Hidden Riches (13 page)

“I have a question,” Rosalee said, raising her hand like a schoolgirl.

“I need another copy,” Reverend Toussaint said at the same time.

“For what?” Delcine snapped.

Rollings held up a hand to stave off any other outbursts. He nodded to his assistant, who without question gave the minister a second copy.

Delcine's glower made her impression perfectly clear.

“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins?”

“How long is this supposed to take?”

“Until someone calls me saying he or she has completed the task. At that point, I will convene a meeting of all the heirs.”

“Are there any other instructions before we begin, Mr. Rollings?”

The question to get them back on track came from Clayton.

They had all been obsessing about the why of Ana Mae's actions. All Clayton wanted to do was get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible so he could get the hell out of North Carolina and back to civilization. For half of his life, he'd dreamed of one day escaping and never, ever coming back. Now he was stuck here in Drapersville and Ahoskie, fooling around with Ana Mae's torture from the grave.

What should have been a two-day—three-day at the absolute maximum—trip to North Carolina was now turning into what quickly and clearly was stretching into a prison sentence. A sentence with no parole.

He should have opted out, taken the ten grand, and walked away. That would have been the smart move.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Rollings said, answering Clayton's question.

Resigned to purgatory, Clayton released a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair.

Archer placed a hand along the back of the chair. Their gazes met for a moment, and Clayton's heart kicked over. He relished the small intimacy and dared not move even an inch.

“Everyone has a booklet with the images of the quilt,” Rollings said. “I estimate that it may take you approximately a week to . . .”

“A week!”

Clayton and Delcine shrieked simultaneously.

“. . . do what you need to do. Please leave with Maria telephone numbers where you can be reached. And Dr. Futrell and Mrs. Foster, a week is just an estimate. If you would like to take longer, that would be fine.”

“Longer? Here in Drapersville and Ahoskie?” Clayton looked horrified. “I don't think so.”

“And as I told Mrs. Jenkins, you may find that you do not need more than an afternoon.”

“That's more like it,” Clayton said, jumping up. “Let's get this farce over with.”

He didn't want to spend a moment longer than he had to in this hick town. He'd sworn off North Carolina and all of its tiny hamlets a long time ago. And he had absolutely no intention of getting stuck or sucked back into one at this point in his life.

He couldn't stand it, and his relationship with Archer wouldn't survive it.

“What's wrong, Clay?” Archer asked.

He was having a hard time, that's what was wrong. “I didn't anticipate that we'd have to be here that long.”

Toussaint studied the younger man, then looked at the quilt, his brow furrowed.

Noticing the minister's focus on Clayton, Archer asked him. “Something wrong, Reverend?”

“No, son, nothing's wrong. I was just admiring Ana Mae's quilt.”

In truth, Toussaint was wondering why Ana Mae had him involved in this treasure hunt. That's all that it really could be called, despite what Everett Rollings said. Sister Futrell had already made a generous contribution to the church—several, in fact—which were far and above a ten percent tithe. Did she mean for him to win and keep the money personally?

Lord, just the thought boggled his mind.

But knowing Ana Mae, and they went way back, maybe the millions were for the building fund. The Good Lord knew that without a serious infusion of cash, it would take another ten or so years for the congregation to raise the money that would let them build without debt. There were so many souls out there who needed saving. Ana Mae knew that.

The additional money from her estate could carry on the kingdom business of bringing souls to Christ . . . or giving them a step up in the world. Everybody needed a little help now and then. Ana Mae Futrell knew that and spent much of her life doing something about it in her own way. The Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer focused on providing that help and uplifting the community through its various outreach ministries.

Ana Mae also knew what it meant to sacrifice. That concept was one most people either glossed over or didn't even believe in these days. Going without so someone else could benefit was anathema to most folks. Ana Mae, however, was different. She'd always been different, and that was one of the things he'd always liked about her, even when they were kids, growing up poor and black in a poor and mostly black town.

“Does anyone have any additional questions?”

Rollings's query drew Toussaint le Baptiste out of his reverie and back on the challenge before him. Right then and there he committed himself to the challenge from Sister Futrell.

With Rosalee's help, he knew he would win.

T
rey Rollings's main problem working at his father's funeral home was that no one believed that he had actually followed his father into the family business. While Everett Rollings tended to look the part—a mix of somber empathy and concern—Trey seemed to always come across like a frat boy doing community service before heading out for his next wild weekend of debauchery. He was the exact opposite of his homebody brother, who had to be coaxed to leave Drapersville long enough to go away to college.

