Final Rights (8 page)

“That’s an incredible story, Mazie.
Obviously things got better eventually.”

“That’s how my life worked. Can’t do nothin’
but let it be the way it is.” A deep sigh said more about Mazie’s feelings than
her words.

“The first part disappointed some,” Mazie
said, “but the next part was purty good. My second husband treated me real
nice. We had this big ol’ house to live in and for my boys to grow up in. I
married late the first time, you know, and had my babies late, so they was
teenagers when we moved over here. We had a big yard for them to play in back
then, ’fore they took most of our land to widen Broadway.”

“Mazie, we can stop if you want, but I’d
like to know more . . .”

“Honey, I can talk all day. Not many people
around want to hear these old stories. My boys sure don’t. My grandbabies
listen to some, but they lose interest real quick. What do you want to know?”

“I still don’t know how Mr. Freeman came to
build that house over on Chestnut, or why it’s been empty for so long. What
happened to him, Mazie?”

“Well, Mr. Harland . . . now he had a way
with money for sure. After his Momma died and his ol’ shack burned down, he
sold his piece a land for top dollar. Don’t know how he did it, but he managed
to keep all his money when everthin’ crashed. Had a nice nest egg, and just kept
on growin’ it. Course he didn’t need us no more then, so he just stopped comin’
around. Broke Momma’s heart, he did. He’d been like one of her own, then it got
to the point where he acted like he didn’t know none of us.”

Mazie filled in some
more of the puzzling gaps about Harland that Tate had struggled with ever since
she first saw his old house. Apparently he climbed the social ladder yet never
gained the status he longed for.

“But he was successful, wasn’t he? I mean he
had the money to build a mansion in Montford.” Tate tried to reconcile the
image she had of the man with what Mazie told her.

“I s’pose you could call him successful,
yes. But he was a lonely man, I think. Musta been. Never got married, had no
babies, no real friends to speak of. He had his business and a big ol’ house,
but that’s not enough to make a life, is it?” Mazie did not wait for Tate to
answer.

“Don’t no one really know why he blowed his
brains out, though.”

“What?” Astonishment overtook Tate yet
again. “He blew his brains out?”

“Sure did. Sat himself down on his porch in
fronta that big old fancy door, stuck a pistol in his mouth and pulled the
trigger. Did it day before Valentine’s Day. Hadn’t been livin’ there mor’n a
few months.”

“Well, that confirms
the story I’ve been piecing together. That’s why he owned the place for only
two years. He bought the land, built the house and then killed himself almost
immediately. He sure had some demons!”

“Lotsa demons, goin’ way
back to being a tiny baby with a crazy momma and worthless daddy. I coulda’
loved him but he wanted no part of me. Course that was a different time, and we
couldn’t a been together no ways. Still, I wanted him to love me and he didn’t.
Guess it was the good Lord’s way of protectin’ me from harm. Anyway, my life
turned out good enough.”

Mazie sat back and closed her eyes,
exhaustion obviously weighing her down. Tate sat quietly for a few moments
before speaking.

“I wish I knew what to
say, Mazie. I can’t thank you enough for sharing all this with me. You may not
know it, but you’ve just given me a precious gift.”

“You must be tired,
listenin’ to an old woman ramble on like this.”

“Actually, Mazie, I’d like to talk more, if
you don’t mind. But maybe we’ll do that tomorrow, after you’ve had some time to
rest.”

“We surely can, honey. You welcome to sit
and listen to me goin’ on and on any ol’ time. You come back whenever you
fancy.” Then Mazie dozed off and Tate headed out for her walk.

After leaving Mazie, Tate made a quick stop
to check in with Dave. A gaping hole in the kitchen wall greeted her, and she
saw Dave’s head peeking through from the outside.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good. Got the
old windows out and just need to add some bracing in here, then I’ll install
the replacements and it’ll be good to go.”

Tate saw shafts of
light filtering through the exposed work area and realized no buffer of any
kind separated the outer surface of the house from the inner kitchen wall.

“Can we put some insulation in there?”

Dave gave her a quizzical look. “Well, we
could . . .”

