“You said Hiram had been living in your apartment less than a year. Did he live somewhere in this area before that? Maybe camp out in that old barn while he and Jacob were putting up the new stable?”
“I think he may have, or stayed in some el cheapo motel, but I don’t know for how long or how many times he’d visited the area before he bought his land. He did say he commuted from Aiken for a few months.”
“That’s some commute. How did he find your apartment?” I asked.
“I had my basement finished last year in hopes of bringing in a little extra income. I put an ad in the Mossy Creek Gazette and the following Sunday, Hiram showed up on my doorstep. He was the first and only person to look at the place. He moved in a week later. We became friends almost at once.”
I looked over at her. I still wondered if they’d been more than friends, but there was nothing in her voice that said he was a lost lover. It was none of my business anyway unless it turned out to have something to do with his death.
“Turn left,” she said. “Mr. Robertson’s office is off the main square. I made a list of people you need to call back when we get home. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of others on Hiram’s answering machine.”
I wouldn’t be able to blow them off. I owed Hiram his obituaries. What I didn’t owe anyone was answers to probing questions about the way he died. Even if I’d had answers, which I didn’t.
We drove onto Bigelow’s main drag and parked in front of the Victorian house that had been turned into the offices of Kauffman, Hardwick, Smithson and Robertson.
“I recommended Frederick Robertson to Hiram. He’s been my lawyer since Ben and I moved down here and Ben died on me. Even in a really straightforward estate, there are things that need to be done, final tax preparation, probate . . . ”
“Please,” I begged. “I so don’t want to do this.”
Peggy left to do some shopping while I climbed the stairs to the offices where Frederick Robertson was a partner. I’ve never been to a lawyer’s office in Timbuktu, but they probably import antique wood paneling, furniture, and hunting prints on the theory that their clients expect it. This office was the prototypical southern lawyer’s office except for the secretary, who was a knockout redhead. She ushered me directly into Mr. Robertson’s office. He was chubby, cheerful, and seated me in a leather chair that probably belonged to his grandfather.
After the usual stuff about being sorry for my loss, he templed his fingers and leaned forward. “Do you want me to continue to act for you in matters pertaining to the estate?”
“Good grief, yes!” I reached for my handbag. “Do I need to give you a check as a retainer? I just assumed . . . ”
He waved pudgy fingers. “Don’t worry about the retainer. I’ll have Hiram’s will admitted to probate, with the attesting witness statements, put the notices about payment of debts in the legal notice section of the local papers, and have twenty copies of your letters testamentary made for you. You are his sole heir without bond as well his executrix. You’re also going to need at least twenty copies of his death certificate . . . ”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That should do it for the immediate future. They’ll be sent to the funeral home for delivery to you. You’ll find yourself giving them out left and right to banks, the social security administration I’ll have Eleanor make you a list. I’ll file for an extension on his income taxes to give us time to file his final tax statement, although he’d already sent most of the information to his accountant.”
If my head could have physically spun 360 degrees, it would have. As it was, my brain was crashing around in my skull at Mach ten. At some point I managed to shut my mouth, but I’m sure my eyes were popping like a bush baby’s.
He stopped speaking and put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear. You’ve never done this before. I should have realized. I am a dumb old hound.”
“Never by myself.”
“This is simple as Simon.” He chortled. “Getting seven warring heirs to agree to sell Hiram his land that was difficult.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you know anything at all about your father’s estate?”
I shook my head.
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his tall leather chair. His head didn’t quite reach the top of the back. Mr. Pickwick Meets Law and Order.
I stifled a giggle. He really would think I was brainless if I laughed. I’ve been cursed with the Chuckles the Clown syndrome all my life. Remember the old Mary Tyler Moore Show? At the somber funeral for Chuckles the Clown, Mary breaks out in hysterical laughter. That’s me. Give me a disaster and I’ll get the giggles. Except for the time I hurt my mother.
“Basically, Mr. Robertson,” I said as I drove my fingernails into the palms of my hands, “I need to know if there is any money available right this minute so I can pay the feed bill and Jacob Yoder’s salary.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Take a copy of the death certificate and a letter testamentary to the Mossy Creek Bank and transfer the funds in your father’s checking and savings accounts to your name. Should be enough money for running expenses. If not, we can advance you money from the estate. We’ll check with his accountant about his brokerage accounts and other savings and money market accounts, so you can have those transferred to your name as well. Have you considered what you plan to do with the property?”
The words ‘sell it’ froze on my lips. “Not yet.”
“Should you decide to sell it, I have already received at least one discrete inquiry to sell at a profit. In this market that’s amazing.” He leaned forward and propped his two chins on his fists. “My advice is not to sell. Don’t do anything major for a year. That’s standard lawyer advice. At the moment the real estate market is in the tank, but at some point Hiram’s land is going to be worth a great deal of money.”
“I may not be able to afford to keep it. I’m sure the mortgage is astronomical . . . ”
He frowned at me. “I keep forgetting you don’t know anything. I’m getting old. When a man Hiram’s age buys a valuable piece of property on which he plans to make a substantial investment, even in the crazy mortgage market we had before the sub-prime crash, lenders demand a complete physical, including some questions about mental stability.” He glanced up at me to see if I understood.
