Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07

by MacPherson's Lament

  What did she give you last year? thought Bill. A thumbscrew? Aloud he said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Trowbridge. Goodbye.”

  The next time the phone rang, about two minutes later, Bill had no trouble remembering to let Edith answer it. Seconds later she appeared in the doorway. “Nathan Kimball for you,” she said. “Good luck.”

  Bill motioned for her to stay. “Yes?” he said into the phone. “Yes, this is he … All right … Yes, I understand … Tomorrow? But that’s a lot of paperwork … I see. Well, if you put it that way. I suppose we could—I’ll tell my clients and call you back. Ten minutes or so … Good. Until then.” He hung up the phone with a bemused smile. “You want the good news, Edith, or the bad news?”

  “Give me the good news,” said Edith. “It’ll make a nice change.”

  “Mr. Huff has decided to buy the Home for Confederate Women. His lawyers have okayed the deal, and he’s willing to pay the asking price without any quibbling.” Bill looked smug. “I mentioned that there had been other inquiries.”

  “You mean the old guy who wanted to see it if we’d trade it for $65,000 and a trailer at Virginia Beach?”

  “Well, it was an offer of sorts,” said Bill.

  “Okay. The good news is Mr. Huff will buy the house for the asking price. And the bad news is—what? He wants to pay it in Confederate money?” asked Edith.

  “No. The bad news is that we have to close the deal tomorrow.”

  Edith sneered. “That’s impossible. When my brother bought his house, it liked to have taken forever.”

  “That was because he needed bank financing,” Bill told her. “Mortgages do take forever. But if Mr. Huff is paying cash—well, not cash, but transferring funds from his bank to ours, without borrowing any money from anyone—then all we have to do is the paperwork.”

  “That must be the bad news,” said Edith. “That’s a lot of documents to generate in one day’s time. I suppose you’ll be wanting me to cancel my evening’s plans and work overtime.”

  “I really need you,” said Bill. “But we’ll be able to afford to pay you overtime from our commission from the sale of the house.”

  “Well, that’s good. It’s nice to know that I could afford to eat if I ever had the time. I’d better get started on it. Have you called the old ladies yet?”

  “That’s my next move,” said Bill, reaching for the phone. “Just think! I’ve finished my first case. Won’t Powell be pleased?”

  “You bet. And astonished, too,” said Edith, strolling back to her desk.

  It’s amazing how much time lawyers spend on the phone, Bill thought as he dialed the Home for Confederate Women. Gab and write letters. After four rings, the receiver was picked up, and Bill heard Flora Dabney’s voice. “Miss Dabney! Bill MacPherson here. I have wonderful news! Mr. Huff wants to buy your house. Tomorrow!”

  Five minutes later Bill was standing in front of Edith’s desk, with an expression of utter dismay.

  Edith looked up from her computer terminal. “Well? She hasn’t changed her mind about selling, has she?”

  “No,” said Bill, perching on the edge of the desk. “It’s not as bad as that. It’s just that she says they can’t come to the office tomorrow. Apparently, one of them has a doctor’s appointment, and another one isn’t feeling well enough to leave the house. I explained to her that Mr. Huff wants to finalize the sale tomorrow.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She wants me to handle the whole thing.”

  “Don’t they want to meet this fellow who’s buying their house?”

  “Apparently not. We finally decided that I would draw up a power of attorney form and go over there now and get it signed. Then at the closing tomorrow, I’ll sign the papers on their behalf.”

  “Who gets the money, then?”

  “Mr. Huff gives me a cashier’s check or wires the funds or whatever, and it gets deposited in the firm’s trust account. Then I deduct our commission, and pay the rest to Miss Dabney and her housemates. So that won’t change.”

  “Did you remember to call Mr. Kimball and tell him that tomorrow is all set?”

  “Yeah, just now,” said Bill. “I also asked him about defendants who use phony names, but he was no help.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Just another one of Mr. Trowbridge’s questions. I’d better get going now if I want to get all this done. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Want me to bring back a pizza?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Yes,” said Bill. “Company expenses.”