Tate sensed his hesitancy. “Any reason we
shouldn’t?”

“No, but they never did that back when this
house was being built. None of the other walls have it.”

“Well, let’s put some in there anyway. I
know it won’t make much difference if the rest of the place doesn’t have any,
but I’d feel better about it.”

“Okay. Will do.” Tate knew Dave considered
her request wasted effort.
Maybe
he’s right. I don’t really know anything about this stuff.

“Thanks, Dave. You’re very patient with me.”
Tate smiled at him, and Dave sent a knowing nod her way as she headed for the
door.

“Hey, one other thing . . .” Dave called to
her.

“Yeah. What?”

“These old windows are beautiful. It’d be a
waste to throw them in the trash.”

“
I agree.
They are nice. I like the waves and imperfections in the old glass. But what
can we do with them? I’ve tried to think of things, like maybe using them as
picture frames . . .”

“We could put them up on Freecycle and see
if someone wants them. I bet they’d go fast.”

“Freecycle? Never heard of it.”

“It’s a great website.
Anything you don’t want, you can post there and someone who can use it will
come and pick it up. In fact, we could post all the old cabinets, the
refrigerator . . .”

“That old refrigerator?
Who would want that?” The previous tenant had left food in the decrepit
appliance which probably dated back at least twenty years. Its surface, the
color of split pea soup, sported a vast array of dents, scratches and pock
marks. All the food left behind had rotted, leaving a smelly, dripping mess.

“Never can tell. But it’s worth a try.
Freecycle keeps stuff out of the landfill, and lots of times people are
thrilled to get it. It may seem like junk to you, but it might be useful to
someone else.”

“How do I do that?”

“I can handle it for you. But if you want to
know more about it, just Google Freecycle.”

Just Google it.
Tate chuckled to herself as she left the
apartment and headed downtown, grateful for the beautiful weather on this early
November afternoon.
Wasn’t
that long ago I railed against getting an answering machine, now I’m told to
“just Google it,” and I know exactly what he means!

Her plan for the
afternoon had been forming since she left Mazie. She had learned a lot about
Harland Freeman, but she still knew virtually nothing about Leland Howard, the
beneficiary of the trust that held title to the house on Chestnut Street. Her
determination to find out more about who he was and how he came to own that
property sent her back to Pack Memorial Library

FOURTEEN

2004

Tate’s
love affair with libraries emerged the minute she entered her first one at the
tender age of 10. She could not remember what prompted that original foray into
the world of books and her tentative search for heroines who spoke to her.
Perhaps it had been a teacher or a schoolmate, but for whatever reason, she had
embarked on a mission of discovery.

“Do you want me to go with you?” asked her
mother.

“No.” Tate had learned
independence long ago out of necessity, and she refused to give up even a tiny
bit of it now.

“Okay, honey. Pick out something, good.” And
with that Tate was released to explore on her own.

She hopped onto her bicycle and headed for
the huge old house sitting atop a small hill at the other end of the village
where she lived. She rarely traveled beyond the shops along Main Street so her
eagerness for adventure propelled her forward. The hot summer sun burned
through her thin cotton top and onto her bare legs as she rode.

The shade of the wide
porch provided welcome relief once she reached her destination. Dating back to
the late 1800s, the place had been the home of a wealthy couple, Charles and
Agatha Putnam, who had no children. When they died, they left their home and a
sizable collection of books to the town to serve as a lending library. A
square, brick structure two stories tall, its long windows dressed in white
shutters, the building seemed both inviting and intimidating. Tate took a deep
breath to steady herself, pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped into
another world.

Long shafts of sunlight filled with fat dust
motes slid through the windows and came to rest on the dark, polished floor.
Her footsteps seemed to echo through the enveloping quiet and she inhaled
deeply, taking into her lungs the heady, musty odor of the unfamiliar
sanctuary. She hesitated just inside, not sure what to do next.

A spare woman with graying hair pulled into
a knot at the back of her neck approached from behind a desk which sat in an
alcove of stained glass windows.

“Can I help you, young lady?” she asked
kindly. Tate whispered her answer, mimicking the woman’s own tiny voice.

