Hidden Riches (11 page)

“I
wouldn't pay five hundred dollars for that pile of raggedy scraps,” Delcine said, as the trio piled into the Lincoln Town Car that Clayton and Archer had rented at the airport in Norfolk.

The seventy-mile drive from Norfolk International Airport in Virginia and across the border into Clayton's North Carolina hometown had been made in stony silence since he and Archer had little to say to each other these days. Now, however, with his bickering sisters going at it, Clayton longed for the solitude of a peaceful drive.

“First of all,” JoJo said from the backseat, “you didn't pay for it. Clayton did.”

JoJo, relegated to the back seat because Delcine claimed she got carsick if she didn't ride up front, was already pissed about being in the back, so her attitude should have been expected. There was no point in saying that riding in the back seat was like being chauffeured. JoJo wouldn't see it that way, not with Delcine riding shotgun.

Clayton bit back a small smile. It was like the years had fallen away and they were all kids again. Then he remembered, although vaguely, somebody throwing up all over the floor of a car, maybe a taxi, and getting cussed out by somebody. The memory, hazy around the edges, could have come from thirty years ago—or last month when he was in L.A. at a medical conference..

He couldn't recall and, on a sigh, decided it wasn't worth the effort expending any more mental energy to figure it out.

Squabbling sisters, gotta love 'em.

“And secondly,” JoJo said, “whether you'd pay five dollars or not is irrelevant. Ana Mae thought it was important enough to leave us this quilt.”

“Which,” Delcine added, “Clayton wouldn't have had to pay five hundred dollars for if you hadn't thrown it away in the first place.”

“Hey, guys,” Clayton said, “can we not fight? The important thing is we have it, and now we can figure out what it means. Let's just get it over to the lawyer's office.”

The mention of the lawyer shifted the conversation and elicited twin harrumphs from the sisters.

“What kind of name is Too Sweet for a preacher?” JoJo asked.

“I think his initials are T.S.,” Delcine said. “Toussaint something or other.”

“I'll bet he was named for Toussaint Louverture,” Clayton said.

“Toussaint who?”

“God, JoJo,” Delcine scolded, as she turned around long enough to roll her eyes at her sister. “Were you paying any attention at all in high school? He was that guy down in Jamaica . . .”

“Haiti,” Clayton corrected.

“Whatever. He was in the Caribbean and led a slave revolt.”

“Well, I'm gonna lead a revolt right here in Drapersville and Ahoskie if that preacher walks off with all of Ana Mae's money,” JoJo said. “And I still don't know why somebody who calls himself a man of God would let people run around calling him Too Sweet.”

Delcine twisted to the left so she could see JoJo in the backseat.

“It's a nickname, JoJo. Like ‘JoJo.' You know how folks are around here. Forty years ago, he probably gave some girl a dandelion weed in the schoolyard and she said, ‘Oh, Toussaint, you're just too sweet.' ”

The falsetto of Delcine's voice and the baby-doll singsong had both Clayton and JoJo smiling.

“And from that moment on and until the undertakers close his casket and put him six feet under, a grown man can walk the streets of North Carolina, be a pastor at a church, and still be known to one and all as Too Sweet.”

Laughter filled the vehicle as the siblings nodded, knowing that Delcine's summation had more than a ring of truth to it.

Delcine always could mimic people, and her take on the origin of the nickname was probably as spot-on as her imitation of a smitten little girl all those years ago.

Facing front again, Delcine looked out the window. They rolled past cotton fields on one side of the road and a large, dilapidated trailer park on the other.

The landscape was as depressing as ever, and she said so.

“What did you think was going to change?” Clayton said. “Think about it. We've been gone from this hellhole for a long time. And we all live in large, vibrant cities. North Carolina is just as backwoods country as it's always been.”

“Not all of North Carolina,” JoJo said from the back seat. “I hear Charlotte and Raleigh are pretty nice.”

“What's the address for the lawyer's office?” Clayton asked.

