Carolina Mist (7 page)

7

T
he bells in the tower that rose sixty feet above the town hall were just chiming ten o’clock as Abby opened the door to the law offices of Tillman, Dodd, and Readinger. Mr. Tillman was waiting for her, the perky young receptionist drawled as she summoned the attorney’s secretary. The latter, a buxom blonde whose heavily perfumed self and swaying hips seemed out of place in the dignified suite o
f
offices, beckoned Abby down a hushed hallway that dead- ended at a large oak door which stood open.

The sole occupant of the room sprang forth in a flurry of goodwill to greet them.

“Well, then, Abigail McKenna, no doubt.” Horace D. Tillman, Esquire, friendly as a spaniel, extended a pudgy hand. “Come right in here
and sit yourself down. Cerise”—
he turned to his secretary—“please bring a pot of coffee and two cups in for Miz McKenna and me.”

“Yes, Uncle Horace.” The young woman cast a curiously intent glance in Abby’s direction, returning Abby’s smile with one that lacked warmth and revealed nothing behind cool gray eyes.

“The wife’s niece.” The attorney shrugged an explanation as he turned his attention to Abby. “You had a good trip, I trust?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Abby took the chair to the right of the desk as the lawyer had indicated.

“How’s it feel to be back in Primrose after all these
years?” Leila’s lawyer—short, round, balding, and sixty- five if he was a day—smiled as he seated himself behind the desk, rustling through a stack of papers with his left hand. His glasses perched on the end of his nose as if pausing before taking flight, like an oversized moth.

“Odd.” Abby nodded slowly. “Without Aunt Leila. But I’ve always loved being here. I only wish the circumstances were other than what they are.”

“Perfectly understandable, my dear.” Tillman’s glasses seemed to slide a notch farther down his nose. “Leila Cassidy was as fine a woman as ever lived in Primrose. It’s been my honor and privilege to have served as her attorney for the past twenty-five years, as my father served her for more years than I can tally up.”

“Then you knew her well.” Abby smiled.

“Oh, indeed I did. And Thomas, too, of course. He went to school with my father, so many years back. Bit of a legend around these parts, Tom Cassidy was.”

“I’m sorry I never met him. He must have been quite a character, from what Belle tells me.”

“Belle Matthews would certainly know. Her late husband, Granger, and Tom were kids together. Lifelong friends.” He leaned back in his chair to allow his secretary to place a tray in front of him. He poured a cup of steaming black coffee into a porcelain cup and passed it to Abby, along with the creamer and sugar bowl. “Tom took off to find adventure the day after high school graduation. Granger went off to college up north someplace. Came back to run his daddy’s bank—that’s long gone, of course—and marry his childhood sweetheart.”

“Belle must have been a child bride, if Granger went to school with Thomas,” Abby murmured, stirring cream into her coffee. “Belle and Leila were pretty close in age, and Thomas was much older than Leila.”

“Belle was Granger’s second wife. His first wife, Annie, took off on him after about two years or so.”

“Oh.” Abby’s eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline. “I had no idea.”

“Well, it’s a long-forgotten story.” He sipped at his coffee.
“But yes, Annie took off with their child. Story was that she left with some traveling salesman or some such.” He frowned, trying to recall the details. “Hadn’t thought about it in years. It was a big scandal, of course, small town like Primrose. ’Course, there were those who weren’t surprised, Annie Fields coming from the sort of no-account background she did, and Granger being a Matthews, son of the founding fathers, that sort of thing. My daddy handled Granger’s divorce.”

“Then Granger married Belle,” Abby noted.

“Some year or so after.” Horace shook his head, his glasses swaying slightly with the motion. “Belle was, as you say, quite younger than Granger, though, of course, they’d always known each other. Belle was friends with Granger’s sister, Josephine—she died young, Josephine did, not long out of school. Drowned out in the Sound. Guess that was when Belle first came to Granger’s attention as something more than his little sister’s friend. Wasn’t too long after that, it seems to me, that Belle and Granger were married, and order was restored to Primrose.” His eyes flashed a twinkle of mischief, as if relating some long-hidden family secret. “Belle being the daughter of one of our finer families, you know, her marrying Granger set the social order right again. All the old biddies breathed a sigh of relief, and life went on as it was meant to. All that business with Annie was promptly forgotten. Not too much longer after that, Tom Cassidy brought his bride home from someplace out west.”

