Final Rights

by Tena Frank

  “This is pretty good.” Leland smiled at her mischievously. “You make ’em yourself?” Tate thought it might be a trick question.

  “Sure did. I hear you’re partial to homemade, and I also understand you’re pretty good at telling the difference.”

  “One of my few remaining skills, I’m happy to say. Still have good taste buds.” Leland spoke slowly and a bit haltingly. His thin voice quavered some.

  “Well, how’d I do?”

  Leland munched on the cookie and brushed the crumbs off his shirt front. “Not bad, but I like the chewy kind best.”

  “Well, you’re in luck, because I made them both ways. Try this one.”

  Leland took the pliant mass from Tate and lifted it to his nose. After sniffing it, he gently pressed it between his fingers, testing the texture. Then he bit into it and broke into a big smile. Tate waited for the review.

  “Mighty good cookie, Missus . . .”

  “Marlowe. Just call me Tate, if that’s okay with you.”

  “ . . . Missus Tate.” No getting around it, I guess. Better get used to it, though the likelihood of that is remote!

  “Glad you like them. I haven’t made them in years, so I was afraid they might not turn out so well.”

  “Why’d you make ’em for me?” The question caught Tate off guard.

  “I . . . well, um . . .”

  “Why’d you come to see me? Do I know you?”

  “No, Mr. Howard, you don’t. But I hope you’ll let me visit so we can get to know each other. It may seem strange, but we have some things in common and I find you very interesting. I don’t want to push, though.”

  He looked at her intently. “We have met before, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, I was here yesterday, and I think I upset you.”

  “You said something about a house and my work.”

  “I didn’t intend to bring up bad memories.”

  “I’m an old man. I have good ones and bad ones. More bad ones than most folks, but lots of good ones, too. These cookies, for instance. They put me in mind of the ones Ellie would make for us. For me and my son, back before . . .”

  Tate saw the pain overtaking Leland again, and she cringed thinking of the distress he must suffer. She knew about the death of his wife and son and that Leland had dropped out of sight soon after the tragedy. Now, miraculously it seemed, he sat in front of her. She prayed he would not close her out completely.

  “. . . back when we all lived together and things were still pretty good.”

  He’s sharp. He remembers what I said yesterday.

  “I’d like to hear about those days, if you’re so inclined, Mr. Howard.”

  “You don’t want to hear an old man’s sad story, young lady, and believe me when I tell you I’ve got a sad one to tell.”

  “Actually, I do want to hear it. More than you could possibly know.”

  Why? Why is this so important to me? So there’s an old house people want to tear down. Why can’t I just let it be? It really has nothing to do with me. But Tate knew she would not let go until her questions were answered, whether it seemed reasonable or not.

  Tate sat with Leland for almost two hours while he poured out a convoluted tale. As he talked, he kept his veined hands busy working on a beautiful piece of wood which gave off a faint, sweet aroma.

  He shared snippets about his early childhood and his family’s move from the forest to the city, interspersed with references to high school and other sharply remembered anecdotes spanning his long lifetime. At other times, he struggled as he tried to recover a lost memory that obviously still held significance for him. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason to what he related or in what order, so Tate did her best to piece together the disjointed tale, choosing to listen to whatever he wanted to share rather than butting in with questions of her own.

  “Haven’t talked about this stuff in many a year. Don’t know why I’m talkin’ to you now.” He peered intently at Tate, as if searching for the answer to his question in her eyes.

  “Maybe it was just a matter of time . . .” I’m coming to love this old man. He seems to have suffered so much, and yet I believe he’s still capable of loving. “. . . or it could be the peanut butter cookies. I always thought they were kind of magical when I was a kid,” Tate said.

  Leland chuckled and she smiled back at him. He continued with his stories, like verbal snapshots of his life. But he didn’t talk about his wife or son. Nothing about the house at 305 Chestnut Street. Guilt and impatience battled for Tate’s attention. She wanted answers to specific questions, but she allowed Leland to set the pace and tone for their conversation, serving as his sounding board, getting vital bits of information for herself and hoping to give him respite from his loneliness.

