Hidden Riches (19 page)

While he couldn't get a grasp on her wishes, something about her last will and testament quilt,
The Legacy of Ana Mae Futrell
, called to him . . . and nagged at him. The colors, so bright and cheerful, like the woman herself, and the leaves, they too especially called to him.

He wanted to touch the quilt again. To feel the smooth fabric under his fingers. Somehow, being near it and able to touch the soft material comforted him. He would have been hard pressed to explain to anyone the why of that, especially now. Toussaint was not even sure it was something he could articulate to himself, let alone someone else.

He glanced at the booklet from Everett Rollings on the passenger seat. The extra copy of the quilt image he'd requested of Mr. Rollings was taped to his fridge at home. Something about it nagged at him.

Ana Mae had made plenty of quilts through the years. Every year she donated one to the church's annual bazaar. And she'd made an outstanding one for Pastor and First Lady Leonard's tenth church anniversary, which coincided with their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Double wedding ring was the pattern, if he recalled correctly. But Ana Mae had put her own unique spin on it by adding a cross in a center medallion to symbolize their everlasting love of each other and of Christ. That blue, gold, and cream quilt was lovely and hung on their family room wall as art rather than cover a bed.

But something about the quilt Ana Mae made for herself—for her heirs—was truly special.

Toussaint le Baptiste didn't covet anything in this world, but he wanted that quilt. It spoke to him in ways he didn't quite understand. All he knew was he desperately wanted to possess that piece of the late Sister Ana Mae Futrell.

S
ince Rosalee knew more about sewing than Delcine and JoJo combined, the siblings agreed to let Rosalee go through Ana Mae's sewing room the next day.

“What's to say she didn't already take the good stuff before any of us got into town?” Delcine asked. “It's clear she's used to coming and going in this house as she pleases.”

“That's what friends do,” Clayton said. “Or so I'm told.”

He couldn't imagine any of their San Francisco friends, even the neighbor who had a key in the event of an emergency, just wandering into their home for grins and giggles or because of sheer curiosity. But here in the South, well, things were done a little differently than on the rest of the planet.

“What good stuff?” JoJo demanded. “It's a room full of fabric. Let her take it all.”

“What are we going to do about the house?” Clayton asked.

That was a question they'd all been avoiding. Clearing out Ana Mae's stuff had kept JoJo and Delcine busy since they'd arrived in North Carolina, but to what avail?

Delcine looked around. “Even with a couple of coats of paint and some new appliances, it's not going to fetch much on the market.”

“And the market is still pretty lackluster, especially around here,” Clayton said. “I looked it up before we left California.”

JoJo cleared her throat. “Uh, actually, guys, I've kind of been thinking about this.”

Her siblings turned to her, eyebrows raised in question.

But a knock at a door and Rosalee's “Hey, y'all, anybody home?” interrupted.

“We're back here,” Clayton hollered toward the kitchen since Rosalee usually came in the side door.

A moment later, she bustled into the room, followed by two plumpish women who could have been sisters or twins or mother and daughter.

“I brought a couple of the ladies from the Holy Ghost Bee over to take a look at the fabric.”

Clayton stepped out of the room to give the women more room to get inside. JoJo was near the window, Delcine sitting in the chair at the sewing machine. Two of the walls were lined with built-in cubbies containing all types and colors of fabrics. One wall served as a design space, with blocks and fabric pinned to it. There was even space for a couple of shelves of pattern books and binders and a small television. And a camera bag hung from a hook next to a corkboard that held all manner of magazine pages and pieces of paper ripped and pinned up.

“Lord, have mercy,” one of the women exclaimed. “It's like Elnora Rogers's store.”

“Better than Elnora's,” her companion said, squeezing over to fondle the fabric. “Look at these batiks.”

Rosalee grinned. “I told you all Ana Mae had a sewing room to die for.”

If she realized the irony of what she said, neither Rosalee nor her guests gave any indication.

“It look like a rainbow threw up in here.”

Delcine and Clayton scowled at that one.

“Betty and Hetty Johnson, these here are Ana Mae's sisters and brother.”