“Montana,” Abby told him.

“Exactly.” He nodded more vigorously, his index finger catching the nosepiece of his spectacles to push them back at the precise second they were about to dive toward his lap. “Belle and Leila were inseparable, even in those days. Belle was the first to extend the hand of friendship to Tom’s new wife, made sure she met the right people, that sort of thing. Made it easier for Leila to fit in.”

“I doubt Aunt Leila would have difficulty fitting in anyplace.”

“Well, now, keep in mind that more than one lady in this town had her heart set on being the one to corral Tom
Cassidy, Miz McKenna. Not everyone in Primrose was happy when he showed up with a bride.” He refilled her cup. “But Belle smoothed the way for Leila, gave a big party for the newlyweds, invited all the right people, that sort of thing. Those days, Belle held a pretty lofty position in Primrose, you know, bein’ the wife of the local banker and all. If Belle Matthews included Leila Cassidy in her close circle, you can be sure the other ladies followed suit.”

“I see.” Abby pondered this bit of information.

“Yes, their friendship goes
back more years than either
you or I have seen on this earth.”

“What happened to the baby?” she asked.

“What baby?”

“Granger’s child, the one his first wife took with her when she left him.”

“Best I know, he just disappeared along with his mother.” Tillman shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, Granger hired a private detective to track them down, aiming to bring the
baby back, but he never did find a trace of them. My daddy said it was a terrible blow to Granger, losing that boy.”

“I imagine it was.” Abby could almost hear the buzz
that
must have set off in Primrose.

The lawyer tapped all ten fingers unconsciously on the desktop.

“He burned the house down.” Tillman spoke the words softly, almost as if recalling a long-forgotten secret.

“What?” Abby leaned forward, certain she had not heard correctly.

“Granger. Burned down the house he’d lived in with Annie. Not more than a week before he married Belle. At least, everyone suspected it was Granger who did it. Far as I know, no one ever asked him. He and Belle moved in with Granger’s mother—his father had already passed on, by then. Started their married life in that big house on Cove Road, right across from the old Cassidy place—your place now.”

“What a fascinating story.”

“And speaking of the Cassidy house, I guess we might as
well get down to business here,” he told her, pushing aside local lore along with his coffee cup.

Tillman opened a fat brown file and removed a thick packet of legal-sized papers.

“This here’s Miz Cassidy’s will.” He handed it to her as if it were some fragile figurine. “Take a few minutes to look through it. Let me know if you have any questions.” Again, Abby skimmed through the legalese, searching for her name. She reread the bequest
—all my worldly goods to my grand-niece, Leila Abigail McKenna
—and looked up at the lawyer to catch him studying her.

“Mr. Tillman, there’s a reference here to a safe deposit box.”

“I have the key.” He held an envelope out to her.

“And several bank accounts.” She held her breath, hoping against hope there’d be money in
one
of them.

“The bank statements are right here.” He pushed the papers face-up across the desktop.

Trying not to appear overly eager, Abby glanced through the statements slowly.

“As you can see,” he told her, “there was very little cash, once the debts against the estate—the funeral expenses and taxes on the property—were paid out.”

The sum remaining would barely put oil in the furnace. She bit her lip, hoping to hide her disappointment, then asked, “Has your fee been paid?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “The executor’s fee was deducted and paid by the bank. If you would sign here”—he pointed to a form—“and again here, here, and here, I can have a check for the remaining funds issued to you.”

She took the pen he offered her and signed line after line. “Well, then, that’s it.” He smiled. “You are now officially the owner of Number Thirty-five Cove Road. How does it feel to be a property owner?”

“Overwhelming.” She tried to return his smile, but it seemed to her that her mouth had instinctively twisted into a kind of grimace.

“What are your plans for the place, might I ask?” Tillman
glanced at his watch, then rose from his chair to indicate their business had concluded.

“Well, I’m not certain.” She gathered her purse and the envelope containing her copies of the various papers she had signed. “I was thinking
…
that is, I
was wondering…”

“Something I might help you with?” he inquired with studied courtesy.

