Designated Daughters

by Margaret Maron

  “One strong nibble,” she said. “Joyce Mitchell and her partners are interested.”

  Normally this would merit a good ten minutes dissecting Joyce and her law practice and which rung they occupied in the local bar’s pecking order, but Portland seemed distracted. She had brought out silverware but forgot drinks and napkins.

  I fetched the pitcher of iced tea. “What’s up? Avery’s not joining us?”

  He often did when we had lunch on the deck. Dwight, too, if he could get away.

  “He had to go to Charlotte. I don’t want to tell him anyhow. In fact, I really shouldn’t even be talking to you about this, but my head’s going to explode if I don’t tell somebody.”

  I didn’t remind her that we’ve always trusted each other with our deepest secrets, even up to the point of technically breaching attorney-client confidentiality if it was something troubling. Instead, I snapped the lid off my salad and drizzled raspberry vinaigrette over the baby spinach, blue cheese, walnuts, and dried cranberries. “Tell me what?”

  “Tuesday night. Remember I said that Mrs. McElveen’s rewriting her will because her niece, the one that stayed with her after her car accident, had died?”

  I nodded.

  “And you remember how Avery said if Mrs. McElveen had executed a durable power of attorney for financial management, her niece didn’t have to die for her to keep control?”

  “So?”

  “So he was right, even though that’s not what he meant. She probably wouldn’t have died.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think Mrs. McElveen killed her.”

  “What?”

  “Shh,” Portland said. “Keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood doesn’t have to know and certainly not our clerks.”

  “She killed her caregiver? Her own niece? She told you this?”

  “Not in those words, but yes. I think so.”

  “Think?” My voice was rising again. I couldn’t help it. This was one of the leading citizens of Dobbs. This was Laurel Foster McElveen, a woman who sat on half the important boards in town.

  “You remember how she seemed to be losing it? Stopped going to board meetings? Quit going to therapy for her legs? Acted depressed? Drifting in a fog?”

  I nodded.

  “Then the niece died.”

  “I remember.”

  “When I saw Mrs. McElveen after the funeral last week, she was back in the land of the living. Cogent, sharp, ready to whip this town into shape. And the first thing she wanted to do was rewrite her will, disinherit the remaining nieces and a nephew.”

  “Nothing odd about that,” I said.

  “Right. But when Avery said what he did, it got me thinking. Because she told me last week that her niece had wanted her to sign an irrevocable POA and that if Evelyn hadn’t died so fortuitously, she might have done it because she’d almost lost her ability to concentrate and make decisions.”

  “Fortuitously?” I asked, trying to spear a walnut with my fork.

  “Fortuitously.”

  “Okay, not the term most people would use for the death of a niece, Por, but hardly grounds to suspect murder.”

  Portland brushed away a curious yellow jacket that had buzzed over to land on a melon cube in her fruit salad. “I know, I know. But there was something about the way she said it. Her niece did have heart problems. In fact, she was due to get a stent put in next month, which is probably why her doctor signed the death certificate without an autopsy. Her mother died young, too. Heart attack for both of them, Mrs. McElveen said. Today, though, she asked if you can tell someone’s been poisoned once the body was cremated, and I told her no. You can’t, can you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So then I flat-out asked her if she thought her niece had been murdered, and guess what she said?”

  “You’re fired?”

  Portland didn’t smile. “No, she said it was probably an unintentional suicide. ‘Because’—and I quote—‘surely it isn’t murder if someone switches drinks with the person who poured them.’”

  I nearly choked on my salad. “She didn’t!”

  “She did. So what do I do now, Deborah? Even if I wanted to violate attorney-client privilege and told Dwight, what could he do?”

  I was stumped. There are hundreds of substances that can cloud a person’s cognitive powers, thousands that can kill someone with a weak heart, but unless it’s something commonly used, like ethanol or a heavy metal, testing for an unknown is like trying to catch lightning bugs blindfolded. And that’s if you have a body.

  “Cremated?” I asked.

  “Cremated,” Portland said. “And the ashes are going to be scattered tomorrow.”