  Eventually the reminiscing took its toll. Leland’s eyelids drooped and he seemed to dose off. Unsure whether to stay or leave, Tate looked around for help just as Dorothy approached.

  “I can’t believe he spent so much time talkin’ to you. He usually keeps to himself and his work. Don’t mix much with the others.”

  “I’m amazed. After yesterday, I didn’t know if he’d even see me again.”

  “Those cookies must have cast a spell over him, just like they did the rest of us.” Dorothy winked and Tate knew her amends to the staff at Forest Glen had been accepted.

  Just then, Leland roused and began straightening up his wood and tools.

  “You can leave it there, like always, Mr. Leland.” Dorothy helped with the cleaning up. “It’ll be right here when you come back.” Leland lifted the piece he had been working on to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he handed it to Tate and motioned that she, too, should smell it.

  “It’s beautiful. Such a sweet aroma. Really delicious.” She took another deep breath, drawing in the richness of the wood.

  “You ever work with wood?” Leland asked.

  “No, never did. Maybe I should give it a try. It seems to bring you such great pleasure.”

  “Nearly the only thing in my life I could ever count on. That, and things changin’ when you least expect ’em to.” Once more, Tate had a sense of the deep and painful memories hidden behind Leland’s comment, though she had no idea the extent of them.

  “Could we talk again sometime, Mr. Howard? I’d like to come back if you’ll let me.”

  “You come back whenever you want, young lady. I’m not much for company usually, but you’re different. You bring homemade cookies!” The impish look on Leland’s face made Tate smile.

  “I thank you for the ‘young lady’ reference. I’m neither, really, but I’ll take it nonetheless.”

  “Compared to me, you’re young. I made an assumption about the ‘lady’ part!” Leland flashed a knowing look in Dorothy’s direction, and all three of them burst into laughter. Leland’s quiet, controlled reaction seemed unfamiliar to him.

  “I’ll come back in a day or two. Do you need or want anything else? I can be pretty versatile!”

  “How about chocolate chip next time?”

  “You got it.” Tate still held the wood in her hand and she drew in its nourishing scent once more.

  “Do you have enough wood? I could bring you more if you need it.”

  “No need. Mr. Price sees to it I have a good supply.”

  “Mr. Price?” Who’s Mr. Price? I thought there was no one left in Leland’s life.

  “He don’t come a visitin’ no more. He’s old like me. But he still takes care of things for me and makes sure I have enough wood. This here is rosewood.” Leland took the specimen from Tate, seemingly unaware of the revelation he had just imparted. Tate maintained her composure, said her goodbyes and promised to return as Dorothy helped Leland out of his chair and they headed toward his room.

  Tate went directly to Ruby’s desk. “I know our friendship is brand new,” she said in a teasing tone, “but I’ve got a big favor to ask.”

  Ruby looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, not sure what to expect.


  “Mr. Howard just mentioned a Mr. Price. Says he takes care of things and gives him wood. Do you know who that is? Where I can find him?”

  “Now you know I’m not s’posed to give out information like that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Can’t say just who that is. But don’t see no harm in saying from time to time a van from Price Automotive comes ’round and drops off a package for someone here.” Ruby paused, holding Tate’s gaze.

  “But anyone asks, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Lunch is on me, Ruby! What’s your preference?”

  “If I had a friend inclined to do such a thing as take me to lunch, I’m mighty fond of that Uncle Piggy’s place over by the high school. They got some barbecue that’ll make your mouth water just thinkin’ about it.”

  “Fact is, Ruby . . . sorry, Ms. Ruby . . . I’ve been hearing about that place lately, but I haven’t been there myself yet. How ’bout I pick you up tomorrow and we check it out?”