  “Then bring back two pizzas,” said Edith. “I’ll need all my strength to complete this paperwork.”

  After a frantic scramble through the reference books, Bill managed to find the power-of-attorney instructions, type them up on his computer, and produce a presentable-looking printout to take with him to the Home for Confederate Women. As he drove out Highway 58 toward the old mansion, he tried to remember everything he knew about real estate transactions, just to make sure that he wasn’t overlooking anything. It seemed simple enough. He’d be glad to get this case out of the way; perhaps then he could get a more interesting one. He was a little jealous of his partner’s newfound importance as the defender of an accused murderer. And what was Bill doing? Paperwork in a divorce and answering stupid questions for Calvin Trowbridge. He would also be glad to finalize the house sale because, as unexciting as it was, it would be his first case, successfully completed; then he could feel that he was really a lawyer.

  He turned down the quiet country road that led to the white-columned mansion, enjoying the country scenery, golden in the late afternoon sun, and thinking how pleasant it was that his first lawyerly duty should be an act of benevolent service for a group of sweet, helpless old ladies.

  In the mahogany dining room Flora Dabney had assembled the other residents of the home for a conference. She explained to them that Bill MacPherson (“That nice young man!”) had succeeded in finding a buyer for the house, and that the sale would take place tomorrow. “I thought it best for us not to attend personally,” she said. “So I’ve asked Bill to come out here and bring a power-of-attorney form for us to sign. That way he can represent us at the actual closing, and we need not be present.”

  Ellen Morrison looked up with a worried frown. “But how will we be paid? Can we trust this lawyer?”

  “He’s very young, dear,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of defrauding helpless old ladies.”

  “There was a Union general called McPherson in the War,” Lydia Bridgeford pointed out. Her interest in genealogy occasionally spilled over into other people’s antecedents.

  “I believe they spell it differently,” said Flora Dabney. “At any rate, the buyer is paying cash, so the money should be ours within the week. Of course that means we shall have to move out rather quickly. I’m sure the gentleman will want to take possession without delay.”

  Julia Hotchkiss watched silently from her wheelchair with a bag of Fig Newtons wrapped in her lap robe. She waited for signs of refreshments, and when none were forthcoming, she eased a cookie out of the folds of the blanket and, when she thought no one was looking, stuffed it in her cheek.

  “The important thing is that the money be safe,” said Ellen Morrison. “I lived through the Great Depression once, and I don’t mean to live hand to mouth ever again. I’ve been seeing in the paper about these banks going under and whatnot, and I just don’t know that I trust them.”

  Flora Dabney and Dolly Smith looked at each other. “That’s quite true, Ellen,” Flora said after a moment’s pause. “It is important that the money be safe, because at our age we are not likely to come by much more of it. I discussed that very point with Mary Lee when we first decided to go through with this.”

  “Yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I knew just who to ask. You know that nice young fellow who comes by to take me to church? He’s in banking. So about a month ago I asked him what would be a really safe pl
ace to put money, and of course he said that his bank was as secure as they come. But I laughed and said that I had been watching a television program, and that the people on the show made a lot of money in a shady way, and they did something else with it.” She blushed. “I’m afraid I fibbed about the TV program, but it was in a good cause.”

  “Well?” said Dolly Smith impatiently. “What did he say?”

  “At first he talked about money laundering. I never could make head nor tails of his explanation—so I said I didn’t think that was it. Finally, as we were pulling into the church parking lot, he laughed—in that superior way men have—and he said, ‘Well, Miss Mary, you could always stash your ill-gotten gains in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. They won’t tell anybody who’s got what.’ ”

  “What in the world are the Cayman Islands?” asked Anna Douglas from the doorway. As usual, she was late for the meeting.

  “They’re in the Caribbean,” said Mary Lee. “Not that it matters, because you don’t have to go there, although I’m sure they’re very nice. All I had to do was telephone a bank there and ask to set up an account, and I sent them a check.”

