Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (24 page)

“'Bout time you got back,” Lillian said as I walked in. She wrung out a dishcloth, draped it over the faucet, and turned to me. “Miss Helen been callin' an' callin'. She need you real bad over at Miss Mattie's place.”

“Why? What's going on?” I waited halfway in the doorway, noticing my cell phone still in the charger on the counter and not in my pocketbook.

“She say that man, kin of Miss Mattie's, is over there lookin' 'round, an' not havin' much in mind 'bout leavin'.”

“Oh, my word! I'm on my way.” I spun around and headed back out.

All the way to Mattie's apartment, I pictured what I might find when I got there. An angry kinsman? A greedy impostor? A sociopathic thief already filling his pockets with whatever he could pick up?

But, I reassured myself, Helen and Diane had already packed up a good many of the small odds and ends—there wouldn't be too much he'd be able to fit into a pocket. He could, however, get an overall idea of what Mattie had owned, as well as a clear impression of just where her valuable pieces were located in the apartment.

_______

Ready to do battle if need be, I parked the car in the lot next to the building, noting as I did so Andrew F. Cobb's long and
much-used Cadillac, minus its trailer, parked nearby. Hurrying into the building, I rushed through Mattie's front door, only to find Diane, Helen, and Mr. Cobb sitting around in variously placed chairs and stools drinking coffee from paper cups and eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

“Julia!” Helen said, standing up. “We're so glad you're here. Andrew has brought us a snack and your coffee is getting cold. Come have a doughnut.”

I stopped short and glanced around, making note of the broom and long-handled dustpan, ready but, from the state of the floor, not yet used, leaning against the chest-on-chest.

Quickly adjusting my demeanor to one of bustling authority, I said, “Well, how nice. Thank you, Mr. Cobb, that's very thoughtful of you. But we do need to finish our work here, else we'll be at it all weekend. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No'm,” he said softly as he shook his head. “Just wanted to see where Aunt Mattie lived. You know,” he went on with that ingratiating smile of his, “so I could picture her in her home.”

At the word
picture,
all my senses perked up. What did he know about pictures, specifically one framed and ready to be hung in an art museum?

I glanced at Diane, but she was avoiding my eyes as she gathered up paper cups and napkins. I wondered how much looking around Mr. Cobb had been able to do, but I dared not put him on the defensive by asking. Better to keep things on a friendly basis, accept his visit at face value, and get him out of there as quickly as I could. Who knew what would set a sociopath off on a rampage?

Yet he was so calm and easygoing, friendly and seemingly anxious to please, that I couldn't imagine such a complete change of personality. Even so, that constant smile on his face when there was no reason in the world for it kept my guard up. Nobody was that accommodating. Actually, though, I would've been more easily taken in if his teeth hadn't been so large.

“Okay, ladies,” I said, bustling around. “We have a lot to do, so
we'd better get at it. Mr. Cobb, thank you for the snack, but we have to finish this up. Oh, and, by the way, I spoke with Mr. Sitton this morning, and I think he's trying to get in touch with you. You might want to call him, or, better still, see him at his office.” In other words, it's time to leave, so get going—which, of course, I didn't say, but he got the message.

“Yes, ma'am, I'll do that right away,” he said, just so humble it made my own teeth ache. Then, including Diane and Helen, he said, “If I can ever help in any way, just let me know.” And turning back to me, he went on, “I'm ready to pick up the family papers whenever you want me to. I don't know how Aunt Mattie ended up with all that stuff, but my dad said she was the onliest one interested in it. He always kinda laughed about how he couldn't figure out why she'd want it 'cause she about ruint both sides of the family. I'm glad she did, though, 'cause it'll make a good book that I can sell on my travels.”

“Oh?” I said, eyebrows raised. Maybe he was more legitimate than I'd thought. “You already have a publisher?”

“Anybody can get a publisher these days,” he assured me, as I thought,
Uh-huh, if you pay for it yourself. And maybe a certain cellarette would make the payments
. “Anyway,” he went on as he turned to leave, “I just wisht I'd got here in time to get to know Aunt Mattie and interview her. But I really 'preciate what y'all are doing for her, and I know she does, too.”

Well,
I
didn't know it. If all had gone well with Mattie, she was too busy growing wings to be watching us sort her furniture and ransack her drawers, or listen to us wonder how she'd lived in such a mess.

As soon as Mr. Cobb was out the door, I went into the sunroom and watched as he crossed the parking lot to his car. When he drove out, I turned to Diane.