Not for the first time since starting his mortuary apprenticeship, a potential client eyed him with distrust. For today's client meeting he wore a gray suit instead of the blue blazer, gray slacks, and shirt of a mortuary intern. Dressing the part helped his image as a competent professional.

“I thought Mr. Rollings was going to be handling the arrangements for my brother,” the octogenarian said. “Are you sure you have enough experience? Everything has to be just perfect for Waldo.”

“Mrs. Weatherby,” Trey said deliberately, slowing his un-Southern tendency to talk fast, a trait directly attributed to his Yankee mother. “I assure you that the full service and attention to detail that has always been a hallmark of Rollings Funeral Home will be focused on you and your family's needs.”

He wanted to call her on the fact that he too was a Mr. Rollings, but he knew better than that, so he did the next best thing. Trey pulled a business card from a small case in his suit coat pocket and handed it to her.

Taking the card, Annie Weatherby eyed him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You don't look much like your daddy. As a matter of fact, you tend to favor somebody else. I just cannot put my finger on who, though.”

He bit back a sigh. He'd heard that before from people of a certain age who believed in blurting out whatever rude thought crossed their small minds at any given moment. Unlike his father, who steadfastly refused to believe anyone knew their little secret, Trey was sure that plenty of people around town knew but were too polite to say anything.

Mrs. Weatherby pulled up her glasses from the beaded chain on her neck and peered at the business card.

“Everett H. Rollings the third,” she read aloud.

“Yes, ma'am. But people just call me Trey for short.”

“Hmmph,” Mrs. Weatherby said, clearly not approving of nicknames, or at least his nickname. “Is Mr. Rollings a junior? I didn't know that.”

Trey pulled on the reserve of patience his mortuary mentor tried to instill in him. “Yes, ma'am, he is. But since his own father passed away many years ago, he doesn't use the ‘Junior.' ”

For what it was worth, not that Trey would tell the clearly grieving in her own busybody way Mrs. Weatherby, his father didn't use the “Junior” moniker even before that. Everett Rollings was no one's junior. On official documents, he was listed simply as Everett H. Rollings II.

“I find it peculiar that you refer to the elder Mr. Rollings as your father's father rather than as your grandfather.”

Trey knew where this was going and had no intention of playing her game. He simply smiled at her.

When her comment didn't elicit the favored response, Mrs. Weatherby looked at the engraved business card again. “And what does the H in your name stand for?” she wanted to know.

Trey was saved from having to answer or engage her any further when the door was pushed open.

“We're all ready for you, Mrs. Weatherby,” said Christopher Coles, the senior family counselor who was training Trey.

“Mrs. Weatherby, I was glad to be of assistance to you. And again, I am very sorry for your loss,” Trey said graciously.

“Hmmph,” the old woman said, as Trey assisted her from her chair and handed her off to Christopher. “Mr. Rollings sure has a lot of help around here. Does he do any work anymore? I'm not paying good money to have a passel of trainees and amateurs . . .”

The rest of her complaint mercifully faded away as Christopher led her into the adjoining showroom—not that Everett Rollings allowed any of his employees to call it such. The only reason Trey had been stuck with the old biddy in the first place was to allow another grieving family time to complete making their casket choices and be ushered into one of the client lounges.

It was the end of his workday at the funeral home, and Trey couldn't wait to get out of the suit. He had a date in Virginia Beach that night and had no plans to keep the lovely lady, a woman he'd met while doing his other job, waiting a moment longer than necessary.

 

 

In his room at the bed-and-breakfast, Archer Futrell-Dahlgren considered his options. As a lawyer, he knew how to obstruct and/or obviate the truth without breaking either the law or client confidentiality. And for the last eight months, he'd been doing just that. Clayton would be furious. But, Archer wondered, would his longtime partner consider the sin of omission enough to convict him?

Did Archer care?

Hmm. Therein lay his moral dilemma.

Clayton was a wonderful man, and Archer did indeed love him. Was it, however, enough?

For the last dozen years he and Clayton had been devoted to each other, for ten years as domestic partners. They owned a spectacular home together as well as a weekend pied-à-terre in Monterey. Of all their friends and acquaintances, gay and straight, their relationship was viewed as the most solid. But it had all changed eight months ago when his sister-in-law Ana Mae Futrell contacted him.