  “Wow!” I said. “That’s fast.”

  We batted it around for another twenty minutes while finishing lunch, but in the end, there was really nothing that could be done. Even if Dwight were to get another judge to sign a search warrant and turn Mrs. McElveen’s house inside out, even if he were to find the poison, if poison it was and not a prescription for something as innocuous as sleeping pills or allergy medicine, there would be no way to prove anything without a body.

  “You going to keep her on as a client?” I asked.

  “Why not? Do you know how much we bill her for every year? Thank God she’s never asked us over for drinks.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  In order to give pleasure to the audience, the actor need not finish the play…nor need the wise man remain on the stage till the closing plaudit.

  — Cicero

  At breakfast on Saturday morning, I asked Dwight if I could still borrow his truck that day.

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Girls’ day out. Will’s auction,” I reminded him. “Mrs. Lattimore’s estate sale. That end table I liked.”

  “But we’re building the pond shed today. Can’t you stick it in the trunk of your car? Haywood thinks we need another roll of tarpaper and I forgot to figure in the overhang when I ordered tin for the roof.”

  “There will be at least four other trucks here today if you need to run to a lumber yard or building supply place,” I said. “Barbara and April saw some things on Will’s website that they’re interested in and if they buy, we’ll need a truck to get everything home.”

  Reluctantly, he handed over his keys. Married almost two years and this would be the first time I’d driven his truck when he wasn’t in it.

  April and Barbara both laughed when I told them about the pained expression on Dwight’s face as I left. “Like he was saying goodbye to a faithful horse he never really expects to see again,” I said.

  “Andrew’s just as bad,” said April, who was squinched in the middle between us with her feet on the hump because her legs were shorter than Barbara’s. “He keeps saying that old truck of his is a work mule, but let me put the tiniest little dent in the fender?”

  “Zach doesn’t have a truck,” Barbara said, “but don’t ask to borrow any of his power tools.”

  “Well, that’s sorta how I feel about my power tools,” said April, who may teach language skills at the local middle school but could hire out tomorrow as a skilled carpenter.

  She had her eye on that stained glass panel Will had mentioned, while Barbara said she was just along for the ride, “Although Karen asked me to try to get that Rebecca pitcher by Nell Cole Graves if it goes for under three hundred.”

  Karen is married to Adam, Zach’s twin, and they live in California, but she’s been collecting Seagrove pottery ever since Mother gave her a Jugtown vase the first Christmas after they were married and still living in a singlewide at the far side of the farm while they were getting their degrees in computer engineering at State. (Their current home has five bedrooms and an infinity pool, but Karen hasn’t gotten above her raising. Adam? That’s another story.)

  The parking lot at Will’s was crowded and the street out front was lined with cars, one of which was a limo with tinted windows and a Maryland li
cense plate. A hefty uniformed chauffeur sat behind the steering wheel in a visored black cap and mirror sunglasses. It was not the only car with out-of-state plates, but it was certainly the most expensive. Although it wasn’t that hot here at nine o’clock in the morning, the chauffeur had the motor running for the air conditioning.

  The auction wasn’t due to start till ten, but like so many others, we had come early so that we could examine the offerings and decide what we wanted to spend.

  Will’s major Lattimore sale would be next Saturday when her more valuable antiques and collectibles would go on the block. Today was to prime the pump, he said. “If they know I consider this stuff the odds and ends, it’ll whet their appetites for what’s to come.”

  This was the first auction I’d been to since the old warehouse burned and I was impressed by how professional he’d become. It was a long way from flea markets and hauling trash. For starters, he and his staff all wore identical dark blue golf shirts with a Knott Auctions logo embroidered on the pocket. Four wooden church pews had cushions of the same blue, and folding metal chairs had been spray-painted that color, too. From the setup, they seemed to be expecting about two hundred people. The walls were reclaimed 1960s paneling that had been painted white to make a background for pictures, mirrors, and other decorative wall ornaments.