“How much looking around did he do?”

“Not much. Really. He walked down the hall and looked in each room, then came back to the living room. We followed him every step of the way. I'm sorry, Julia, we thought he was Nate
when he knocked, and after we'd opened the door and saw him standing there holding coffee and doughnuts, there was nothing to do but let him in. At least, it felt that way at the time, but I promise you, he was never out of our sight.”

“It's all right, Diane. I would've done the same, I'm sure. I just hope he doesn't come back, but all the more reason to get this packing done and all this stuff out of here.”

“Um, Julia,” Diane continued, “he did specifically ask about photograph albums and old letters, as well as deeds and such that might be in a safe-deposit box, because of that family history he's writing. I just told him that as far as I knew the lockbox had been empty, and that we'd not gotten to everything here yet. I didn't want to tell him that you'd taken it all home with you. Was that all right?”

“It was perfect, and I'm glad that's all you told him. If he knew that I have them, he might show up at my house. And I'll tell you this, Diane, I'm skeptical of his reason for being interested in them—most people who talk about writing a book never get around to actually doing it.”

Then, realizing that we'd walked into the sunroom through the wide-open French doors, my heart gave a thump and I said, “Where's the étagère?”

“In the kitchen, behind the counter,” Helen said, pointing. “We moved it as soon as we got here so we could get to the sunroom.”

“What about the things on it?”

“It's all on the counter. We'll move it back before we leave this afternoon. Why? Should we have left it?”

“No, I'm glad you didn't. I'd as soon that nobody but you and Helen know about my alarm system. Let's leave it where it is in case we have any more visitors. I'll set it back up when I come over tonight.”

I left them to it then, returning to my house to delve into the boxes of papers, letters, photograph albums, and who-knew-what-else that were waiting in my library. But I'd been shaken by
the thought that Andrew Cobb might have seen the étagère, loaded with every possible means of creating a sleep-shattering noise, standing in the way of an easy entry. A sociopath or even your common, run-of-the-mill type of burglar would've made note of that and quickly made plans to avert such a disaster.

_______

After a couple of hours of looking through Mattie's albums and reading the letters she'd saved—some of the handwriting was like hen scratching—I was getting a headache. I had found nothing that I thought would attract the interest of a legitimate historian, much less an amateur one, so more and more I feared that Andrew was after the sampler.

When the phone rang and Lillian told me Mrs. Allen was on the line, I was happy to stop and talk with her.

“Mildred,” I said into the phone, “you have rescued me from a pile of papers that have crossed my eyes. How are you?”

“Starving, but what's new? Listen, Julia, I have to get out of this house and away from the kitchen. You have time to walk around the block?”

“I sure do. I'll be over in a few minutes.”

She was leaning against a column on the porch, waiting for me. I hurried across the yard, waving as I went.

“I don't know how far I'll get,” Mildred greeted me. “I'm so weak from hunger, I may collapse any minute.” But she pushed off from the column and joined me in the yard.

Then we started down the sidewalk on one of Mildred's typical outings—that is, we didn't take a walk, we took a stroll.

“I hope you've noticed, Julia,” Mildred said. “I've lost two pounds.”

“Why, that's wonderful! And, of course, I did notice. You're looking quite trim.” Every woman alive knows when it's best to avoid the truth in the nicest way possible.

“Well, it's been hard, but I just don't want to have that operation. So the sacrifices I'm making are worth it—I think. But tell
me how settling Mattie's estate is going. What's the status with her furniture?”

So I told her of the upcoming auction and how the auction house would be taking care of everything. Then I told her a little about the continuing saga of Andrew F. Cobb and his unverified identity without, however, mentioning any possible psychopathic tendencies. She was intrigued, as I would've been as well if I hadn't been personally involved. She speculated about any number of possibilities involving Mr. Cobb, unaware of my discomfort at the thought of more snarls and tangles for me to manage.

One good thing, though, the more Mildred entertained herself with Mattie's estate, the farther we walked. It was only when we crossed the second street that she abruptly turned and said, “Let's go back. It's about dinnertime, anyway.”

So we turned back, and I took the opportunity to get her onto another subject, telling her about Etta Mae spending the week with me.

“Oh, she's just the one I need to talk to,” Mildred said. “She'll know all the ins and outs of stapling. Why don't you both come over for lunch tomorrow? Sam won't be back, will he?”