  “For how much?” asked Lydia Bridgeford. “We can’t spare much.”

  “Sixty-five dollars,” said Mary Lee. “Half of that was Flora’s. We bought a money order at the 7-Eleven and sent it in.”

  “In your name?” asked Ellen. “But what if something happens to you? How will we get the money?”

  “All you need is the account number and the paperwork. They explained it all to me. You just use the number for transactions. Besides, I opened the account in a different name altogether. Mrs. James Ewell Brown Stuart.”

  Lydia Bridgeford nodded approvingly. “Jeb Stuart, eh? I expect he’d rather like that. After all, he was born in the next county over, so he is rather a neighbor of ours.”

  “Except of course that he’s dead,” said Mary Lee Pendleton.

  “At Yellow Tavern in 1864,” sighed Flora, who had rather a thing about the late general.

  “I’d hardly have opened an account for him if he weren’t dead,” snapped Mary Lee. “The whole point is that we have to hang on to this money. It’s all we’ve got for our old age.”

  “Well, perhaps not,” said Dolly Smith.

  * * *

  “You want me to do what with the money?” asked Bill MacPherson, staring at the circle of smiling pink faces.

  “It’s very simple,” Flora Dabney assured him. “I expect you haven’t done that sort of transaction before, but there’s really nothing to worry about. You simply instruct your bank to wire it to this account number at our bank, which happens to be in the Cayman Islands.”

  “But why do you want the money wired to a Caribbean island?” wailed Bill.

  “We thought we might go there,” said Dolly Smith. “My doctor said it might help my arthritis.”

  “But why deposit the money there? They take traveler’s checks in the Caymans.”

  Flora Dabney smiled. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing. Will you promise not to laugh if we confide in you?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Well, it’s just that we felt a little funny about selling Confederate property and putting the money in a U.S. bank. I know that when I first hired you I said that the war was over, but some of the ladies here still feel strongly about it. Very strongly.”

  “My dear papa never believed in banks after ’29,” said Ellen Morrison. “And I believe most of them are controlled out of New York, which just goes to show you.”

  “And since there is no longer a Confederacy, we decided to send the money out of the country altogether.”

  Bill stared at his clients. Surely they were joking. “But what if you want to use some of it? To buy groceries and things!”

  “In that case,” said Flora, “we might find it necessary to transfer some of it back. But for now you must allow us our little gesture. Now here’s the account number. Don’t lose it.”

  “Wasn’t there something else you wanted?” asked Anna Douglas. “I’m late for bridge club.”

  “Oh, the power of attorney,” said Bill, recalling his original errand. “I drew up a form authorizing me to act on your behalf in the selling of the property. I need each of you to sign on these lines.” He pointed out the appropriate place on the document, and produced the pen his parents had given him for graduation. One by one the ladies signed their names, passing the pen from hand to hand: Flora Dabney, Mary Lee Pendleton, Ellen Morrison, Lydia Bridgeford, Anna Douglas, and Dolly Hawks Smith. Julia Hotchkiss had to be persuaded to sign by the offer of another package of cookies, but in the end she scrawled her name below Jenny Allan’s tentative script, and the form was complete.

  “I guess that’s it,” said Bill, putting the paper back in his briefcase. “Tomorrow Mr. Huff will come to my office, and we’ll sign the deed. After that you’ll have two weeks to vacate the house. Will that be sufficient?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton with her serene smile. “We have already decided to go to Oakmont, that lovely retirement community just outside town. They have charming little apartments and a dining hall and people to check on you if you need anything. We’ll still be together.”

  Flora Dabney patted his arm. “And you must come out and see us. Perhaps you could come to tea in a month or so, when we’re settled.”

  “Thank you,” said Bill. “I’ll try to do that.”

  “And you won’t forget about depositing the money, will you?” asked Ellen Morrison.

  “It will go straight from the firm’s trust account to you. Less my commission, of course. I’m one of the honest lawyers,” said Bill.

  They all laughed merrily.

