Hidden Riches (2 page)

Years as both a bureaucrat and a Beltway wife had taught Marguerite Delcine Futrell Foster how to sound sincere without meaning a word of what she said.

In a way, she was sorry that Ana Mae had died. But part of her was glad. Her last tie to this dismal little town was finally severed and she was freed from the past. Of course, her present didn't rank as anything to be proud of—or to write home about, even if she'd wanted to.

Ana Mae had always been mean to her, as far as Marguerite was concerned. She steadfastly ignored the fact that had it not been for her older sister's little white envelopes arriving a few times every semester, she'd have never made it through college.

But that was neither here nor there now. Water under the bridge. Ancient history. Buried, just like Ana Mae would be before long.

“The services will be here,” Marguerite said. “Tomorrow, at eleven.”

The preacher cleared his throat.

“Uh, pardon me, Sister Futrell.”

“Foster,” Marguerite corrected.

He bobbed his head, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed his forehead. “Sister Foster. The funeral tomorrow will be at the church. Sister Ana Mae wanted a church funeral.”

Marguerite bit back rising panic. She glanced at her brother and sister. Clayton was eyeing a young man across the room. JoJo gave her a “don't even think about it” look.

Marguerite gestured for the undertaker. Mr. Rollings glided toward the front of the parlor and sidled next to Marguerite.

She gestured for him to lean down so she could consult with him privately.

“We will not pay for limousine and hearse services to cart that casket all over town.”

Rollings opened his mouth, apparently thought better of whatever he was about to say, then bowed his head ever so slightly.

“Transportation is included in the cost of our services, Mrs. Foster.”

Marguerite brightened. “Oh, well, in that case.” She looked back out at the crowd and a little too cheerfully announced, “Tomorrow morning at eleven at . . . ,” she looked at Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste.

“At the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer,” he said. “I think everybody knows where it is.”

As restrained and respectful chatter again filled the viewing parlor, Rollings put a hand on Marguerite's elbow, guiding her away from the casket.

“I need to speak with the members of the family,” he said. “We can meet in my office. It's about some of Miss Futrell's final wishes.”

Delcine's gaze darted to her husband's. She jerked her head for him to join her.

Rollings held out a hand toward JoJo and Clayton, indicating he'd like them to join him as well.

“I'll just wait for you here,” said a man standing just behind Clayton.

Like Clayton, he looked ready to be photographed for the cover of a magazine. The dark-blue striped suit, crisp white shirt, wing tips, and cuff links pegged him as a man who paid attention to detail. The clothes, the ice-blue eyes, and his blond hair, slicked back and effortless in its salon perfection, gave him the look of one of those rich white men in Ralph Lauren ads.

“No,” Clayton said, reaching for the man's hand. Then, as if remembering where he was, he instead tucked his hand in the pocket of his trousers. “You're my family. I want you to hear whatever it is he has to say.”

Marguerite's husband, Winslow Foster, the man of few words, fell into step behind her.

Lester and JoJo Coston followed him.

“This better not be about paying some more money to bury that broad,” Lester grumbled.

“You have that right, Lester,” Winslow muttered.

Almost simultaneously, JoJo hissed “shut up” to Lester, and on a long-suffering sigh, Marguerite, said, “Winslow, please.”

As the family made its way to the undertaker's office, a man in paint-spattered brown pants and a plaid shirt buttoned the wrong way accidentally bumped against Winslow going the other way.

“Sorry 'bout that, bro,” the man mumbled, tipping the brim of his rumpled brown hat. “Just coming to pay my respects. Ana Mae helped me find a place to stay.”

Winslow didn't say anything, but he brushed at the sleeve of his Brooks Brothers suit jacket.

“Ain't you Mr. Dandy,” Lester muttered. “Dude said he was sorry.”

If Winslow heard the comment, he gave no indication of it.

Delcine—she'd given up on being called Marguerite while in North Carolina—looked around in distaste as they followed the undertaker.

“What doesn't at all seem likely is that Ana Mae would leave a will or have any final wishes. What in the world could she possibly have?”

“That anyone else would want,” her husband Winslow added.

Once the Futrell siblings and their significant others were gathered in the spacious, panel-lined office, JoJo spoke first.