“Well, I’m not certain that I will be staying in Primrose indefinitely.”

“Ah, I see.” He leaned back thoughtfully against the desk, his arms folding over his chest. “Would you be thinking of, at some point, putting the house up for sale?”

“Possibly.” She nodded. “Very possibly.”

“Then you would need the services of someone who could perhaps appraise the house, determine its value.”

“Yes.”

Tillman scribbled on a notepad, then handed her the paper on which he’d written a name and phone number.

“Artie Snow’s the man you want to see,” he told Abby as he escorted her through the doorway and down the hall, where the thick floral fragrance lingered. “Knows every piece of property in Primrose. Lived here all his life. If he can’t put a proper number on that house, no one can.”

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

He nodded a greeting at the woman sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs in the lobby, telling her, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Carolanne. Now, Miz McKenna, you have any questions, you need any advice, you give me a call, hear?” He took her hand and gave it a perfunctory pump.

“I’ll do that.” Abby smiled as she passed through the door he held open for her.

“By the way”—he remained in the doorway—“where will Miz Matthews be going? When you sell the house?”

“Well
…
” Abby struggled for a response.

Perfectly reading her sheepish expression, Tillman nodded knowingly. “I see. Shame, isn’t it? Belle’s the last of her kind, sure enough she is. And after
all these years in Primrose…
well, it’ll be a sad day when Belle Matthews
leaves town. Guess it can’t be helped. Now, you need any assistance tracking down her people, you give me a ring.” He said this last sadly, as if offering to volunteer to perform an odious albeit necessary duty.

Like cleaning latrines,
Abby told herself as she walked down the sidewalk and across the street toward the bank, the safe deposit box key clutched in her right hand.

8

“
L
et’s just see what we have hidden in here,” Abby murmured as she fitted the key into the small lock on the front of the large metal box, hoping against hope that it would not be as empty as the bank accounts had been.

The vault of the Primrose National Bank was as quiet as a tomb and just about as well lit. She pushed the lid back as far as it would go and turned toward the only light in the room, a small wall fixture with one bulb. Biting her bottom lip in anticipation, she reached her hand inside and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. Shuffling through them, she found the deed to the house on Cove Road, a copy of Thomas’s will, and some letters written on thin paper, yellow now with age. She tucked them into her purse to read later.

Smooth cases of flat black leather, shaped like envelopes with small buttons on their flaps, lined the bottom of the
box.

“Oh, please be something good,” she begged hopefully.

With trembling hands, she opened the top case. A necklace of amethysts the size of small birds’ eggs slid onto the table.

“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Edna!” The expletive long ago borrowed from a former McKenna housekeeper exploded from her lips.

She held it up before her, admiring the stones, their plum
hue lit by the light.
Gorgeous.
She sighed.
And worth a pretty penny, no doubt.

Holding the envelope sideways, she carefully emptied its contents onto her lap. Earrings, a bracelet, a magnificent ring, all of the same fine purple stones, sent sparks of light through the poorly lit cell.

Hallelujah.

She gently placed the amethysts on the table, and, her heart pounding, she opened the second case and coaxed out its contents. A necklace of gold, incredible in its color and design, fell into her hands. It was totally crafted into leaves, graduated in size from front to back, the longest falling almost two inches in length from the heavy gold chain that held it. The sight of it absolutely took her breath away. She had never seen anything so regal.

After lining the necklace up with the amethysts, she opened the third envelope, her hands visibly shaking now. Sapphires, brilliant blue, tumbled into her hands. Two rings, a pair of earrings, and a choker of the clear blue stones.

The last of the leather cases held emeralds—a perfectly matched set of earrings, oval-shaped stones surrounded by diamonds, a necklace, and a ring in the same lush shade of deep summer green.

The jewelry was spread out across the table in sets. She sat and stared dumbly at the rainbow of precious stones.

I may not be a gemologist, but I know the real thing when I see it. And this
—she mouthed the words silently as she fingered the gold necklace—
is definitely the real thing.