  “No need to pick me up. I’ll meet you there at twelve o’clock. Be helpful if you go early and hold us a place. The line can be long sometimes, and I don’t like waitin’.” Ruby tilted her head slightly and smiled.

  This woman is full of fire and sass! “I’ll be there. Lookin’ forward to it.” And Tate was, indeed, looking forward to forging a new friendship. But she had another mission on her mind, too. As soon as she got home, she Googled Price Automotive and then headed back out immediately in search of more information about Leland Howard.

  TWENTY-TWO

  2004

  “How can I help you?” The voice came from behind the counter as Tate entered the small lobby of the auto shop. The woman sported curly red hair, striking blue eyes framed with trendy glasses, and a no-nonsense attitude.

  “I have what will probably sound like an odd question . . . ,” Tate began as she took in the surrounding area. The desk was covered with a variety of mechanical puzzles, a few plants held tenaciously to life, and the walls sported funny sayings such as:

  Don’t put your cigarette butts in the urinal.

  It makes them soggy and hard to light.

  “. . . but then, this place is kind of odd, too!” she blurted out.

  “Yes, we take great pride in being a bit odd here.” The woman smiled and, never breaking eye contact, waited for Tate’s question.

  “I wonder if you know a Mr. Leland Howard. He’s a resident out at Forest Glen.”

  “That would be my grandfather.”

  “Mr. Howard is your grandfather?” Tate gasped.

  “No, my grandfather is the one who knows Mr. Howard. They’ve been friends for decades.”

  “Really? Then he’s the one who sends the supplies for Mr. Howard’s woodworking?”

  “Well, he used to. He’s in very poor health and doesn’t get out at all. But he made sure Mr. Howard would continue getting everything he needs. He’s Mr. Howard’s guardian.”

  Once again, Tate found herself speechless. A guardian? “His guardian?” Tate asked. “I really need to talk to your grandfather! What’s the chance of that happening?”

  The woman took several moments to answer, all the while looking intently into Tate’s eyes.

  She seems to be sizing me up, Tate thought.

  “I might be able to set that up, but what’s your interest in Mr. Howard?”

  “It’s really complicated. He has a connection with an old house in Montford—the one they want to tear down. It’s none of my business, really, but I can’t seem to let go of the idea that I’m supposed to save the place. So I started looking for information and, in the process, found Mr. Howard, found you . . . every corner I turn leads to more questions. And I can’t stand to leave a question unanswered. I’m quirky that way.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Tate wasn’t sure what the woman meant.

  “Yes. I’ll put you in touch with my grandfather. In fact, he may be able to see you today, if you’ve got time.”

  “Plenty of it! Please set it up for me as soon as possible.”

  “But I need to warn you, he can be crotchety.”

  Two hours later, Tate Marlowe entered the library of Mr. Richard Price, a tiny, white-haired man ensconced in a wingback chair, who apparently had no time to waste on Southern hospitality.

  “How do you know Leland Howard?” he asked before Tate even took a seat.

  His granddaughter was right. He is cranky! Better not waste his time. Tate went right to the point of her visit.

  “I recently learned he owns that old place they want to demolish over on Chestnut Street. I have this idea—maybe it’s harebrained—that I’m supposed to save the place.” She paused, wondering how much detail to provide. Sometimes less is more. Mr. Price did not stop her, so Tate went on.

  “I tracked Mr. Howard down to Forest Glen. I spent a couple of hours with him earlier today. He told me a lot about his life, but I have so many more questions. And he told me you take care of him. That’s why I wanted to meet you. It may not make much sense, but I’m very fond of him. I want to know more about him, his life, his work . . .”

  “Why should I believe you? Leland doesn’t talk to anyone anymore.”

  “I made cookies for him. He ate a bunch and talked ’til he dozed off.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Like I said, I’m fond of him. The staff said he liked peanut butter cookies, so I made them and took them to him.”

