Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  ‘‘Just as well,’’ they said. ‘‘You couldn’t have taken him to your apartment.’’

  True, but that did not stop her from grieving. Buster had been a part of her life since her twelfth birthday. She told herself she would have found a way to keep him even though her student apartment up at the university was too small to hold all the other things she wished she could keep. It was hard not to agonize over every teacup or knickknack that held its own special memory.

  Uncle Carlton found a trustworthy appraiser who in turn recommended a buyer for all the furnishings. He was her rock when grief over what she was losing threatened to overwhelm her or when one of the twins wanted to take a particularly nice piece.

  ‘‘Let me see,’’ he would say, running his finger down the appraiser’s list. ‘‘Ah, here we are! Dining room. Family portrait. Original gilt frame. Twelve hundred dollars.’’

  ‘‘But that’s Great-grandfather Baxter with his little dog,’’ Mary cried. ‘‘He shouldn’t go out of the family.’’

  ‘‘You’re absolutely right,’’ he told her with an impish grin. ‘‘Offer Carlie a thousand and I bet she’ll let you have it.’’

  ‘‘Three hundred and fifty for that little cream pitcher?’’ Marsha was appalled.

  ‘‘Made around 1912 by a well-known potter, according to the appraiser,’’ Uncle Carlton said blandly, reading from the list. ‘‘If it didn’t have that chip in the handle, it’d be worth eight hundred.’’

  ‘‘Did you hear?’’ asked one of the boys as he came downstairs with a load of clothing to be donated to charity. ‘‘It was on the radio. That fourth jackpot ticket was sold right here in this city. Man! Think of walking around town with a ticket worth thirteen million!’’

  ‘‘Whoever bought it probably isn’t walking around with it,’’ said Uncle Carlton. ‘‘If he has any sense, he’s stashed it in a safe-deposit box. A lottery ticket’s like a bearer bond. You don’t have to prove it’s yours to cash it in.’’

  By the end of the week, it felt as if they had barely scratched the surface, although most of the closets and cupboards had been emptied of personal keepsakes. Basement and attic were still jammed full and their father’s study had not yet been touched. Except for Mom’s bedroom, this was the most personal room in the house, and in unspoken agreement, the sisters kept putting off the dismantling of both rooms.

  The corner bedroom was bright and airy. Organdy curtains hung at the windows, a flower-sprigged comforter covered the bed, and the carpet was bright with pink roses.

  In contrast, the study downstairs had a single stained-glass window. It was small and dark with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held nondescript paperback books of no particular value. The only furniture was a massive desk, a swivel chair and a comfortable leather recliner. Yet their mother had claimed the room as her own after their father died. She said the recliner made her feel as if he still had his arms around her. This was where she read in the evenings. This was also where she wrote letters, paid bills, and stashed receipts and proofs of purchase in the big rolltop desk. It had cubbyholes and slots and even a secret compartment that held a lock of their grandmother’s hair, placed there by their sentimental grandfather. On the shelves immediately behind the desk were stacks of unread magazines and plastic boxes stuffed to the brim with more bits of paper, most of which read ‘‘IMPORTANT!! Save this receipt! If yours is the winning number, you MUST present this stub to validate your prize.’’

  All week Uncle Carlton had encouraged them to dump books and photograph albums and boxes of letters from other parts of the house inside the door for a more careful perusal later. Every time someone opened a drawer and found a new cache of papers, he told them a fresh tale of careless heirs who threw out stock certificates or promissory notes or valuable autographed letters in their haste to be done.

  ‘‘We ought to let the boys bag up all this stuff and haul it out to the curb,’’ said Mary, wearily surveying the messy stacks on the floor, the desktop, and the shelves around the desk.

  ‘‘No,’’ said Carlie. ‘‘Uncle Carlton’s right. One of us really ought to go through it.’’

  ‘‘Not me,’’ said Marsha, who was as thoroughly tired of the whole process as Mary. ‘‘Besides, if there’s anything valuable in that pile of trash, it would belong to you, not us.’’

  Their sons were huffing impatiently. It was Saturday night and their plans for the evening did not include hanging around till their aunt decided what to save and what to toss.

