Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  I read quickly.

  Ms. Little claims she’s represented Gidget since before Gidget left Houston, and that she is also the attorney for Lester Tillman, Gidget’s former partner in the gallery. Ms. Little has done powers of attorney for them in favor of each other. Interestingly, Gidget had her aneurysm, then later, when she was recovering, she executed a will leaving everything to a trust with Lester as sole trustee, and signed a contract to sell out her interest to Lester.

  I felt a tiny bit sorry that I hadn’t told Greyhound about the POA, will, and sale documents I’d found under Gidget’s bed. But as an attorney, my caca del toro detector was clanking and whining, as Nancy Little’s lack of ethics pushed it to the max. Hello, conflict of interest? Even if both Lester and Gidget had waived the conflict, Little should have run from these transactions, especially given the highly suspect timing and Gidget’s recovery from a neurological issue.

  Gidget never told me about this will, and I specifically asked her if she had one when she came to me. I’ve attached the one Ms. Little sent me. The trust is called the Houston Arts Trust, which is to benefit the Houston arts community. Little claims she didn’t know about the new will until today, which is why she filed this emergency motion. She says there’s no way Gidget had the testamentary capacity to execute this will. We had a bit of a row over that since I know for a fact that she did.

  If Gidget supposedly lacked the mental capacity to make a will now, how did she have it back then, right after her aneurysm? And how would Ms. Little know what Gidget’s mental state had been recently, anyway? I wanted to scream and punch the walls. This made no sense whatsoever.

  I’ll have to examine it closer tomorrow. It’s my fortieth wedding anniversary and my wife won’t forgive me if I miss it because of work. Give me a call. I still can’t get ahold of Ralph.

  That was the end of the message. It had two attachments: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ANNA BECKER and BILL OF SALE. I snorted. Second to last, maybe. I shot a quick message back to Greyhound.

  Ralph has a family emergency and asked me to stand in for him until he gets back from driving his granddaughter back from El Paso.

  I paused, thinking about Gidget’s last wishes for her book to be written and for someone to get a bequest to her daughter. About Lester’s entanglement and his presence in her life. About her life in Houston, forty years’ worth of it. That was where her story was. I had to talk to Lester, and soon. Coincidentally, Brian needed me to come in tomorrow for an early meeting.

  Serendipity.

  I continued my message to Greyhound.

  I’m going to be in Houston tomorrow for my day job, and to work on Gidget’s book. I plan to visit the gallery and talk to Lester. Thank you for sending this information.

  I hit send. My tension ebbed. Taking action was a good thing.

  I shot off a quick reply to Brian: See you tomorrow morning.

  And then I turned my attention to figuring out how to get Skype on my phone. It was almost time for my Monday-night call with Papa and the kids. I had the app downloaded and was logged in and ready in the nick of time. I moved over to Gidget’s threadbare tweed couch. It could use a restuffing. I initiated the call to our group. Papa picked up immediately.

  “Hi, Papa.” I smiled at the sight of him. “How are you doing?”

  He gave me his courtly smile and his steady voice. “All is well here, Itzpa. And how are you?”

  Papa had been steady my whole life. The only time I’d seem him falter was over Mom’s death, and to a lesser extent, at Adrian’s, and even then he appeared unruffled to those who weren’t close to him. Unlike me. Everyone could tell when I was having a tough time. So there was no use pretending things were peachy now.

  I flopped my hand side to side. “Two steps forward and one step back.” I watched my screen carefully as we talked, expecting to hear Sam’s and Annabelle’s voices at any second.

  A text came in. Good. One of the kids. I changed screens to read it.

  Papa frowned. “In what way?”

  I shrugged. “Everything, I guess.”

  The text appeared on the screen. It wasn’t one of the kids. It was Dr. Blake from the bicycle race: “Great seeing you. I’d love to catch up. I’ve opened a clinic in La Grange. I’m there 2 days a week. Your friend Wallace said you’re in Giddings down the road?”