  The catalog consisted of ten or twelve sheets of copy paper stapled at the corner, with thumbnail descriptions of each lot. After we had registered at the front desk and procured numbered paddles so we could bid, April immediately zeroed in on the wall that held the stained glass.

  “Look at that beveled mirror, Barbara,” she said, pulling out her tape measure. “Isn’t that exactly what you’ve been looking for to brighten up the back hall by Emma’s room?”

  While they went off to measure the mirror, I wandered over to look at the displays on the counters that lined two sides of the auction room. Items were grouped on numbered trays. Lot #31, for instance, consisted of a china wash basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror, circa 1900, while Lot #32 was a dozen mismatched brass candlesticks of varying heights and no date. I paused at a locked glass case that held good-quality costume jewelry and saw three women eyeing some Celtic-looking brooches made of glass and small chunky stones. Lot #26.

  One of the women waved a vigilant staff member over and asked to see the pieces up close to verify that everything was intact and without repairs. It was Jody Munger, one of the women who had sat on last week’s jury and had clearly been unimpressed with the plaintiff’s Hummel expert.

  “Hey, Judge,” she said as she unlocked the case and took out the brooches. “You collect Miracle pins, too?”

  “Is that what they are?”

  The first woman opened a loose-leaf notebook with plastic sleeves that held colored pictures of costume jewelry, and she compared what looked like a dagger-shaped pin of yellow and brown stones to one of the pictures. I heard her murmur to her friends, “Nineteen-sixties.”

  When she realized that I had overheard, she snapped the notebook shut and handed the brooch back to Jody before walking away with the other two, their heads close together.

  “Are they valuable?” I asked.

  Jody smiled as she returned the brooch to its tray and locked the case. “Not especially. Once in a while, a Miracle piece might bring a hundred dollars, but these you could buy on eBay for no more than fifteen to thirty each. She’s afraid you might be a collector who would run up the price.”

  “Not me,” I said. “I’ve never collected anything.”

  “Really? No Hummel figurines or hobnail milk glass?”

  I shook my head, laughing. “No Barbie dolls or baseball cards either.”

  “You’re lucky. Once the collecting fever hits, reason can fly out the window. So what are you here for today?”

  I described the end table that had interested me.

  She pointed toward the front. “Furniture’s over in the left corner. I’d come show you, but I can’t leave my post. We’d like to think that none of the customers have sticky fingers, but you’d be surprised.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing in that line surprises me anymore.”

  I made my way through the growing crowd to where Will was. As I approached, another man got to him at the same time. Will reached out and put an arm around me. “Hey, baby sister. You ever meet Rusty here? Rusty, this is my sister Deborah.”

  The man’s thick hair was more gray than red now, but he had a redhead’s florid coloring and offered me an easy handshake. “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”

  He wore a gold ring with a large diamond on the pinkie finger of his beefy right hand, and a gold chain flashed at the open collar of his golf shirt.

  “Rusty’s my competition, so don’t feel you have to be nice to him,” said Will, talking trash with a smile.

  “Rusty Alexander?” I asked. “Alexander Auctions over in Widdington?”

  A pleased smile spread across his broad face. “You’ve heard of us?”

  I nodded. “Oh yes. I didn’t realize that auctioneers attended other people’s auctions.”

  “Like your brother says, gotta keep up with the competition. You’re getting a nice crowd, bo. I even saw a limo outside. Maryland plates.”

  “Limo?” asked Will. “Whoa! I didn’t know I had any limo owners on my mailing list. I must be moving up. Wonder what he’s here for?”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. “You ever hear of a man named Dawson Bridges? From Baltimore?”

  “Dawson Bridges?” Will rolled that name over his tongue, then shook his head. “He one of your clients?”

  “We’ve done business before but I’ve never met him. He always phones in his bids. Just wondered if that’s him.”

  “What’s his interest?”

  Rusty hesitated. “He’s a big gun enthusiast. I see you have one on the block today.”