  ‘‘I agree that one should never throw papers away without examining them first,’’ said Uncle Carlton, ‘‘but not tonight. Anybody up for Tunisian food? There’s a new little restaurant around the corner. My treat.’’

  Mary frowned. ‘‘Everything’s changed so much. Isn’t that where Carlyle’s used to be?’’

  ‘‘Carlyle’s has been gone for five years,’’ Marsha reminded her.

  ‘‘And good riddance,’’ Uncle Carlton said cheerfully. ‘‘Tough steaks and soggy potatoes. This new place serves a wonderful felfel mahchi. Everything’s made fresh on the premises, and they go easy on the harissa so you don’t feel as if your mouth’s on fire.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, but no thanks,’’ said Mary. ‘‘Those places never look very clean to me.’’

  They stepped outside into a hot summer evening and as they waited for Carlie to lock the door, they noticed a crowd of people clustered around a television camera truck parked in front of the corner bodega.

  ‘‘Go see what’s happening,’’ Marsha told the boys.

  They were off like rabbits and back almost as fast. ‘‘Guess what? That’s where the fourth lottery ticket was sold!’’

  ‘‘Really? One of these people?’’ Impossible to miss the disdain in Mary’s voice.

  ‘‘They still don’t know who has it,’’ said one of the boys. ‘‘But it was definitely bought here about eight weeks ago.’’

  Marsha sniffed. ‘‘Probably by someone who can’t read English and doesn’t know he’s won.’’

  As they passed the little grocery store, people spilled out of the place laughing and exclaiming for the television camera. It was almost like a fiesta.

  One of the new neighbors greeted Carlie by name and began to tell her their speculations about the lucky buyer.

  Uncle Carlton looked pensive. ‘‘I wonder . . . ?’’ he murmured. Then, ‘‘No, it’s too improbable.’’

  Although he did not elucidate, Marsha glanced at Mary, whose own eyes had suddenly widened.

  Shortly before midnight, Carlie was awakened by a thump from the study directly beneath the room where she slept.

  She sat up in bed and listened. Only the sound of an occasional passing car broke the late-night stillness. She lay back down and was almost asleep again when another thump made it clear that she was not alone in the house.

  The streetlights outside gave more than enough light as she slipped out of bed and looked around for a weapon. Nothing. And she had left her cell phone in her purse on a table by the front door. Carlie did not consider herself a brave person, but she could not cower up here while someone helped himself to whatever he could find. When she eased open the door into the hallway, she saw her father’s old leather golf bag at the top of the stairs. She carefully pulled out the nine iron and tiptoed down the stairs.

  The door to the study was open a narrow crack and the desk lamp was on. There was movement by the desk and she heard a drawer squeak open, then the rustle of papers. Moving closer to the door, she cautiously pushed it open and froze in surprise.

  ‘‘Mary? Marsha?’’

  Her sisters must have jumped a foot.

  ‘‘Carlie! You almost gave us a heart attack.’’

  ‘‘Then we’re even. I thought you were burglars. What are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘Mary lost an earring,’’ Marsha said, ‘‘and we came back to look for it.’’

  ‘‘In the desk?’’

  Mary gave an impa
tient shrug. ‘‘In the desk, on the desk, under it. Who knows? I remember that when I was looking at the books over here, the back of my earring felt tight. I must have loosened it too much and—ah! Here it is!’’ she said triumphantly although Carlie thought she saw the earring flash in her sister’s hand before she actually plucked it from the floor. ‘‘I’m sorry we woke you. I thought we could just slip in and out without disturbing you. You run on back to bed now and we’ll let ourselves out.’’

  ‘‘That’s okay,’’ said Carlie. ‘‘I’ll watch to make sure you get to your car safely.’’

  Marsha started to argue, but Mary said, ‘‘Thanks, sweetie. And maybe you’d better put the dead bolt on. You never know. The next person might be a real burglar.’’

  Uncle Carlton arrived early the next morning to take her to breakfast. When Carlie told him of her midnight adventure, he immediately called a locksmith he had once represented. Even though it was Sunday morning, his old client came out and changed the lock within the hour.