“They wanted to see whether or not he had suicidal tendencies.”
He nodded. “Or incipient dementia or Alzheimer’s. They also require mortgage insurance. Hiram folded the cost of the new stable and arena into the mortgage. Standard operating procedure at the time, although not strictly Kosher. He’d never get away with it now. The moment Hiram died, the mortgage insurance kicked in. The property is yours free and clear. Or will be, after I shepherd the paperwork through the insurance company and file the deed.”
“Free and clear?” I couldn’t believe that. I’d expected to be saddled with a load of debt I wouldn’t have been able to make the first payment on.
“Oh, the insurance company may make a bit of a fuss, but there’s no possibility of suicide. So, unless you actually had something to do with his death . . . ”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t. They may try to delay the payment, but I won’t let them get away with that. You do realize that no one can profit from a crime he or she commits?”
“I have an alibi.” In the space of two minutes I had gone from surprise to elation to sheer terror. Suddenly, I was the obvious suspect in my father’s death. That GBI agent already thought I’d done it. How perfect was my alibi? I wished I’d accepted the proposition from that Argentinean polo player I’d met at the horse show, even if he was fifteen years younger than I am. As it was, I’d spent the night in bed alone at my motel.
Now I had to find out who had actually killed Hiram. And fast. I sure couldn’t trust Agent Wheeler to look any further than his long snoot, and Sheriff Campbell would snap the cuffs on me just to keep the govern
or happy.
Chapter 16
Tuesday Afternoon
Merry
When Peggy picked me up in front of Robertson’s office, I carried a stack of blue legal folders containing letters testamentary. Despite the warm April day, my teeth were chattering.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” Peggy asked. “Shall I turn on the heater?”
I managed to stammer my way through most of it while she kept the car idling.
“Good,” she said and put the car in gear. “Hiram told me about the mortgage insurance. I assumed you knew. He bitterly resented having to pay it, but knew he couldn’t buy the property without it. I told him that Ben took it out when we bought our house in Mossy Creek. Otherwise on my retirement income I might not have been able to keep it after Ben died so suddenly.”
“Mr. Robertson seems to think Hiram also had brokerage accounts and money market accounts as well as standard bank accounts. Where did he get the money?”
“He told me he followed the advice of his rich employers over the years. On a smaller scale, of course, but when they made money, he made money.”
And they definitely made money. Pots of it.
When I thought of how hard I’d fought to persuade my ex-husband Vic to help with my daughter Allie’s tuition payments at the University of Kentucky, I got mad at Hiram all over again. Allie should have gone to an Ivy League School. She had the grades and had been accepted at Johns Hopkins and Brown, but we weren’t quite poor enough for grant money, nor rich enough not to need it. She’d been smart enough to land an internship and then a job at her brokerage firm, but she would have had a much easier time if she’d gone to a school in the east.
I had never asked Hiram for money for her, but that was because I assumed he didn’t have any. He sure didn’t volunteer the information.
Why did that not surprise me? He seldom paid child support for me even before my mother married Stephen. I’ve never understood why so many men feel no compulsion to support their children.
“Having brokerage accounts does not necessarily mean there’s money in them,” Peggy said. “The way the stock market’s been going lately, he may be down to his last fifty cents.”
True. I’d have to hold off my anger until I knew for certain. One minute I grieved for him, the next I was ready to kill him myself. If we’d met, we could have hashed out our differences. Now, I felt as though I was stuck in an elevator with either Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, and I had no idea which.
“He wanted you to have a good life after he died,” Peggy said. “Seems like bad manners to cry po-mouth when he’s just made you an heiress.”
“He’s also made me a murder suspect!”
*
Peggy had made an appointment for us at the Mossy Creek Funeral Home. I had no problem with her taking the lead. I was happy to defer to her as much as I would have deferred to my mother in similar circumstances. I answered questions to the best of my ability, but the whole process was a blur.
“Hiram was nominally an Episcopalian,” I said to the funeral director, Mr. Straley, “but I don’t think he went to church.” Actually, he could have haunted the local church or turned to Buddhism or Scientology for all I knew. “Can’t we have a simple Episcopal graveside service? Can’t he be buried in your cemetery?”
I didn’t want him cremated. I know it’s not supposed to matter, but I couldn’t bring myself to consider it. That opened up a whole list of decisions. I had to pick out a coffin and a vault to put the coffin in, choose a gravesite, and ask the funeral director to check with the Episcopal rector to see when or if he could do the service.
“I’m afraid we don’t have an Episcopal Church in Mossy Creek, but I’m sure the rector at Saint Stephen’s in Bigelow would be happy to officiate at the graveside service.”
Great. Somebody else to worry about.
“Now,” Mr. Straley said as he shoved a sheet of paper across his desk at me, “These are the standard charges for a single plot, although I would recommend a double.”
“He wasn’t married.”
He smiled sweetly. “Nor are you.”