“It's right behind the funeral home on Clifton Street,” said JoJo, the family's internal GPS system. “That's weird too. The undertaker is a lawyer.”

Clayton chuckled. “I thought the same thing. But Archer says it's not that odd. Think about it. Undertakers deal with a lot of legal issues. And it's a really small town. You've been in Vegas and out of Carolina too long, sis.”

JoJo grunted.

“You have that right,” Delcine said. “I'm getting twitchy just being back here.”

Clayton glanced over at her. “I thought it was just me.”

Ten minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of Ana Mae's quilt in the lawyer's office. Rollings and his secretary used fat binder clips to secure it along the back of two flip-chart easels.

The Futrell siblings wanted to immediately begin dissecting the quilt blocks, but Everett Rollings put them in a small waiting room while the other heirs and the spouses were summoned to his office.

“We should have just gone straight to Ana Mae's house from that junk store,” Delcine fumed.

“It's too late now,” JoJo said.

Clayton was near the window, tapping furiously on his phone.

“What's he doing?” JoJo asked.

“Probably having a fight with his boyfriend.”

“I can hear you, Delcine,” Clayton said.

“We know,” JoJo answered back and winked at her sister.

Clayton went back to his texting, and they all cooled their heels for almost thirty more minutes before Everett Rollings's secretary, Maria, summoned them into the conference room at the law office.

Delcine and JoJo nodded at but didn't say anything to Rosalee.

Toussaint le Baptiste was standing in front of the colorful quilt, gazing at the images as if transfixed by the colors.

At the bottom was a large tree. Its leaves carried through the entire quilt, almost as if there were two images in one: a traditional quilt with nine picture squares, and then the flowering tree encompassing it all.

“It's pretty, isn't it?” Maria said.

Reverend Toussaint nodded. “Ana Mae always did like a lot of color. Look at the flowers,” he said, pointing toward the base of the tree, where flowers in vibrant reds, golds, and oranges bloomed in profusion. “There's a lot going on in this quilt.”

Everett Rollings approached. “And there's a lot at stake,” he said. Then, “Reverend le Baptiste, if you'll take a seat. Everyone, please.”

When all of the heirs were seated at the table, the lawyer/undertaker picked up a long, thin pointer and walked to the quilt. From where he stood, all of Ana Mae's heirs had unobstructed views of the piece.

“As you can see, Ana Mae's quilt was made up of nine blocks, each approximately twelve inches long and wide. The quilt will remain here . . .”

“But . . . ,” three people began in protest.

Everett held up a hand to stop the assorted and varied objections. “But,” he said, “my assistant has taken digital photos of the front, the back, the label, and detail images of each block. You each will receive a copy of all of the photos. That way, you can review them at your leisure. The original quilt will remain here, secure, until your quest is completed. Are there any questions?”

There being none, he nodded. “All right, now to review.”

Several groans, the most audible from Lester, echoed around the room.

“You're free to go at any time, Lester,” Clayton said. “You're only here because you think you can claim some of Ana Mae's money.”

Lester pointed a stubby finger at his brother-in-law. “That's right, and I predict you don't get a dime. We're gonna win this game,” he said with a gesture toward JoJo.

“Lester, please,” JoJo said.

But Delcine jumped into the defense of her sister. “The only reason you are even here, Lester, is because . . .”

“People,” Everett Rollings interjected, “there is no need for this division. Ana Mae's will is very specific about who will inherit and why. Let us take a moment to review.”

When everyone had settled back into their seats—Lester quiet but with his arms folded and a scowl directed toward Delcine and Clayton, who sat next to each other—the lawyer started again.

“The stipulations of the last will and testament of Miss Ana Mae Futrell are clear. The person or people who individually or collectively solve the mystery of the quilt will equally divide and inherit the full estate, less the personal bequests noted the other day. In addition, the person who solves the mystery of the quilt will receive the quilt as well.”

“What if we solve it together?” JoJo asked.

“That's what collectively means, Jo,” Archer said, his voice gentle and not mocking, as Delcine's would have been.