  ‘‘But why?’’ Carlie asked. ‘‘I’m only going to be here a few more nights at the most.’’

  ‘‘Humor an old man,’’ he said when the locksmith had finished his work and handed him two new keys. ‘‘I’ll keep one; you put the other one on your key ring. And promise me you won’t have duplicates made for your sisters.’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  ‘‘No buts,’’ he said sternly. ‘‘Now come along. I know where there are fresh bagels and the best coffee in town.’’

  When they returned an hour later, Mary and Marsha were cooling their heels on the front steps. Both were furious.

  ‘‘You changed the locks? Why?’’ asked Marsha.

  Before Carlie could answer, Uncle Carlton said, ‘‘That was my doing, girls. We don’t know how many keys Genevieve might have given out over the years and I’d be derelict as Carlie’s attorney if I didn’t take this simple precautionary step to be sure that no one removed anything until she had signed off on it.’’

  Carlie voiced her surprise at seeing them. ‘‘I thought you were taking the day off.’’

  ‘‘We decided that if you could keep going, we could, too.’’

  ‘‘That’s nice,’’ said Uncle Carlton.

  ‘‘Actually,’’ said Mary, ‘‘we have a proposition for you, Carlie.’’

  ‘‘Proposition?’’

  ‘‘You have everything from the house that you want to keep, right?’’

  Carlie nodded. ‘‘I guess so.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been down here so long, you must be dying to get back to your own apartment, so why don’t you let Marsha and me finish up here?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly do that,’’ the younger woman protested.

  ‘‘Sure you can. Everything’s on the inventory sheets. We won’t take a single thing on it without paying you full value.’’

  Carlie clasped their hands impulsively. ‘‘Thank you, Marsha. Mary. But really, there’s not that much left to do. Another big push by all of us and we could be done by the middle of the week. If the boys will bag up the papers, Uncle Carlton’s offered to go through them at his house.’’

  The old man rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘‘Once the papers are cleared away, I’m anxious to see if I can find all the secret compartments in that desk.’’

  ‘‘Compartments?’’ asked Mary.

  ‘‘There’s more than one?’’ asked Marsha.

  ‘‘At least two that I know of,’’ he told them cheerfully. ‘‘Genevieve showed me how to open them years ago but something she said makes me think there may even be a tiny third one.’’

  The twins exchanged glances; then Mary said, ‘‘Marsha and I have talked it over and we’ve decided it was selfish of us to let Mom’s will stand. You were right, Uncle Carlton. The only fair thing is to sell the house, pay her debts, and then split whatever’s left three ways.’’

  Carlie was incredulous. ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘Really,’’ they assured her.

  Uncle Carlton beamed at them. ‘‘There now! I just knew you girls would come through for your sister.’’ He pulled a folded legal paper from the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘‘Let’s go right down to the bodega and make it official.’’

  ‘‘Bodega?’’ asked Marsha.

  ‘‘Official?’’ asked Mary.

  ‘‘The owner’s a notary public. He’ll witness your signatures and I’ll give your waiver to the county clerk of court when I file the will. I drew up this form last week, hoping you’d do the right thing for Carlie.’’

  Before they could protest, he herded the three sisters down to the bodega where they showed the bemused owner their driver’s licenses. He carefully examined each in turn as they signed the document, then carefully embossed it with his heavy seal and signed his own name and date on the proper lines.

  ‘‘In the legal world, it’s a truism that you never really know someone until you’ve shared an inheritance with him. For the rest of your lives,’’ Uncle Carlton told the twins, ‘‘you will always be glad you treated your sister so fairly. Genevieve would have been proud of you.’’

  Carlie glowed with happiness at the thought of France and of registering for fall courses. ‘‘Are you sure you don’t mind if I head back this afternoon?’’

  ‘‘We’re positive,’’ they told her. ‘‘Go!’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ she said, giving them more hugs. ‘‘I will!’’

  ‘‘And you don’t need to stay, either, Uncle Carlton,’’ said Marsha. ‘‘We’ll take care of everything.’’