“Oh.” Talk about stuff you don’t want to think about! “No, I think at this point a single will be sufficient, than you.”
He took a printed form from his desk and began to write numbers on it. “Let’s see. Plot, yes. Opening and closing the grave, yes. Setting up a tent for the mourners at graveside and folding chairs, yes. Hiring the minister.” He stopped. “Usually the family does that and pays him directly, but in this case, we will be delighted to schedule him for you. Shall we check on Friday morning for you?”
“Sooner, maybe?”
He sniffed. “You’ll find Friday is soon enough. No doubt you will need time for family and mourners to make their ways to Mossy Creek. Standard fee?”
I nodded. I’d ask Peggy what a constituted a standard fee in Mossy Creek.
“Episcopalians do not approve of flowers on the coffin itself, but prefer the church’s pall, a heavy tapestry cover. They will no doubt allow us to borrow it for the viewing, but there may be a charge for cleaning and so forth.” Notation.
“Putting the obituary and death notice in the Mossy Creek Gazette.” Notation. “We will need information about your father and a recent photograph if you have one.”
I said the only pictures I knew about were the ones from driving shows that I had seen stacked against the wall in the clients’ lounge. They might do for obits in the horse magazines, but not in the Mossy Creek Gazette.
“I have some snapshots that should do,” Peggy said.
“Excellent,” Mr. Staley said. “Charge for collecting deceased from the medical examiner in Bigelow, transporting him to us, embalming and preparation.” Notation. “Charge for viewing room the night before the service.” Notation. He looked up at me. “Will you be furnishing a burial suit or should we provide one?”
I had no idea.
“We will provide clothing,” Peggy said, and reached over to take my hand. She could see I was getting really frazzled. It might not matter how much money he had in his bank account if all those notations added up the way I was afraid they would. Somehow I’d manage to find the money. This was my daddy we were talking about.
“The book for mourners to sign at the viewing and the service.” Notation. “We furnish one hundred thank-you notes and envelopes free of charge.”
I could remember all the women in my family sitting around the dining room table after my grandmother’s funeral drinking quantities of wine, writing notes and telling funny stories about her. I looked up. He’d asked me another question. I had no idea what.
“Do you wish the casket open or closed for the viewing?”
“Closed.” Peggy said before I had a chance to answer.
“Fine.” Notation. “Now, before we repair to the casket display room so that you can choose the casket of final repose for your father, Mrs. Abbott, just a few more questions. Since you are a stranger in town without a church affiliation, shall we prepare a light repast with punch and wine in the viewing room after the interment for the mourners?”
“I’ll bet Hiram would prefer a steamship round of beef and a vat of Artillery punch.” I heard my voice ascending into coloratura range, but I couldn’t seem to control it.
Mr. Staley gaped, Peggy squeezed my hand hard, but it didn’t help. I had an attack of Chuckles the Clown. I tried to head it off at the snickers stage, but it got away from me and morphed into full-blown donkey brays.
That’s when Peggy caught it. Her shoulders began to shake. She snorted a couple of times and sailed off into howls of laughter.
At one point we nearly calmed down, but one look at the funeral director’s horrified face and we were off again.
I couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My chest hurt. I was in danger of wetting my pants.
Peggy was as bad off or worse.
The poor man had edged his chair back against the wall behind him. His fingers w
ere searching under the lip of his desk. No doubt he had a panic button to bring on the bouncers to rid him of lunatics.
The door behind us opened and a male voice asked, “Mr. Straley, do you need assistance?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and managed to choke myself off for a count of five before I exploded again. Peggy gulped and snorted beside me.
To give him credit, Mr. Straley smiled and waved off the man. He folded his hands on his desk and waited us out.
Eventually, of course, we subsided. If we’d kept up much longer I have no doubt the funeral director would have taken his chances and bolted past us out the door. As it was, the knuckles of his folded hands were snow white.
“Oh, my, that felt good!” Peggy said. She grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the funeral director’s desk, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “I need a drink.”
My stomach gave an ominous rumble. We hadn’t eaten lunch and it was well past noon.
“Come on, Merry.” She pulled me to my feet.
“But we still haven’t picked out the casket and . . . ”
“We’ll come back tomorrow morning at nine,” Peggy said as she slung her handbag over her shoulders. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
*
“That poor man,” she said as she slid behind the wheel of the car. She gave a sort of yip. I clamped down on her wrist. She wasn’t talking about Hiram.
“Don’t start. You’ll wreck the car.” I giggled. “We were awful. I’m so sorry. None of that was funny.”
“I doubt it’s the first time he’s dealt with hysteria. It will be all over town before nightfall.” She pulled into traffic. “But oh, how Hiram would have loved it.”
“If Hiram had his way, he’d be buried like one of those Neolithic nomads in a marathon carriage.”
“Surrounded by the corpses of his slaves, his mistresses, and his horses.”
“That’s going a little far,” I said, but the thought gave me pause. “They wouldn’t actually let us bury him in a carriage, would they?”
TheCart Before the Corpse Page 9
