Leaving Carolina (22 page)

“All of us are strange to one degree or another.” Artemis puffs along. “Even you, Piper Pickwick—pardon me,
Wick—with
all your education and big-city job. A lot of people would say ya was strange.”

I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Artemis, what’s going on with Uncle Obe?”

“I told ya, he’s strange.” He gestures for me to follow him. “Now let’s strategize about how you’re gonna convince him to let bygones be bygones.”

An hour later, my time with Artemis interspersed with breaks to check on Trinity to get her back on task, I’m no nearer to the truth about Uncle Obe and my ears are ringing with Artemis’s arguments against changes to the will. Most are legitimate, but he admits to having presented them to Uncle Obe to no effect. As his “favorite” niece, I’m expected to make him see reason.

“You know,” I say as Artemis heaves up from the library desk, “if you tell me about my uncle’s ventures into la-la land, it would make what you’re asking of me easier. Does he have a psychological disorder?”

He snaps his briefcase closed and comes around the desk. “He’s just strange.”

“Is it dementia?”

His fleshy neck quivers. “Ya do what ya came home to do, young lady, and it won’t matter, will it?”

“Proof is what Luc and Bart were after when they broke in here, isn’t it? Something that shows Uncle Obe isn’t in a state of mind to legally change his will.”

His mouth pinches, making it appear cartoonish in such a large face. “Attorney-client privilege. And now I’m off to defend the rights of another client whose family is tryin’ to stick him in a nursing home though he can take care of himself. Good day, Miss Pickwick—pardon me,
Wick
.“

He walks out of the library. Not until he’s outside on the front steps does he say another word, and only when his gaze lands on Trinity’s pumpkin coach. “I don’t know why ya hired that woman, especially knowin’ she’s one of the wrongs your uncle wants to right.”

Considering how he frowns on the influence he believes Axel has over Uncle Obe, I decide not to mention how I came by Trinity. “She needed a job, and Uncle Obe needed a housekeeper.”

He scowls. “Well, don’t think he hasn’t tried to find one. He advertises weekly.”

“And no one answers his ad?”

“Of course they do, but Victoria spoiled your uncle for anyone else, her being deaf and all.”

And Uncle Obe being intensely private.

He glowers. “Just don’t let Trinity go botherin’ him with all her yackin’. He’s gonna need peace and quiet when he comes home tomorrow, and I’m countin’ on ya to make sure he gets it.” He wags a finger. “And to make him see sense about the will.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good day.”

As he drives away, I turn my eyes up.
Okay, Lord, so maybe Uncle
Obe does have dementia or something equally devastating. What am I supposed to do? It
would
be the easiest way to put the will to rest and get back to L.A., but it feels like betrayal. Is it? If he
isn’t
competent, he shouldn’t be making further decisions about his will. The whole idea of righting Pickwick wrongs is probably just the dementia talking—or whatever sends him to la-la land. And yet, after his surgery, he seemed so lucid and present and in high spirits
.

I groan. Until I can substantiate what Artemis let drop, it’s neither here nor there, as my mother would say. Where should I start looking for proof of Uncle Obe’s mental state? I step back inside and am struck by the mansion’s emptiness despite the singing that travels down the hallway. At least Trinity is happy.

“So am I,” I remind myself. After all, Maggie and Devyn left after breakfast, bringing an end to board games and middle-of-the-night awakenings. “Happy,” I singsong and cross to the study where I consider the desk in the far corner.

It’s smaller than the one in the library and has the look of use about it. As it seems the best place to begin the search for Uncle Obe’s personal papers, I step forward. Of course, Luc and Bart might have thought the same and already combed through—

I halt. I have joined forces with those Easter egg-thievin’, breaking-and-entering, night-vision-wearing scoundrels. Me! Piper Pick—

Ah!
Wick!
Wick! Wick!

Now that that’s straightened out—no thanks to Artemis—what should I do about proof of Uncle Obe’s mental state? If Artemis isn’t going to tell me, what choice do I have but to search it out for myself?

Probably the same line of reasoning shared by Luc and Bart
.

I’m not like them. Uncle Obe asked me to stay at the mansion, and I was given a key.

And permission to go through his papers?

“But if he has only one foot in reality,” I address the ceiling, “then surely he—”

“Who ya talkin’ to?”