“No, he won't be back till late Monday, so we'd love to come for lunch. But, Mildred, I wouldn't count on Etta Mae knowing much about that operation. She's not a hospital nurse, you know, or even an office nurse. She may not know enough to help you.”

“That's all right. I like her, and I've been wanting to have some people in, but I've been hesitant about entertaining. See, Julia, I'm on a really strict diet, and you and your houseguest—with your knowledge of the problem and her nursing background—won't mind my having something different on my plate. You can be sure, though, that I wouldn't insult my guests by serving a lo-cal lunch just because that's what I have to eat. I'll ask Ida Lee to prepare something especially tasty for you and Etta Mae.”

“No, please don't do that. We'll have just what you're having and be delighted with it.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I wouldn't dream of anything different.”

“Well,” Mildred said mournfully, “you don't know what you're in for, and I'll feel like a terrible hostess. It's just so hard to resist a decent meal, but it'll be easier if I don't have to watch somebody else have one. If Ida Lee were to serve you some gorgeous, calorie-laden plate, then put a bowl of leaves in front of me, I might grab both your plates and gorge myself.”

“Oh, Mildred,” I said, laughing. “We'll happily eat leaves along with you.” And hurry home afterward for a thick roast beef sandwich with a side of chips. Neither of which I mentioned.

After spending an additional uneventful two nights on Mattie's ancient mattress, I could hardly straighten up. I moaned so much about my aching back that Etta Mae offered to give me a massage. It was tempting, but I declined. By the time on Saturday morning that we'd returned to my house and gotten dressed, we were ready for lunch with Mildred. Why go through the process of undressing and redressing again? I took an aspirin or two and made the best of it.

When it came right down to it, though, I would've much preferred to bypass Mildred's lunch, not only because I knew that we'd be discussing bypass surgery but also because I had had an epiphany during the night. I had come awake with a clear path stretching in front of me, and I didn't know why I hadn't thought of it before then. All I had to do to either get rid of Andrew F. Cobb or make him declare himself was to finish going through the family letters, pictures, and so forth. As soon as I determined there was nothing of value among them, I could turn them all over to him. They were the extent of what he'd claimed he wanted, so once he had them, he would surely be on his way. If, that is, they were indeed all that he wanted.

On the other hand, if he was really after the sampler, then he'd stick around and try to find it. That thought almost made me reconsider giving him anything. He would fairly quickly realize, as he sorted through Mattie's family documents, that the sampler
was missing, and I would be the obvious one to have it. No telling what he would try if he felt he'd been tricked.

But the apartment would be emptied Monday morning, so Etta Mae and I wouldn't need to spend any more nights there. In addition, Sam would be home Monday night, and his presence would be a burglar deterrent at home. I had nothing to fear from Mr. Cobb.

So I was anxious to start again on the boxes in my library, make sure there were no more samplers or other valuable items in them, then make arrangements with Mr. Sitton to pass it all to Mr. Cobb. Instead, I was committed to a luncheon that would not only be on the light side but also would be heavily laden with conversation about stomach surgeries.

But one does not insult a hostess by backing out at the last minute, even when one has significant work to do.

“Now, Etta Mae,” I said, “I hope you won't think the less of me for accepting an invitation without consulting you. If you have something else you'd rather do today, just tell me and I'll make your regrets to Mildred. She will completely understand.”

“Oh, no, I want to go,” Etta Mae said. She looked lovely in a sleeveless print dress, although the fabric was just a tiny bit on the clingy side. “I just love her house. I hope she'll let us look around a little.”

“She'll be delighted for you to see it. Her decor is mostly French inspired, and she has some very nice pieces. Oh, and, Etta Mae, I should warn you. I told Mildred that you and I would have exactly what she'll be having on that strict diet of hers. I have no idea what it'll be, but let's just smile and pretend we like it.”

“Suck it up and eat, right?”

“Well, yes, whatever that means. Anyway, you'll enjoy seeing her furniture and the huge collection of Boehm porcelain birds she has.”

And she did, but not nearly as much as Mildred enjoyed showing them to her.

When Mildred pointed out a Louis-the-something-or-other
chest that she called a commode, Etta Mae asked, “You mean they had a special place for bedpans that long ago?”

Mildred exploded with laughter, which I thought would hurt Etta Mae's feelings, but it didn't. When Mildred explained that
commode
was a fancy name for a plain old chest of drawers, Etta Mae laughed and said, “Well, you can tell where my mind is.”

