, and gold tones, had been a Christmas gift from my friend Abby. After I’d unwrapped it, she’d dragged me to my closet and pulled out several things, including the red jacket, and held the scarf up to show me how many outfits I could wear it with. I tended to be a bit of a remedial dresser. Abby was much better at coordinating clothes than I was. Accessorizing, especially with purses, was my forte. I was carrying my black Kate Spade Quinn, one of my favorites.
As Mitch placed our order for drinks and an appetizer, I crossed my arms and leaned on the wooden table, which had several initials carved in it. We were in a small booth at the side of the crowded restaurant. The steady beat of the Eagles singing “Heartache Tonight” thumped through the room. I hoped the song wasn’t an omen. “Crowded in here,” I shouted.
“Yeah. It’s always been popular, but I’ve never seen it like this. Dan told me they have better food than they did when I lived here.”
I nodded and decided it was too noisy to attempt a serious conversation here. Mitch must have come to the same conclusion because we spent most of the time eating our mozzarella sticks, people watching, and talking a little about the kids and how they were handling everything that had happened over the last week.
As I munched on the mozzarella sticks, which were good—crispy golden brown on the outside and gooey, cheesy inside—I caught sight of a familiar face moving through the crowd. Well, actually, it wasn’t his face I noticed, but his curly hair. “Look, isn’t that one of the brothers from the funeral home?” I asked Mitch.
When he reached a table filled with other guys in their twenties lounging back in their chairs, legs and arms splayed all over the place, one of them said, “There’s the Grim Reaper.”