  When the house sold two months later, Carlie came back to town to sign the final papers and pick up her share of the money. The sale had brought more than Uncle Carlton expected and even after all their mother’s debts were paid, each daughter wound up with thirty-six thousand.

  ‘‘Remember that lottery ticket that was sold at the bodega?’’ asked Carlie as she and her uncle lingered over dinner that night. ‘‘No one ever cashed it in, did they?’’

  ‘‘There’s still plenty of time,’’ he replied. ‘‘Another three months, anyhow.’’

  ‘‘You’re going to laugh at me,’’ she said, turning her wineglass in her slender fingers, ‘‘but on the drive back to school, I started thinking about how that ticket was bought a couple of weeks before Mom’s accident, but the winning number wasn’t announced till after she was in a coma. It made me wonder if that was the real reason Marsha and Mary came back to the house that night and were rummaging through the desk. That maybe they thought Mom was finally a winner.’’

  ‘‘And you were worried that you’d exchanged a few thousand for thirteen million?’’ asked her uncle.

  ‘‘Crazy, I know,’’ Carlie said with a rueful smile.

  ‘‘Not at all,’’ he said. ‘‘It could have happened that way. After all, someone has to win, and it’s logical that your sisters would consider it when the ticket was bought at her store and no one came forward with it. It would have been all yours if they hadn’t agreed to set aside the will and share the estate equally. They certainly checked every shred of paper twice, and I’m afraid your father’s desk was rather the worse for wear after they finished hunting for its secret compartments with a crowbar.’’

  Carlie shook her head. ‘‘I thought Mom was the only gambler in the family, but the twins gambled that the winning ticket was in the desk and you gambled that it wasn’t.’’

  ‘‘I never gamble,’’ he told her. ‘‘Except on sure things. There was only one secret compartment in that desk.’’

  ‘‘But— You mean you tricked them into signing that agreement?’’

  ‘‘Guilty as charged,’’ he said happily. ‘‘It was for their own good, too. Now they won’t spend the rest of their lives avoiding you because they treated you shabbily. And in all fairness, they weren’t terribly angry with me for getting mixed up about the desk. They put it down to encroaching senility.’’

  ‘‘You
sly old fox.’’ She patted his hand affectionately. ‘‘Thank you. For my inheritance and for my sisters.’’

  ‘‘Genevieve sent them lottery tickets in their birthday cards. What about you, my dear?’’

  Carlie shook her head. ‘‘My birthday’s not till October.’’

  ‘‘A pity.’’ He reached for the wine bottle and divided the remainder between their two glasses. ‘‘My birthday was last month.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ Carlie said sadly. ‘‘The day after Mom’s accident.’’

  ‘‘When the card came, I was so upset and worried about her that I just stuck it on my desk and never gave it another thought until after the funeral when the twins said that she had started sending lottery tickets in their cards instead of magazine subscriptions.’’

  Carlie stared at him, openmouthed. ‘‘You mean—?’’

  Her uncle nodded, then lifted his glass with an upward glance to the heavens. ‘‘Your mother was always a winner in my book.’’

  Dies Irae

  by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  BRUTAL MURDER! She could still, at ninety, remember the bold headline in the Hope Valley News, and she could remember listening from the top of the stairs to her mother and father arguing in the kitchen about whether or not they would go to the funeral.

  ‘‘Margaret, you don’t even know if they’ll hold a wake for him.’’

  ‘‘Wake or no, they have to bury the man, don’t they? You’ll go alone if you’re going, Tom. I knew he was trouble from the night I first laid eyes on him— a mouth like a soft prune and eyes you’d think were going to roll out of his head . . .’’

  Yes, she could remember the very words, for they were her mother’s and therefore her own.

  All three of them, her mother and father and the girl she was then, went to the funeral.

  There were people there she didn’t even know, and she had thought she knew everyone in Hopetown. She was her father’s daughter in that; you couldn’t get him away, talking to everyone he met on the street. Her mother would always wait in the car. Her mother’s two cousins, first cousins—she called them Aunt Mary and Aunt Norah—stood next to each other beside the grave but with room enough between them for another grown person. Maybe there was, she had thought, and tried to imagine what Denny would have looked like with half his head blown off.