Our plates, when Ida Lee served them, held a beautifully arranged salade Niçoise on each, although I detected no potatoes among the green beans, radishes, and tomatoes. Each was topped with a small serving of water-packed tuna and the greens glistened with a vinaigrette dressing. At least mine and Etta Mae's glistened. Mildred's didn't.

No bread or crackers were offered, but unsweetened tea was. When Mildred lifted her fork, Etta Mae reached for her glass. As soon as she swallowed, her eyes widened and her mouth puckered.

“Please pass the . . . uh—” She stopped, swallowed again, and said, “The salt. No, pepper, I mean the pepper. I love pepper.” Then she bravely lifted her glass again, suppressing a shudder as she took another sip. “Delicious,” she said.

Ida Lee, looking somewhat abashed at the lean pickings served to guests, came from the kitchen to refill our glasses. I complimented her on the beautiful arrangement of greens on our plates, and ate as if I enjoyed every bite. Dessert was a baked pear half with raspberry sauce, barely sweetened. No wonder Mildred complained about her diet.

“Etta Mae,” Mildred said as we finished dessert, “tell me everything you know about stomach stapling. I'm in need of some straight talk.”

“Well,” Etta Mae began, propping her elbow on the table, then quickly retracting it. “Well, I don't know much, but I did help a lady a couple of years ago who had had her stomach done. She got along real well, but it was hard at first. She couldn't have anything but broth and clear juice for the first few days—even though she didn't have staples. They put a band around her
stomach instead, which worked the same way. Anyway, she gradually added stuff like pudding, hot cereal, and pureed food. After about a month of that, the doctor let her have a little solid food.”

“A
month
!” Mildred cried. “A month of not having anything to
chew
? All of a sudden, a plate of green leaves sounds a lot more appetizing.

“Julia,” she went on, “I'll tell you what's a fact. I am not going under the knife and end up eating baby food for the rest of my life. I'm going to lose this weight if I have to starve myself to death. Which,” she said, raising her voice, “Ida Lee, you are about to do for me.”

“Maybe,” I said, “you need something to take your mind off of it. Think about taking the instruction class with me—if they ever call me about it—so you can teach in the literacy program. You'd enjoy it, Mildred, and it would give you something uplifting to think about.”

“I'll think about it,” she mumbled. “I need something uplifting.”

“I'll tell you something uplifting,” Etta Mae chimed in. “I don't think you're a good candidate for stomach stapling. You wouldn't weigh anywhere near what the lady I worked for did. Compared to her, you're just a little on the plump side. I'd get a second opinion if I were you.”

I cringed at Etta Mae's bluntness, but Mildred, staring at her in wonder, said, “You're absolutely right. That's exactly what I'm going to do.” Then she raised her voice and called, “Ida Lee, bring some rolls.”

_______

As soon as we returned home, Etta Mae and I both headed for the refrigerator for a piece of cold fried chicken to tide us over until suppertime. Lillian was off for the weekend, but she had left us well stocked with food, even though I had told her of my intention to take Etta Mae to the country club for dinner that evening.

Soon afterward, Etta Mae left to check on her single-wide, pick up her mail, and run a few errands. I headed to the library, eager to finish going through Mattie's family records and turn them over to whoever—Mr. Cobb or Mr. Sitton—wanted them. Or, I thought, a real writer from the Kentucky county where she'd grown up and had had that disastrous marriage might also be interested in them. Something to think about, anyway.

Plopping my pocketbook on the desk, I was brought up short by something else that needed doing. There, also on the desk, was Mattie's pocketbook, its contents still undisturbed, awaiting some determination of what to do with it. And what to do with what was in it. But, unwilling to face more decisions, I put it off for another day and started on the pile of papers.

After several hours of sorting through photographs, hard-to-read letters, canceled deeds, newspaper clippings, and certain documents—including Mattie's marriage license and Tommy's death certificate—as well as any number of papers, like the original lease on the apartment and twenty-year-old canceled checks, that I could see no value in at all, I was exhausted. Why in the world had Mattie kept such things?

Finally, just as I heard Etta Mae coming in, I decided that I had done my duty diligently enough. I didn't want to see another album, letter, or piece of paper ever again. I would take everything to Mr. Sitton as soon as the moving van from the auction house left on Monday and dump it all on him. If Andrew F. Cobb—be he Andrew F. Cobb or be he not—could find anything of value in the pile, he was welcome to it. Good-bye and good riddance, as far as I was concerned.