Rosalee made the rest of the introductions. One of the Johnsons embraced Delcine in a hug that clearly wasn't reciprocated. But JoJo hugged her back hard.

“I sure was sorry to hear about Ana Mae,” Betty or Hetty said. “But her homegoing was something else. She woulda loved that service. And you,” she said, letting JoJo go and heading over to Clayton. “That tribute to her,” Hetty or Betty patted her chest. “You done Ana Mae proud, Mr. Clayton. You done her proud.”

When tears welled up in the woman's eyes, Clayton glanced at Rosalee. But she was busy pointing out some aspect of Ana Mae's sewing machine to the other Johnson. Clayton murmured a few words that sounded consoling and offered the woman a tissue from the box on a shelf.

A few minutes later, the sewing room was cleared of Futrells. JoJo went off to make coffee for their guests, while Clayton and Delcine went to the living room to talk.

“Have you and Archer made any progress on any of the other clues?”

Clayton moved a box of newspaper-wrapped knickknacks out of the chair and onto the floor before taking a seat.

“Not really,” he said, deciding to keep the Everett Rollings as Howard's father theory private for now. “And despite what that idiot Lester did, I think Rollings was being straight up. I don't think any of these so-called clues are really tangible things.”

“What do you mean? The quilt is a tangible item; so was that lottery ticket that launched all of this.”

“Speaking of that ticket,” Clayton said. He got up to peruse the carefully labeled boxes. He paused at the one marked
IMPORTANT PAPERS
. “We need to figure out what Ana Mae's connection is with David Bell.”

“We know already,” Delcine said. “He's from that Zorin Corporation in Ohio.”

“But how did they meet? What was she visiting him for?”

Delcine snorted out a half-laugh. “Well, seeing as how our big sister apparently led a life that none of us knew anything about, I'd say she was going to get her some.”

“Some what?” Clayton said. Then, “Oh.” He scowled. “Since when do you talk like that?”

Delcine shrugged. “Apparently, North Carolina is a bad influence on me.”

Clayton pulled out one of the envelopes in the important papers box, a large white one. Inside he found an annual report. On the cover and in the middle, almost like a quilt medallion was a big
Z.
Photographs, presumably of customers or people important to the company formed the inside of the
Z.
He peered at it more closely.

“It can't be.”

“What?”

Distracted, Clayton moved closer to a lamp, leaning down to see better. Sure enough, among the photos was Ana Mae. David Bell had his arm thrown around her shoulder, and the two grinned at the camera from one of the collage of photographs.

“Hey, you all,” JoJo called. “Come take a look at what we found!”

Clayton and Delcine glanced at each other, then, almost as one, dashed to the sewing room.

“What is it?” Delcine said, beating Clayton to the doorway.

They both clearly expected to find riches hidden among the bolts and cuts of fabric. But the Johnsons, Rosalee, and JoJo were all focused on a binder.

“It's the quilts,” JoJo said, wonder in her voice. “Every single one that Ana Mae ever made.”

“Huh?”

“She kept a record,” Rosalee explained. “It's a quilt journal. She tells the story of every quilt she ever made and gave away to someone. There are even pictures.”

“And this one,” JoJo said, holding up an identical large three-ring binder, “has all of the quilts that she ever entered in a contest or fair, and even the prizes she won.”

One of the Johnsons, Hetty or Betty, stood over JoJo's chair. The other one stood next to Rosalee as they thumbed through the binder. Each sheet, in a page protector, had a photo of a quilt. On the other side was information on the dimensions of the piece, small cuts of the fabric used to make it, the date it was made, and whom it was made for, as well as the techniques used and whether it was an original design or made from a pattern. Some of the back sides featured pictures of Ana Mae with the quilt recipient, both smiling, with the quilt also prominently displayed.

It was a study in provenance and background.

“There are two more binders just like these,” Rosalee said, pointing to the shelf. “I never knew Ana Mae paid so much attention to these details. Shoot, I've made stuff and given it away and couldn't tell you who I made it for or gave it to if you paid me.”

“Ooh, look at that one,” JoJo exclaimed, pointing to a photo in the binder Rosalee held. “That is gorgeous!”