Abby wished she had a mirror there, so that she could try on each piece, just once, before she sold them. And, of course, she would sell everything, first chance she got. She had no idea of the total worth of the jewels that lay before her, but she was reasonably certain there’d be enough to pay back Belle and have a fair amount of repairs done on the house. No, there was no question about keeping the jewelry.

She fingered each piece gingerly, studying the fine workmanship, the beauty of the stones, wondering if they had
been gifts from Thomas to his bride or perhaps family pieces brought east by Leila
.
The sapphires looked familiar, and Abby wondered where she might have seen them before. She slipped a ring on her finger and held out her hand to admire the blue fire that lay deep within the large center gem. Had one of her own Dunham ancestors worn this very piece?

I can’t afford to be sentimental,
she scolded herself, sensing that it wouldn’t take much to talk herself into keeping a piece or two. Which, clearly, she could not do.

But still
…
she had lost so much of her past, maybe just
one
ring. Jus
t one little sapphire ring…

“Thank you, Aunt Leila,” she said aloud as she returned all the jewelry—with the exception of that
one
not-so-little ring—to the soft cases and stacked them back in the metal box, which she locked before leaving the room.

Next stop, the hardware store, Abby decided as she skipped jauntily down the bank’s wide steps. She drew her jacket closed against the sudden breeze and stopped on the sidewalk to orient herself. Phelps’s Hardware was to her left a few doors down from the bank. She would treat herself to a coffee maker.

Buoyed by the knowledge that the contents of the safe deposit box would more than replenish her cash, she added a toaster to the pile of light bulbs she had stacked on the counter as she introduced herself to the tall man in the plaid flannel shirt who stood behind it.

“Pete Phelps,” he told her cordially.

“Oh, then you’re the father of the carpenter.” She recalled her conversation with the gas station attendant.

“That’s right.” He nodded.

“Mr. Phel
ps…
”

“Pete.” He smiled.

“Pete, do you think your son could come out to my house—the Cassidy home—and maybe give me an idea of what needs to be fixed and how much it might cost?”

“Sure thing. I expect him back in about an hour, Miz McKenna.”

“Abby.” She returned the friendly gesture.

“I can see if he can maybe stop out late this afternoon, if that’s a good time for you, Abby.”

“I have all the time in the world, Pete,” she said as she loaded her arms with her purchases.

This is great,
she cheerfully mused as she strolled back to her car.
I can get an estimate and pay for some—maybe even all—of the work. I can pay off Leila's debt to Belle
…

Not really, she knew, her heart sinking as she started the engine of the small car.
How can Belle ever be repaid for all she did for Aunt Leila?
Abby wondered, recalling Tillman’s tale of how it had been Belle who had welcomed Leila into a strange town and offered her friendship to the newcomer.

How difficult it must have been for Aunt Leila, coming east with her new husband, a man who was years older than she, to a new town and a new lifestyle, so different from the ranch and the small town in the valleys of Montana. Leila had been close to her family, and yet she had left them all behind for Thomas’s sake. And Belle had been the one to reach out to her, to help her find her place in Primrose.

And I want to pay her back by pitching her out on her elderly little butt.
Abby grimaced.
Not pitch her out, not really, but, God, am I supposed to stay in Primrose for the rest of my natural life? Belle could outlive me and her family
…

Not that I wish her ill,
Abby hastened to add.
I just wish there was someone else to take her in, so that I can get on with my life.

Not a very gracious way to treat Leila’s best friend. And Leila did promise Belle she could stay in that house.

Forever.
She sighed as she pulled into the driveway.
I will be in Primrose forever.

But that’s just what you prayed for, years ago,
her little inner voice piped up mischievously.

That was then, and this is now,
she growled back.
That was when I was young and didn’t know any better.

And when you were in love with Alex Kane.
The little voice pricked at her.

I was sixteen years old,
she grumbled.
What does a sixteen-year-old know about love?

Seems that was as close as you ever really got,
the voice jeered.

“Enough,” she snarled aloud through clenched teeth, silencing the little whisperings inside her head as she got out of the car and slammed the door vigorously.

Forcing a cheerful tone, she called to Belle from the kitchen.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing, Abigail?” Belle watched in alarm as Abby pitched the old toaster out the back door and into the open trash can at the bottom of the steps.