“
Nancy
Drew
?”

“Ah, yes.
Nancy Drew
.
Of course.” She took Tate’s hand in hers and they walked through a tall doorway
into the adjoining room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered every wall; ladders
with wheels provided access to the higher rows of books; huge old chairs filled
the center of the room. Tate had never seen anything like it.

“
Nancy
Drew
,
The Hardy Boys
. . .” The woman gestured to a collection
of books lining a shelf just at eye level to the right of the door. Awestruck,
Tate tried to take it all in. “Just Nancy, thank you,” she squeaked softly.

“Then I’ll leave you to it. When you want to
check out, see me at the desk.” The woman bent close and spoke these hushed
words into Tate’s ear. The scent of lavender wafted behind her as she walked
away, leaving Tate to herself in Wonderland.

Woozy with anticipation,
Tate ran her fingers gently over the spines of the books before her. Tilting
her head to the right, she read the titles without removing the books from
their spot. Several caught her eye:
The Hidden Staircase. The Clue in the Diary. The Secret
of Red Gate Farm. The Sign of the Twisted Candles.
There must have been
more than twenty Nancy Drew mysteries available, and she wanted every one of
them.

She stepped back to the alcove and whispered
to the librarian: “How many can I have?”

“Only three at a time. But as soon as you
bring one back, you can take out another.”

“Okay, then.” Tate went back to the row of
books and eventually made her difficult choice.

“I’d like these.” She delicately placed the
books on the librarian’s desk.

“Very good choices, my dear.” The woman kept
smiling at Tate as she opened the cover of each book, took a card from the
pocket pasted to the inside front cover and wrote Tate’s name down. She then
rubber-stamped the due date on the slip in the book and on the card before
placing the latter into her file. A few minutes later, Tate returned to the
everyday world, clutching the precious cargo to her chest.
The Secret of the Old Clock.
The
Mystery at Lilac Inn.
The Password to Larkspur Lane
. Those were her final choices and she could
hardly wait to get home and begin reading them.

Pack
Memorial Library, modern and well organized, air conditioned and brightly lit,
welcomed its patrons, but it did not transport Tate to another realm as did her
visit to Putnam library decades ago. She stepped inside and headed to the North
Carolina Collection, hoping to find a reference librarian to help her locate
records related to Leland Howard.

She found a stack of Asheville City
Directories dating back to the early 1900s. She selected several starting in
the 1940s and took them to a nearby table where she could spread out. On her
first try, she found the following notation:

Howard, Leland, 8
Cumberland Ave (Marie) cabtmkr

“Wow!” Tate quickly
hushed herself and gestured apologies to the people sitting in the reference
area.

There he is! That
was so easy.
Tate looked at subsequent directories and found numerous entries for
Leland Howard at the same address until he disappeared from the books in the
mid-1960s. She also found one notation for Harland Freeman at 305 Chestnut
Street, owner of Freeman’s Mercantile, no spouse and no additional information.
No further mention of him appeared after 1942, the year of his death. Gathering
up her notes, she went again in search of help.

Carla Geoffrey came to her rescue.

“You can look over here
in the biography clippings,” she suggested. “And we can check for birth and
death information. The full records are in the Registrar’s office over at the
Courthouse, but we have an index here.”

“That would be great. Anything I can find
will be helpful.” Tate searched for biographical information but found nothing.
The clippings file contained hundreds of biographies for a variety of
professionals and artists, politicians and business owners, but nothing for
Leland Howard or any other craftsmen, for that matter. She sought out Carla for
help with the birth and death indices.

“I checked the archives at the newspaper
office yesterday,” Tate said, “and found a couple of references to Leland
Howard. His wife died in 1962. Actually, she was murdered. And he was a
craftsman—made furniture for wealthy folks here in town. The notation in the
City Directory says cabtmkr—cabinetmaker. Think we can find anything about
him?”

“We’ll try. But birth
certificates were not required by law until 1913, and then only within the city
itself. So depending on when and where he was born, we might come up
empty-handed.”