  As he walked away through the crowd, I almost told Will he was probably lying. But then Will was probably lying, too, so I asked where the end table was and went over to look at it. As he’d said, it was a nice piece but no antique. According to the description in the catalog, it was a circa-1940 reproduction of a Louis XVI table, mahogany with brass drawer pull and tapered fluted legs. No nicks or dings, and the wood was mellow from years of furniture polish. Perfect to sit beside the lounge chair in our bedroom. The drawer opened and closed smoothly and would hold my manicure set and cotton balls for when I wanted to watch a video and do my nails while Dwight and Cal watched a ball game in the living room.

  At a few minutes before ten, people started finding seats. As the crush around the front entrance thinned, the door opened and the uniformed chauffeur I’d seen earlier maneuvered a wheelchair through the double doors. A small cylinder of oxygen was attached to the rear of the chair and the old man in the chair wore a nasal cannula that was barely visible beneath a broad-brimmed summer hat that obscured his face. A nurse in white slacks and a crisp white lab coat followed. The old man in the chair reached out with his cane and hooked the arm of a staff member. Evidently he was asking where a certain item was, because the staffer pointed to a nearby case. Immediately, the old man’s chauffeur pushed him over.

  April and Barbara were signaling me to join them in one of the front pews, but I saw Rusty Alexander drifting over to that area. Curious, I drifted over, too. Someone in the Lattimore line must have been a sportsman, because I saw a bundle of fishing rods, a twelve-gauge shotgun, a rusty bear trap, a couple of old duck decoys, a rabbit box made of unpainted wood, and a mounted deer head with an eight-point rack. The shotguns were locked inside the glass case, the deer head hung on the wall, the bear trap, decoys, and rabbit box had been left atop the counter, which meant, I was coming to learn, that they were of only nominal value, decorative items to furnish someone’s fishing lodge or hunting camp. I wasn’t sure what the old man was most interested in, but he did look at the underside of both decoys and he examined the eyes with a pocket magnifier.

  Through the loudspea
ker at the podium, Will announced that the auction was about to begin and asked that everyone take a seat.

  The old man placed the decoys back where he’d found them, and as he was wheeled away, Rusty Alexander stepped forward and took a look at the decoy undersides himself.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  He smiled, turned them over, and held them out to me. “Tell me what you see.”

  Both had been hunted over in the past because they were pitted with shotgun pellets. One was a weathered green and worn on the bottom, the other was in better condition with well-defined black feathers, a white spot on its head, and touches of orange on its white bill. On that one, initials had been scratched in near the tail.

  “HN?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I see, too.”

  “Who’s HN?” asked a familiar voice, and I turned to see my cousin Sally. Today she wore the newsboy cap and its fringe of black curls with short white shorts that showed off her remarkably shapely legs.

  Her question was directed at me, but Rusty Alexander answered. “I collect decoys, but I never heard of an HN. Y’all interested in them?”

  “Not me,” I said, but Sally shrugged. “I’ve got a place at Crenshaw’s Lake that I’m redecorating. These would look good over the bar if they don’t go too high.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “See that old guy in the wheelchair? I’m not sure, but if he’s Dawson Bridges, these are what he drove down from Maryland for.”

  “Really?” said Sally.

  Before she could question him further, he walked away and we turned our attention to the front, where Will stood at the podium.

  “Welcome to today’s auction,” he said. “You must have a paddle to bid. Everybody have a catalog?”

  Several hands shot up and staff members quickly passed out extra copies. I slipped into a pew in the second row beside Barbara and April, who had saved me a seat.

  “As most of you know,” Will continued, “everything up for sale today came from the Lattimore house over in Cotton Grove. The house was built in eighteen-seventy by Aaron Lattimore, a prominent businessman of the day, and has remained in the family ever since. The Lattimores had money and they had taste, as you can see by what’s here.” A sweep of his arm took in the walls and cabinets. “Although the Lattimores kept pretty good records of their major purchases over the years, these lesser items are undocumented, so let me make it crystal clear that everything is being sold ‘as is.’ We’ve tried to identify makers and age where we could, but it’s caveat emptor and all sales are final. Are you ready?”