The blue, gold, and cream king-size quilt had a cross in the middle of it.

Rosalee looked over. “Oh, she made that for Pastor and Sister Leonard's anniversary. They don't use it on their bed, though. They said it was too pretty for that, so they have it hanging up on the wall, like a picture.”

“A tapestry,” Clayton said.

None of the women paid him any mind.

“Here's my favorite one,” Rosalee said. “She made this for my niece when she graduated from the Duke University law school. She's a lawyer up in D.C. now, working for the government in the Justice Department. That's my sister's girl, and we're all really proud of her. Ana Mae put a lot of love into that quilt.”

JoJo fingered the image of a quilt made with blues and yellows. The color combination reminded her of a picture she'd seen of a French countryside. She'd decorated her own kitchen in the color palette. It amazed her what Ana Mae could create with just the stuff in this room.

Fabric and thread. A sewing machine. And a lot of love.

“I think she put love into all of her quilts,” JoJo said.

It did not take a genius to see that the Futrells were causing a stir in Drapersville. But the spectacle that had been Ana Mae's funeral paled when compared to the law being called out to her house for crowd control the previous day. And unfortunately for Everett Rollings and Sheriff Dan Daughtry, the weekly
Drapersville Times & Review
had gotten wind of the call and made it the lead story on the front page. The story was written by Eric Peters, the owner and editor of the paper.

Reluctantly, Everett Rollings admitted to himself that he would have done the same thing if he'd been the editor of the newspaper and something like that had happened right on deadline for the next edition. Nothing that interesting had happened in Drapersville in quite some time.

That did not, however, mean Rollings had to like it. And now he hoped to get in a bit of damage control, even though the damage had clearly already been carried out in the name of the First Amendment and that most sacred of Southern commandments, interpreted as a constitutional entitlement—the people's right to know their neighbors' business.

“Dammit, Everett. Why didn't you give me a heads-up about this?”

“Because there was nothing to give you a heads-up about.”

Rollings tossed the newspaper on Sheriff Daughtry's desk. This was the sort of conversation that needed to take place in person, so he'd driven to the county government building before a consultation with a newly bereaved family.

“That photograph makes it look like two hundred people were gathered there. That is just not true. And despite that headline,” he said pointing to
H
IDDEN
R
ICHES
?
in big, bold type, there is not any money buried in Ana Mae Futrell's yard.”

The sheriff eyed the photo. “How do you know for sure? Deputy Howard said it was like a mob over there.”

Rollings threw up his hands. “Oh, for God's sake, Danny. You are sounding like that idiot brother-in-law of hers. You knew her, and she was not a foolish woman. All of Ana Mae Futrell's money is right where it should be, in banks and investments earning compound interest for her estate.”

“Hmm. She really was rich?”

Rollings nodded. “But the only tangible assets of financial value are the savings bonds she purchased for her two nieces and her nephew. And those are going out to each of them from my office via certified mail first thing in the morning.”

That comment drew the sheriff's attention away from the newspaper and to the lawyer and undertaker.

“Certified mail? Why? That's pretty expensive for a couple of savings bonds.”

If Rollings's skin wasn't so dark, the man would have blushed. As it was, he cleared his throat a couple of times. “Well, sheriff. To say it is a couple of savings bonds is rather disingenuous.”

The sheriff frowned at the complicated word, but refrained from saying anything.

“In truth,” the funeral director-cum-lawyer said, “she had been saving up and buying bonds for the kids for years, ever since they were infants. I told her there were better ways to invest for them, better returns that she could get on her money. But she liked what she called ‘good, old-fashioned United States of America brand savings bonds.' She bought them like clockwork—years ago in small denominations, but later in one-hundred- and two-hundred-dollar-face-value certificates. The Treasury Department doesn't even issue paper bond certificates anymore.”

Sheriff Daughtry leaned back in his chair but carefully eyed Everett. “How many years' worth of savings bonds?”

“The oldest niece is twenty-one or twenty-two years old now, and the other two are teenagers, fifteen and seventeen or sixteen and eighteen.”

Daughtry whistled. “That's a sweet gift from Aunt Ana Mae.”