I swing around. Trinity stands in the doorway, a wad of sheets under one arm, a duster in the opposite hand. I relax my splayed hands and shoulders. “Talking to myself. You know, working through a problem. Lots of people do it.” Just in case she doesn’t realize it’s normal—to an extent.

She brightens. “I was doin’ that myself, sayin’, ‘Trinity, you are so blessed to be making decent money workin’ for yourself, settin’ your own hours, doin’ work that helps others. You ought to find a way to repay Piper for the opportunity.’”

While she’s working behind the scenes to make certain Uncle Obe doesn’t name you as a beneficiary. And keeping to the shadows so you can shoulder responsibility for her wrong
.

“How is Uncle Obe’s room shaping up?” I ask.

“Good, though every time I walk past the kitchen, it’s a struggle not to throw myself into that mess. But I look away, and when that doesn’t work, I count to ten.”

“Great.”

“It’s smart of you to put your uncle downstairs, what with his knee surgery.”

Actually, Uncle Obe’s doctor called attention to the necessity of altering the sleeping arrangements. Thus, we appropriated the
downstairs bedroom used by the live-in cook during the mansion’s early years.

“Do you need help bringing down Uncle Obe’s clothes and personal items?”

She shakes her head. “You just get on with whatever you were doin’.”

I don’t think I will. Before I stick my nose further into this mess, I need to think it through. And spend more time with Uncle Obe to get an idea of this la-la land.
And pray it through
. Yes, I need to do that. And my daily devotional, featuring Romans 8:28.

“I just wanted to let you know…” Trinity frowns. “Well, butter my brain, I’ve forgotten what I wanted to tell you.”

I fight a smile. “If you remember what it was, I’ll be in the library.” Lots of clients to call—top of the list: my young Hollywood couple. According to the entertainment news show
Celebs Misbehaving Badly
, last night Cootchie pinned a restaurant hostess to the floor and wrote a bad word on her forehead with red lipstick.

“I’m off to the laundry room.” Trinity turns. “See ya.”

As I veer toward the library, I pull out my phone.

“It
was pink
lipstick!” Cootchie screeches. “And I didn’t write it on her makeup-caked face. I wrote it across her skimpy top, like a scarlet letter. And, no, I couldn’t have handled it differently. I did what any woman would do when another woman rubs up against her man. I took her down.”

“All right, Cootchie, take a deep breath—”

“Do you know the difference between right and wrong, Piper?”

As in going through Uncle Obe’s personal papers? Apparently, I do.

“I know the difference, so don’t play devil’s advocate for a woman who would have dragged my husband into the nearest closet if I hadn’t been there. It was dead wrong, and I won’t stand for it.”

“I understand. So let’s discuss how we can get your story in front of the public so they can decide for themselves.” Even if she has to settle with the woman, the public needs to know what was behind the attack—and sympathize with her.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Piper, I’m disappointed that we have to do this by phone, but it’s a relief to know you’re in my corner.” She sighs. “You are so lucky to be on that side of the spotlight. No one watching your every move, no one telling you to do this or that, no one wanting you to be anything other than what you are, no worry about how the choices you make will affect your loved ones. Really, you have no idea what it’s like.”

Don’t I? “Let’s talk about how to put your best face forward, Cootchie.”

She gasps with delight. “You just tell me what you want me to do, who you want me to be, and where you want me to go, and I’m there.”

If she wasn’t on the other side of the country, I might shake her.

Axel lets another Pickwick in. Stopped midstep by the sight of him and Bridget in the garden, I narrow my gaze. Though they are somewhat distorted by the grime on the kitchen windows, I can see from their serious faces, they’re not discussing the weather. Is it Uncle Obe’s
will? According to Luc, Bridget sides with Axel in supporting my uncle. That still strikes me as odd, and I have to wonder if Bridget is playing a role written by Luc. She may be an environmentalist/ animal activist, but she’s also a Pickwick. Of course, so is Maggie, and she’s certainly improved.

“Blessed are the peacemakers…”

Axel looks past Bridget and points in the direction of the Bradford pear tree I climbed as a child. With a swish of her dreadlocks, she turns and props her hands on hips that are fit with a fanny pack. She says something, and Axel smiles, and then she gives a shout of laughter and pokes him in the ribs.