  Forty-five minutes later Bill returned to the office with two large pizzas balanced on the top of his briefcase. “How’s it going?” he called to Edith. “Any problems?”

  “Maybe one,” said Edith, clearing space on her desk for the pizzas. “Did you get the old ladies to sign that power-of-attorney form?”

  “I sure did,” said Bill. “See? Eight signatures.”

  “Uh-huh.” Edith frowned as she examined the form. “Did you remember to have a notary present?”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Shall I take that as a no?”

  Bill sat down and put his head in his hands. “I completely forgot,” he groaned. “I was so busy rushing around, trying to get back here and finish the rest of this paperwork and buy the pizzas and all. It just slipped my mind.”

  Edith sighed. “Want me to type up another one?”

  “Well, one of the ladies said she had bridge club tonight. I might not be able to get all the signatures. Oh, hell. I should have thought to take you along. You’re a notary, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Edith, cutting the pizza with her letter opener. “Did you remember the napkins?”

  “No. Use a paper towel. Look, I don’t suppose you could notarize this now, could you? I mean, I know you’re supposed to see the document being signed, but I swear to you that they all signed it, and I signed it, and it’s all legal. Oh, please, Edith! If we don’t get all this done by tomorrow, the deal will fall through.”

  Over a slice of pepperoni pizza, Edith gave him a look of exasperation. “All right,” she said. “You are new at this. I guess everybody’s entitled to one incredibly stupid screwup. But it’s illegal, you hear? So I don’t want you ever to make this mistake again.” She opened her desk drawer, took out her notary seal, and witnessed the document.

  “Thanks, Edith,” said Bill. “I promise I’ll never forget again. You’ve saved my life.”

  “That’ll be a dollar,” said Edith.

  RADFORD, VIRGINIA

  THERE WERE ONLY six gray-clad soldiers in a makeshift camp near the house. The redbrick mansion sat on a hill overlooking the New River; it had belonged to a colonel in the Revolutionary War. Now its sprawling green lawn was dotted again with tents and tethered horses.

  On the hill all w
as quiet. Beneath a tarp stretched across four poles, one grizzled sergeant spread out a makeshift dinner of hardtack, apples, and potatoes. On a log in front of the tent, a lanky bearded soldier was cleaning a rifle and passing the time of day with a raw-boned mountain boy, who was whittling on a stick of applewood. The smallest Rebel, a baby-faced corporal with wire-rimmed spectacles, was sitting on the edge of the hill beside the small cannon. The corporal was making ammunition cartridges by pouring gunpowder into paper tubes to be fired at some forthcoming battle. At the bottom of the hill, a private in a makeshift uniform was walking the perimeter, pacing back and forth with his rifle on his shoulder, solemn and silent. The group’s commanding officer, a stocky red-bearded man who in civilian life was a country lawyer, sat with his back against an oak tree, making notes in a small leather book.

  The homemade flag flapping in the breeze read THE WYTHE GRAYS and in smaller block letters beneath it: 68th VIRGINIA INFANTRY. The flagstaff was a six-foot tree limb, trimmed of its branches, but gnarled, and still bearing gray bark. It was propped against a cheval-de-frise, a log pierced by sharp sticks used as a defensive barricade. Beside the regimental flag flew the Southern Battle Flag, a red field crossed by two blue stripes emblazoned with stars. It was the only Confederate flag that most people ever saw, but it was not the flag of the nation; the Southern equivalent of the U.S. Stars and Stripes was the Stars and Bars, a circle of seven stars on a square of blue, with two broad red strips separated by a band of white. It was not particularly distinctive, and like President Jefferson Davis, it would be all but forgotten after the war, while Robert E. Lee and his star-crossed battle flag lived on in song and story.

  “Do you need any help, Corporal?” The grizzled sergeant had finished laying out the food and wandered over to observe the cartridge-making.

  “Nice of you to ask, now that I’m about finished. Think we’ll need more than that?”

  “Depends on what transpires this afternoon. If nobody shows up, one of us may have to galvanize. Unless you want to sit around all afternoon and bake in that wool uniform.”