Carla’s prediction
proved accurate. They searched the birth index—no more than a computer printout
of the records housed at the courthouse—and found nothing about the birth of
Leland Howard. Neither did they find anything for Marie Howard, but she would
have had a different maiden name, so the dead end did not surprise them. The
Ancestry.com database proved much more helpful. Details of the 1930 census had
been released the previous year, and in it they found a listing for Arlen
Howard. Living in his household were his wife, Mary Alice; his son, Leland; his
daughter-in-law, Marie Eleanor; and his grandson, Clayton Samuel. For the first
time, Tate realized Leland and his wife had a child born in 1927.

“Well, that’s an exciting piece of
information! But why would Leland himself be so elusive?” Tate mused. “Let’s
see what else we can find.” Tate noticed Carla glancing at her watch. “Oh, I’m
sorry! I’ve been
monopolizing your time.”

“It’s okay. I can give you a few more
minutes before I have to attend a meeting. I’m happy to help for as long as I
can.”

“Then let’s look at the death index. I can
search the Ancestry database on my own.”

A tantalizing bit of
information turned up as they continued their search in the death index: Marie
Eleanor Howard had died, as Tate knew, on March 15, 1962. Her son, Clayton
Samuel Howard, died the same day.

“Beware the Ides of March!” Tate exclaimed
under her breath.

“I guess so!” Carla and Tate exchanged a
look of amazement. “This is fascinating! Why are you looking into these
people?”

“It all has to do with that old house on
Chestnut. I really had no idea what I was getting into, but I can’t seem to
stop!”

“Oh, that old place has been a problem for
ages. People have been trying to get it knocked down for I don’t know how
long!”

“Well, I guess I’m the only person alive who
wants to see it saved, but I just can’t let go of the idea that’s what I’m
supposed to do.”

“It’s a big task you’ve taken on. From what
I hear, they are moving as fast as they can to finalize the deal with the
developer and begin demolition. Of course they have to go through the whole
legal process of taking possession from the current owner.”

“Then I have to move
fast, too. According to the tax records, the house is held in trust for a
Leland Samuel Howard. The trustee is the law firm of Paige and Schmidt. I
assume Mr. Howard is dead, but if so, why didn’t he show up in the death index?
Is there any other way to find him? Maybe something about surviving family?
Hopefully he has living relatives somewhere.”

“If he’s dead, he would appear in the
index.”

“But he’d have to be in his nineties . . .
and if he’s still alive, why doesn’t he show up anywhere?” Tate’s growing
frustration resided dangerously close to resignation. “I guess I’ll head over
to the Registrar of Deeds and see if they have anything there we couldn’t find
here.”

“Sorry I have to leave, but I’ll look
further when I get back. How can I reach you if I find something?”

Tate gave Carla her phone number and headed
home, exhausted. She completely forgot about going back to Ancestry.com, and
the Registrar would just have to wait.

As Tate trudged home, she wished she had
driven downtown instead of walking. Once there she brewed a cup of strong
coffee and loaded it up with half-and-half, then settled onto her long
comfortable couch. As usual in quiet moments like this, she looked around and
began hatching plans for how she would fix her place up.

This couch has to go. Love it, but it’s
way too big for this tiny living room. Wonder how much replacement windows
would cost for this place? Those sills are rotting and it’s so drafty . . .

Just as she was about to drift off, the
phone rang, yanking her back from dreamland.

“Hello?” She tempered her irritation. Few
things annoyed Tate more than being jarred awake by a ringing phone.

“Miss Marlowe? This is Carla Geoffrey.”

“Carla? Oh, Carla, yes, of course. What’s
up?” Tate planted her feet on the floor.

“I found something!”

“What? Tell me!”

“I couldn’t stop
thinking about how to find Leland Howard. It occurred to me he might be
mentioned in places other than the clippings file since he was a well-known
craftsman. So I searched some more, and I found a reference to him. He made a
mantelpiece for the Princess Hotel during its renovation back in the 1950s.”

“That’s great, Carla! I wonder if they know
anything about him over there?”

“Maybe, but the place has changed hands
several times through the years. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

“Okay. I’m heading over there tomorrow. If I
find anything, you’ll be the first to know!”