What’s that about? Is Bridget romantically involved with Axel as I earlier thought Maggie might be? Not that I care, but if a relationship exists, it could have a bearing on the will and might explain the reason they both support Uncle Obe.

Axel looks around. As his gaze captures mine through the window, his laughter tapers off, and he raises a hand that causes Bridget to turn.

You are so stealthy, Piper. If you ever get tired of PR work, you can always become a PI
.

Attempting to downplay any appearance of guilt, I smile, move to the door, and pull it open. “Bridget, I didn’t know you were here.”

She starts toward me. “Mixing business with pleasure.”

I don’t understand the “business” part, but I understand the “pleasure” part, and it doesn’t sit well with me. Of course, she and Axel are probably highly compatible, especially in light of her dreadlocks and his ponytail-mustache-goatee thing. “Oh? You have business at the estate?”

“The usual.” She halts before the step I stand on. “Mulch, weed killer, fertilizer…” She bobs her head. “And I brought a crape myrtle to replace the one that died down by the gate.”

I’m lost, but she must work for a nursery. While a good fit for her tree-hugging tendencies, where it doesn’t fit is that she’s a Pickwick. Hauling mulch and manure ought to be beneath her. Of course, Maggie is an auctioneer, and Luc is a used-car salesman.
I’m
the one with the glamorous, high-income job. The tables have turned, and though there was a time I would have secretly welcomed it, guilt is more my speed.

Axel’s appearance at Bridget’s side snaps me out of my musing. I blink at my cousin, who stares expectantly at me. “I suppose you need to be paid.” I head toward the kitchen to retrieve my checkbook.

“I put it on Uncle Obe’s account,” Bridget says.

“Oh.” I turn back. “I guess he would have one with an estate this size.”

The black nylon of my cousin’s fanny pack undulates, and I remember a family gathering when my older cousin asked if I wanted to see what was in her picnic basket. Being ten or so and having heard that her father was indulging her taste in critters with exotic varieties like the sugar glider and the chameleon, I steeled myself for a four-legged creature. But there were no legs on the glistening baby boa. My scream was met by laughter and a new name—Scaredy-cat. No amount of coaxing by my mother could convince me to come out of the car, where I huddled on the floorboard.

The fanny pack stills, rustles, and stills again.

I point. “What’s in there?”

Bridget pats it. “My pet. Wanna see?”

I’ve heard that before. I cross my arms over my chest. (There is a time and a place to appear defensive.) “Is it a
snake
?”

“Oh no, a fanny pack would be all wrong for a snake. Let me show you.”

I don’t care to see it, but a glance at Axel roots me. He’s amused, but I am
not
going to run screaming for cover. Not this time.

She rubs the creature through the nylon. “Reggie? Come out and say ‘hi.’”

More undulating, and then the unzippered flap rises and a pink, ratlike nose pops out. Four-legged, then. I can handle four-legged—as long as it stays outside where it belongs.

After a round of sniffing, the whole head appears, but it doesn’t belong to an exotic animal. It belongs to one I haven’t seen in ages. With beady little black eyes, it stares at me.

“You keep a rodent for a pet?”

Bridget’s eyes flash. “She is not a rodent. She’s an opossum, a marsupial.”

A rodent to me, but why argue over our definitions of what constitutes vermin. “I don’t know much about wildlife. Speaking of which, doesn’t it belong in the wild?”

Bridget’s face turns grim. “She’s my baby now.” She strokes its head. “Her mother was hit by a car. I pulled her and her siblings off their mama’s back, but only Reggie survived, less a tail.” She lifts the rodent and turns its backside to me.

Sure enough, there’s something more than a stub, less than a tail. “So no napping upside down,” I say, hoping to end the conversation on a light note.

Bridget scowls. “You don’t know much about wildlife. Opossums’ tails are prehensile and help them stabilize while climbing. They can only hang by them for very short periods of time.”

I’m glad we cleared that up. “I didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t.” She returns Reggie to her fanny pack. “And now for the pleasure’ part of my visit.” Bridget sticks out a hand. “I’m here for my corn.”

Pickled corn is the “pleasure” part? I glance at Axel who smiles. I was
so
hoping she would forget and that her jar would replace the one I broke. “I’ll grab it for you.”