  Oh, Wallace, no. I remembered now that Blake had told me he grew up in La Grange. Dios mío.

  “Tell me about everything.” Papa’s voice was warm, inviting trust.

  It took me a second to recalibrate to my conversation with Papa. “This book I’m writing. It looks like there may be some wrinkles to the story that I didn’t expect. I’m heading to Houston tomorrow to talk to some people.”

  Papa waffled his hand at me now. “That doesn’t sound—”

  “It’s not really that, I guess, since wrinkles make for more interesting books. It’s that Gidget left me this place, and now the independent executor has family problems and is disappearing from probate at the same time as a lawyer in Houston claims to have the rightful will and meanwhile has authorized work done on her property and, apparently, entered contracts, as well. Plus, I haven’t found a single clue as to a daughter’s whereabouts and—oh yeah, I almost forgot—Gidget was poisoned, so it’s murder, and the police act like I’m a suspect.”

  Papa’s face grew stern. “That’s crazy.”

  “I know, and I’m sure nothing will come of it, but it’s a nuisance. It’s weird, but I feel like Gidget picked me out to represent her. That I need to stand in for her, write this book, find her daughter and her killer. Am I nuts?”

  My dad nodded. “Very. Someone killed her, and now you want to stand in her place. Just write your book.”

  “The story is the daughter and whoever killed Gidget.”

  “Just don’t do anything that could get you hurt. I—” His voice broke.

  My heart broke with it. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Itzpa.”

  “Oh, Papa.” I leaned toward the tiny screen on my phone. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you. You have to take care of yourself, too, because—” I sighed. “Speaking of taking care of themselves, where are the kids?”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “Let me text them. Give me a second, okay?”

  “All right.”

  I flipped Blake’s text away and sent a group text to Annabelle and Sam. They hated them, but they’d just have to deal. “Where are you guys? Your grandpa and I are waiting on Skype.”

  I heard from Annabelle almost immediately: “SRRY! SO SRRY! Totes 4got. Catch u next week.” And then a couple of random, overwrought emojis that were too small to see. I checked myself. Maybe I just didn’t have a sense of humor anymore.

  “Annabelle isn’t going to make it on tonight.”

  “Is she okay?” he asked.

  A deep sadness ripped through my chest. She was breaking away, growing up. She was a good kid. Sweet, loving, far better than I deserved. But it was happening. She didn’t need me anymore.

  “Oh, she’s fine, Papa. Just busy being a teenage girl.”

  “I remember what it’s like to have one of those,” he said, and I heard the humor in his voice.

  I wanted to laugh, too, but I couldn’t. “I’m afraid Sam is a no-show, too.”

  Sam was completely AWOL. My baby boy who still had one year left at home, who was supposed to (because he was a boy) love his mommy forever. But in reality, he didn’t need me, either. Who did need me? Papa? Theoretically. It was nice of him to say so, but I hadn’t lived with him in more than twenty years. We talked more lately since Mom died. And I’m sure the fact that he had an adult daughter comforted him, but it wasn’t the same as having a spouse or a child who needed you. The ripping sensation started up in my chest again. Now it was tearing away flesh and bone.

  “Itzpa? Are you still there?” Papa said.

  “Oh yes, I was just, um, sen
ding another text to Sam, letting him know that the call has ended.”

  “But it hasn’t,” he said.

  “Not yet, but it will soon, well before we hear from him.” I gave him a wan smile. “They’ve grown up.”

  “Yes, they have, and you’ve done a great job.”

  How great a job was it if the kids didn’t even cancel the call, with both Papa and me sitting here waiting? But I just said, “I love you, Papa.” I flipped back over to his video image in the Skype app. He was a handsome devil. “Any of the local women setting their cap for you yet?”

  His mouth curled, partly a smile, partly a grimace. “You know how widowed ladies are.”

  Now I did laugh. “Aggressive.”