  “All of his work has been sold.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re looking for some of the pieces he made, they’re all gone. Sold long ago.”

  “No, I . . . what pieces? You think I’m trying to . . .”

  “Every once in a while, someone comes sniffing around looking for a table or a chest or anything he built. Think they’ll find something priceless lying around and buy it for a song. Well, it’s all gone.”

  “Oh! No! That’s not why I’m here!”

  “Then why exactly are you here, young lady?”

  “Okay, let me start over. All I’m looking for is information. Last week, I took a walk along Chestnut Street and I happened upon the old place everyone is talking about. It’s all over the news lately. I own a small house over on Maplewood that I’m remodeling. Both of them, mine and the one on Chestnut, have very similar doors . . .”

  Mr. Price relaxed a bit. He’s willing to listen to me. That’s a good sign.

  “. . . and that got me to wondering how my little place could possibly have something in common with a crumbling mansion in Montford. So I started looking for answers. I found some. I learned Mr. Howard was a master craftsman. Then I found him, which seemed like a miracle, and he told me a lot. Now I’m here, talking to you, hoping for more.”

  “What do you intend to do with this information you want? Most people are just out to make a buck. Don’t give a damn about who gets hurt in the process.”

  “You have every right to be suspicious of me, Mr. Price. You don’t know me from Adam. I can assure you this is not about money. All I can say is my heart went out to Mr. Howard when I met him. For some reason I don’t fully understand myself, I’m completely fascinated with him. All this started when I decided I have to save the old place on Chestnut. He owns it. That’s a matter of public record. Yet he never mentioned it today even though I spent almost two hours with him.”

  Just as his granddaughter had done earlier, Mr. Price took his time appraising Tate. She sat quietly, squelching her urge to keep talking. In the background, she heard the clock in the hallway chime four times. As if on cue, Mr. Price began talking.

  “I wondered why my granddaughter sent you to me, but she’s real good at judging people. You stuck to your guns even when I told you there was nothing left to buy.”

  “Does that mean you’ll talk to me?” She needed not ask.

  “You see this old walking stick?” He leaned forward in his chair, hands resting atop a beautifully carve
d walking stick with what appeared to be an ivory handle. “A family heirloom, handed down through four generations. It came to me on my twenty-first birthday, and not two weeks later I managed to crack it badly. Thought I’d ruined it forever. A long time later I met Leland Howard, and he put it back to nearly perfect condition. Then I hired him to make the desk you see in the corner there.”

  Tate looked at the piece he pointed out. A simple design with a generally clean, spare appearance, five drawers and impeccable craftsmanship, the desk harkened back to the work of Gustav Stickley and Frank Lloyd Wright. But unlike their quarter-sawn oak or cherry, this desk appeared to be constructed of curly maple, and the lines were more flowing and delicate than the heavier Mission-style.

  “It’s incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “That’s the case with much of his work. Oh, he did common things for sure, but in an uncommon way. Everyone wanted something made by Leland Howard.”

  “He must have been very successful.”

  “Could have been. But he wanted a simple life. He wouldn’t work for everybody, and he never worked any faster than he wanted to. He was definitely choosy about what he did, and his modesty tempered his success, I think. That’s one of the reasons his work was so special.”

  “I saw a mantelpiece he made. It’s over at the Princess Hotel.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember that one. Took him several months, way behind schedule. They were pretty upset about it.”

  “It’s gorgeous, and the owner showed me a secret compartment.”

  “The desk has one, too. Think you can find it?”

  “I can try! It’s really okay?”

  “Yes, of course. But it’s not easy, I promise you.”

  Tate walked over to the desk and began slowly stroking the silky finish.

  “This is incredible. Feels like it’s brand new, and it must be fifty years old at least.”

  “Probably even older. It’s one of his earlier pieces, before his work really caught on.” Mr. Price turned toward Tate as much as he could but made no attempt to get out of the chair. She realized he must be in great pain.