She wanted him to do some legal work for her.

At first, he'd been flattered that she'd sought him out. Although they had not been successful in getting her to come to California to visit, she kept in regular touch via the occasional telephone call, and she always remembered their birthdays and their anniversary.

When she'd explained to him what she wanted him to do, Archer had had his doubts. Taking Ana Mae on as a client meant one hell of a conflict of interest.

“Why are you telling me this?” he'd asked her.

Ana Mae's answer had been as simple as it was profound. “Because you love him as much as I do,” she'd said.

Recalling the conversation now, Archer sighed.

She had not expected any of this to matter for a long, long time. How could she have known that an aneurysm would take her at such a relatively young age?

Archer sighed again. What he knew could change everything.

The question eating at him was a simple one: Was he willing to trade all they had now for a chance to get more?

He zipped open the hidden compartment on his carry-on bag, extracted the damning evidence, and carried it to the bathroom of their suite at the bed-and-breakfast.

Before ethics kicked in, before he changed his mind, and before he could conjure the hurt sure to be in Clayton's eyes, he lit a match to destroy the evidence.

But it was already too late. He couldn't do it. Not even for a client. The match burned down and licked at his finger. Archer dropped it in the toilet and shook his hand, rubbing the area that had been singed by the small flame.

The document, embossed with the seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia, was still in his other hand. It should have been incinerated, with the other charred bits of paper now floating on the surface of the water. But he couldn't do it. Not this.

He expected guilt to assail him.

It was the first time in his career that he'd ever betrayed a client. He thought he might feel a stab or at least a twinge of guilt.

None ever came.

For the first time in her life, Rosalee Jenkins was alone. Really and truly alone. Ana Mae had always been like a sister to her; the two were closer than if they'd been birthed by the same mother, closer than Ana Mae was with either Delcine or JoJo.

Now, with Ana Mae gone, Rosalee didn't know how she would survive. At least five times a day, she'd reach for her phone to tell Ana Mae something funny she'd seen on TV or overheard at the post office.

There had been no secrets between them—at least that's what Rosalee always believed. Until the obituary appeared in the
Times & Review.

Ana Mae had a son.

Who the hell was Howard?

In all the years the two had been road dogs, Ana Mae had never, ever, not even once, so much as hinted that she'd had a child.

“Why'd you leave that part out, sister?”

Rosalee stared up at the ceiling as if expecting Ana Mae's voice or visage to come from above.

She sighed, knowing better, but still missing her friend.

Then there was the business of that quilt. It was all pretty ordinary, a simple telling of Ana Mae's life in stitches and fabric. Ana Mae had made far prettier ones, and instead of selling them, she'd simply given them away as gifts.

Rosalee smiled. Except for the one the Futrells paid five hundred dollars to get back.

It was wrong what she'd done. Purely out of spite toward that hateful Delcine. Rosalee had hoped that Miss High and Mighty would have to pay for the quilt over at Eddie Spencer's place, but Clayton had ended up doing it. She wasn't too happy about that, especially since she'd always liked Clay.

There sure wasn't anything special about that quilt, except for all the appliqué. And if anyone would know, it was Rosalee, since she'd seen Ana Mae working on the thing and had given it no more thought than any of the other projects in Ana Mae's sewing baskets. It had taken a long time for her to make that quilt. It was Ana Mae's never-ending project.

“Just a little something for me,” she would tell Rosalee.

Ana Mae called it a legacy.

Little did Rosalee know or realize just how much of a legacy that quilt would be.

“Are you playing some kind of game with your kin, Ana Mae?”

The question, like all her queries to her dead friend, was directed heavenward.

That seemed the only logical explanation Rosalee had come up with since the day Everett Rollings dropped that bomb of a will.

She couldn't fault Ana Mae for leaving her money to her family. She'd gifted Rosalee with a more than generous amount that was now sitting in the First Trust and Union Bank. What hurt, what Rosalee took as a personal insult, was the secret of Ana Mae's son, Howard.

Heaving a sigh, she pushed herself up out of the chair in her living room. “Come on, Rosalee. You can sit here feeling sorry for yourself, or you can go find some answers.”

The self-directed pep talk spurred her into action.

Clayton, Delcine, and JoJo could run around town figuring out quilt clues and stuff that made no natural sense at all, since it was clear as day what the quilt meant. Rosalee would solve the real mystery. And she knew just where to start.