  “Yes. I’ll be happy when they pick on some other old guy. They’re drowning me in casseroles and fried chicken and peach pies.”

  “One of them is going to sweep you off your feet.”

  “Not yet. But I don’t want to be alone. Your mother and I—”

  “I don’t know how you didn’t kill her.”

  “We had a good marriage. It was easier to be married to her than to be her daughter.”

  “Well, I still think you’re a saint,” I said. “I love Mom, but yeah, Saint Edward.”

  “What about you?”

  I wished I had already hit End Call so the conversation wouldn’t have gone this direction. “I’m good.”

  “It’s been nearly a year. What about that Rashidi fellow?”

  Or that Blake fellow. Ugh. I wished I could unsee his text. “Just a friend,” I said. “And I wasn’t . . . I’m not . . . Adrian and I weren’t . . . well, we were different, and I don’t know that I ever want anyone else. I think that he was the one for me and I should just leave it there.”

  He sighed.

  I cut him off before he could say anything else. “Love you, Papa. Gotta go.”

  He blew me a kiss and the screen faded to black.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I budgeted two hours to get to the Juniper offices in Houston the next morning for the eight a.m. meeting, but I got up at five. I’d had the luxury of an early-to-bed evening since both kids no-showed on the Monday-night Skype call with Papa and me. I wasn’t happy with them, but I was well rested for a soul-cleansing run before sunrise, with the temperature a blessed seventy-five degrees. We weren’t yet into the long dog-days of summer when the temperature never fell below eighty degrees at night.

  After my run, I drove into the Heights, fighting traffic while I planned my strategy for the day. After Juniper, I’d head to the gallery. Part of me wanted to show up at Nancy Little’s office and get her to explain herself to me face-to-face, but the lawyer part of me knew better. That was a job for Greyhound. I barely braked to turn into our metal-fenced parking lot, parked with a stomping of my brakes, and hustled toward the door. I pulled the time up on my phone as I pushed inside: 7:59.

  “Michele,” the receptionist said. She sounded delighted. “Long time, no see.”

  “Two weeks,” I said to Marsha. “But it feels a lot longer.”

  “It sure does.” She took her glasses off her nose and let them dangle from their bejeweled strap. “Are you joining the others for—”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just gonna grab coffee first. Which conference room?”

  “All the way to the back. They’ve got coffee set up in there.”

  “Thanks.” I trotted down the hall.

  It was never a good idea to come to the Juniper offices with a hangover or stomach bug. The walls were blanketed with sports paraphernalia in a jarring kaleidoscope of colors that could trigger sprints to the bathroom. Mostly the décor was Houston teams, but Brian commemorated significant events and sports figures as well: pennants, jerseys, cleats, sails off sailboats, helmets, ticket stubs, wheels, and racing silks. It was . . . a lot.

  I entered the conference room just before the clock hit 8:01.

  “At the buzzer, Michele Lopez Hanson for three,” Brian announced.

  I squeezed into a chair. A chorus of hellos sounded, and I greeted my coworkers. Juniper wasn’t a large company. We had graphic artists, editors, sales people who sold ad space, and marketing and promotional types who focused mainly on getting our brand out in the digital world these days. The rest of our work we contracted out. All the heads of state of our various divisions were present this morning. I was the potentate for editing.

  Brian pointed at the beverage cart. Coffee.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I got back up and poured myself a black coffee and held it aloft to keep it from sloshing out on my walk back to the table.

  Brian kicked off the meeting while I struggled to adjust. I hadn’t been lying when I told Marsha that two weeks felt much longer. It was odd to be in this space with these people. I scanned the room, trying to feel connected. Jerry—an older guy I’d worked with since I’d escaped from the practice of law and been hired as an under-qualified editing assistant—caught me looking at him and smiled at me. One by one, I took them in. Old, young, short, tall, heavy, thin, dark, light, man, woman. Brian had put together a top-notch team. Very diverse. Very talented. Kind and welcoming. So why did I feel out of step to their tune, like my rhythm had changed in the country?