JoJo nodded. “Oh. Okay. Go on, Mr. Rollings.”

The lawyer splayed his left hand toward JoJo. “Just as you cut a side deal with your siblings to be allowed back in the quest, I am sure you all will overcome your differences. If you would like to establish a contractual agreement, someone here in the office can do that, or we can refer you to another firm in the area for independent representation.”

Clayton looked at each of his sisters, who shook their heads, and then at the lawyer. “That won't be necessary.”

“Hmmph,” Lester muttered. “Maybe it will be. You got your own personal lawyer sitting right there next to you.”

Archer didn't take the bait, and under the table he placed a restraining hand on Clayton's thigh to still his likely reply to Lester.

“Do you need time to discuss the matter?” Rollings asked them all.

“We need to get on with what we're supposed to do with that quilt,” Reverend le Baptiste said.

Delcine glared at him, but JoJo tapped her sister's arm. “He's right,” she said. “Let's just get on with it.”

Rosalee cleared her throat—loudly, but she could have been biting back laughter.

Rollings looked at each of the heirs, holding the individual gazes for more than a moment. He had a few ideas about what Ana Mae was after here, but it was not his place to say. He had been keeping Ana Mae Futrell's secrets all these years. As far as Everett was concerned, he would keep on keeping them—just as she had kept his about his own sons.

He doubted that any of the people in the room had a clue. Maybe Rosalee Jenkins, Ana Mae's dearest friend. But, Everett Rollings knew, even Rosalee did not know Ana Mae's biggest secret.

His secretary, Maria, came into the room, her arms full with spiral-bound booklets. Everett had paid extra for a rush on the job to get the photographs for the heirs.

“Here are your photocopies,” he said, as Maria began passing them out, one each to Clayton Futrell, Marguerite Delcine Futrell Winslow, Josephine Futrell Coston, Rosalee Jenkins, and the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste.

Rosalee raised her hand.

“Mrs. Jenkins, you have a question?”

Rosalee looked at the siblings, then at Toussaint le Baptiste, and finally back at Everett Rollings. “I just want you to explain one more time what my stake in this is. Ana Mae left me that bank account. Am I supposed to be going after the quilt clues too?”

The solicitor consulted a sheaf of papers on the table, then met her gaze. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. I encouraged Ana Mae to be more specific, but she only said what she did. You are to oversee the distribution of her sewing supplies and equipment and be present at the reading of the will. Since this meeting is a part of that process, I made sure you were also invited.”

“But Too Sweet, I mean, Reverend le Baptiste does have a stake?”

“Yes,” Rollings said, “he does.”

Rosalee nodded, as if the answer confirmed some unspoken assessment. She reached for her pocketbook and rose. “Well, there's no need for me to be here as far as I can see.”

Toussaint reached out. “Stay, Sister Rosalee. Please. You can be my guest.”

She looked at him. “But . . .”

“Moral support,” he said, flicking his eyes toward the siblings.

For a moment, Rosalee hesitated. And then she smiled. “Okay, Too . . . I mean Reverend Toussaint. For moral support and in memory of Ana Mae.”

Clayton narrowed his eyes, considering the preacher and Rosalee Jenkins. Maybe le Baptiste was one of those pimp in the pulpit types. Rosalee was over there batting her eyelashes like a woman flirting with an available man.

For his part, Toussaint le Baptiste didn't look like a typical black Baptist preacher. He was tall, a few inches taller than Clayton's own six-foot frame, and more wiry than thin. He sported a thin moustache and wore his still-thick hair combed straight back, a slight wave evident and a curl at the ends as if he were overdue for a visit to the barbershop. Toussaint put Clayton in mind of a much older El DeBarge.

If Clayton were to guess, and he did, there was some biracial or tri-racial ancestry in the preacher's blood, his French-Creole name further advancing the theory of a mixed lineage.

Maybe it was just one of those things where women were attracted to their ministers. Clayton didn't get it.