“Reducing our risk of death by fire,” Abby told Belle, handing her the box containing the new appliance.

“Oh my, isn’t that handsome?” Belle admired the new
toaster.

Abby drew the new coffee maker from the bag. “And something to make my morning coffee in.”

“Coffee is for heathens,” Belle sniffed. “Ladies drink tea.”

Abby laughed as she plugged in the coffee pot and ran water through the top. She fitted the basket with a white paper filter, measured and poured in some ground coffee beans, and turned on the switch. Belle watched in amazement as the coffee began to drip down into the pot.

“Why, I never,” she declared, hands on her hips. “What will they think of next?”

“Belle, meet Mr. Coffee.” She grinned. “Would you like to try some?”

“Certainly not.” Belle filled the kettle for her tea. “But I’d surely like to try out that new toaster. Perhaps we can have an early lunch, and you can tell me about your meeting with Mr. Tillman.”

Belle was delighted with her lightly toasted bread. She spread cream cheese and cherry preserves on first one, then a second piece, proclaiming the results “Perfect!”

Abby was pleased to have given Belle a treat that was so highly regarded.

“I have another surprise,” she told Belle when they had finished eating.

“You don’t,” Belle protested, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “Truly, Abigail, this has been a day of surprises.”

“Well, as the expression goes, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I’ll be right back.”

True to her word, Abby was back in a flash, lugging her portable te
levision, which she set on the f
loor beside the table that held Leila’s old black-and-white set.

“Oh, my goodness,” exclaimed Belle. “Would you just look at the size of that screen!”

Abby smiled as she removed the old television and replaced it with her own. When she plugged it in, Belle gasped.

“Lord sakes, Abigail. The picture’s in color!”

“Belle, what show do you usually watch now?” Abby asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Why, I watch ‘The Price Is Right.’ ”

“And what channel is that on?”

Belle got up from her seat to search for the channel, but Abby waved her back to the chair.

“Here, Belle.” Abby passed a black plastic wand-type thing to her. “This is called a remote control. You press the number of the channel you want to watch, then press this button, and voila! Instant channel change.”

“Oh, good night!” The old woman chuckled with glee. “You mean I don’t even have to get up to change channels? I can do that from this chair?”

“Absolutely,” Abby assured her.

“Show me again.”

Abby did, and Belle giggled like a young girl as she skipped up and down the dial.

“Oh my, Abigail.” She laughed. “What will they think of next? Wouldn’t Leila have loved this? Channel-surfing, you say? Oh, yes, Leila would have enjoyed the remote control.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it so much.” Abby rose and stretched. “I think I’ll bring in the rest of my things
from the car. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Belle. Oh, by the way, if you want to increase the volume, you just do this.” Abby demonstrated the features of the remote control to an astounded Belle.

“Belle, when Aunt Leila sold the jewelry to buy the new refrigerator and the stove, who did she take her things to?” Abby, arms laden with suitcases, poked her head in as Belle prepared to watch her afternoon game show.

“Why, I believe the man’s name was Robinson.” Belle eyed Abby curiously as she settled in for some serious TV time. “You planning on selling something?”

“Well, I stopped in the bank and looked through Aunt Leila’s safe deposit box after I left Tillman’s office.” Abby’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah, so you found them.” Belle nodded slowly as she propped a pillow up behind her back.

“B
elle, you wouldn’t believe…
”

“Of course I would,” Belle snapped. “I know exactly what’s in that box.”

Abby set the plates back down on the table and stared at Belle.

“There were sapphires, amethysts, and a heavy gold necklace,” Belle told Abby without looking at her, “and emeralds big enough to choke a horse.”

“Well, yes.” Abby folded her arms across her chest.

“And you just can’t wait to sell them, can you?” Belle prodded her peevishly.

“Belle, it isn’t that I
want
to sell them. I just don’t see where I have a choice. I need a great deal of money to repair this house.” Abby fingered the outline of the sapphire ring in her jeans pocket, forcing herself to remain calm. “And I don’t have any. That jewelry would bring in a substantial amount of cash. I can’t understand why Aunt Leila held on to it all when she could have sold some of it to have the roof fixed, instead of borrowing money from you.”