  “We’ve huddled up today,” Brian was saying, “to talk about converting to a virtual workplace. This area of town is hot. I’ve had offers on the building.”

  There was collective mumbling and gasping. This was groundbreaking for Brian, even though he had been willing to try it with me. And it had nothing to do with the Archery Collector’s Edition. The sneaky devil had lured me here under false pretenses.

  “Michele is squaring off with it this summer, but I’m looking for each of you to audible in this play to your team. Warm up slow, establish some standards and trust, then bring it on home.”

  I was reeling. I might not have an office to return to in the fall. Yes, it felt strange to be here, but it was like when you graduate and your parents sell the house you grew up in. You don’t want to move back there, but you want to know you can hold on to your memories and your safety net, your choice. Brian was taking my choice away. Our very way of working had grown old-fashioned, antiquated, and decrepit. The negative words started piling up in my brain. Was I talking about myself or the building?

  “So, everyone’s okay with this?” Brian said. “It’s a new playbook, but this is a team with heart and resilience.” He pumped his fist in the air, and a few people said, “Yeah!” and pumped the air, too. I didn’t say anything, just let it soak in. Brian encouraged questions, and people discussed the new arrangement with enthusiasm.

  Afterward, as everyone gathered their things and filed out, chattering as they went, Brian put his hand on my arm.

  “You have a minute?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I followed him to his corner office. It was catty-corner from mine, which was dark inside, like someone had died. Brian took a seat at his desk, leaning back with his hands behind his head and arms akimbo, a sight I’d seen daily for the last ten years. I wondered how many times I would see it again, if ever.

  “You’re off your game, kiddo. What’s up?”

  I was embarrassed to be so transparent. “Oh, you know.”

  “Your mom dying, Adrian gone, the kids away for the first time. You’ve got a lot of balls in the air. I’m here if you need me.”

  I sucked in a breath of relief at his understanding, then heaved it out. “Thanks, Brian. You’re a good friend.”

  “Am I missing anything?”

  “No. You’ve about summed it up.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Just keep the work coming.” I stood up. “I don’t like to be bored.”

  He grinned and got to his feet, Oompa Loompa-ish in his puffy blue Starter jacket. I really loved this man. He was one of the best people I’d ever known, and endlessly hilarious, whether he meant to be or not. “So you’re working on the book today?”

  “Yes, bu
t I worked ahead this weekend and last night so everything’s on target, including the Archery Collector’s Edition.” I gave him a thumbs-up.

  “I know you’re a straight arrow.” He waved his hand.

  A thought struck me. “Remember you told me about Gidget Becker at the photo shoot of a Houston Oiler, the one in an old Who’s Who mag?”

  “I do.”

  “Is there a way to figure out who he was?”

  “We had at least one Oiler in each issue.”

  “I imagine. But maybe the photographer remembers?”

  “We had different photographers for nearly every shoot.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me ask around and see, though.”

  I walked to his door and stopped, turning back to him. “That would be awesome.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, boss.” I walked away with heavy footsteps and mixed emotions. So many things I’d counted on were coming to an end.

  ***

  Houston highways and streets were like a different planet at nine thirty than they were at seven thirty. I cruised five miles above the speed limit down 290 to 59 toward downtown, peeling off at the Main Street exit. I drove into the museum district and started looking for my street. I nearly missed it and swung the Jetta to the left, barely making the corner and running into and over the curb. There goes my alignment. By the time I’d put my car back in the street and driven a few hundred feet, I’d passed the gallery. I swung the Jetta into a U-turn and parked across the street from the scene of my curb-hopping.

  Montrose Fine Art Gallery was in a “modern” two-story building that looked as if it had once been a home. The gallery was at least forty years old. Modern then was not the same as modern now, and this house seemed 1960s-modern.