“Mr. Rollings, we had the understanding that all of Ana Mae's funeral and burial expenses were prepaid, you know, in advance.”

The undertaker nodded as he indicated for them all to sit.

The office was appointed in rich, coffee-colored leathers, and curiously, Marguerite noted, it smelled of cinnamon. Like somebody was baking something good. But in a funeral home?

She looked around for a source and saw an original oil by a noted African-American artist. The piece she and Winslow commissioned four years ago by the same artist, a 36x24 painting of a black Madonna, had been one of the first things to go.

When she noticed Winslow also studying the painting, she closed her eyes for a moment.

“We'd prefer to stand,” she said, responding to Rollings's invitation. “Why did you need to see us? Is it about some additional . . .”

“And probably jacked up . . . ,” Lester chimed in.

“. . . expense for your services?” Marguerite finished with a sharp glance in her brother-in-law's direction.

When none of the Futrells opted to sit, Everett Rollings went behind his desk and picked up a piece of paper.

“No, rest assured,” he said. “There are no additional expenses for Miss Futrell. Everything has been provided for.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Lester said.

Winslow, as well, looked relieved.

Marguerite wanted to say “Ditto that,” the way her son did when he agreed with a point in a family debate. Instead, she folded her arms. “Lester, please. I'm sure Mr. Rollings is going to get to his point.”

Archer smiled. He leaned over toward Clayton and whispered, “You didn't tell me your sister had silk claws.”

The edges of Clayton's mouth quirked up, but he didn't say anything.

“Well,” JoJo prompted, waving her hand in a forward motion.

“It's the matter of the will,” the undertaker said.

Clayton glanced at Archer, then said, “Is that it? Just one sheet of paper?”

Everett Rollings looked down at the paper. “This, no. This is just a reminder about the reading of the will. It will be held at least two days after Ana Mae's funeral. She requested that all of you”—he paused and glanced at the spouses, first Archer, then Winslow, then Lester—“and that includes you,” he told the three men, “remain in the Ahoskie/Drapersville area. The reading will take place here, in my office.”

JoJo shuddered. “In a funeral home? That's kind of creepy. Isn't there supposed to be a lawyer or something?”

All of the siblings and spouses turned toward the lawyer they knew, Clayton's partner, Archer. In addition to looking good, he was also a partner in a large and prestigious firm in San Francisco.

Archer stepped forward and toward a display along one of the walls. “According to this, Mr. Rollings is quite an accomplished man. He's not only a licensed mortician, but also a man of the law.”

“What law?” Lester asked.

“According to what?” Marguerite said at the same time.

Archer pointed to framed degrees on one of the walls in the paneled office. “J.D. from Wake Forest University's School of Law. Good school,” he said.

Everett Rollings chuckled. “That's quite observant of you, Mr. Futrell, and yes, Wake Forest is one of the leading law schools in the country.”

“Futrell-Dahlgren,” Archer corrected.

Rollings nodded, acknowledging the corrected last name.

Lester snorted. Winslow rolled his eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” JoJo said.

“Can this procedure not take place directly following the burial?” Marguerite said. “We didn't plan to remain here that long. I'm sure Ana Mae's assets, whatever they are, can be dealt with right after the burial.”

“Yeah, it'll just take a strong wind to knock down that shack of a house,” Lester said. “We'll be done with everything after that.”

Several people chuckled at that.

The undertaker-cum-lawyer picked up a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and settled them on his nose. “Actually, your sister left a considerable estate.”

That got their attention.

“Considerable in what way?” Marguerite carefully asked.

Rollings smiled the way lawyers do. “I am not at liberty to say at this time. Two o'clock Tuesday, all of the heirs will hear the reading at the same time.”

“Tuesday!” that outburst came from several quarters.

“You said two days.” If Clayton sounded like a seven-year-old whining, his tone spoke for all of them.

“I'm not hanging around in this hick town for a week,” Lester muttered.

Without blinking, Everett Rollings said, “You will, all of you will, if you want to be a part of your sister or sister-in-law's estate. And it's Tuesday because that's the earliest day that could be arranged with my office. Ana Mae specified at least two days after.”

Marguerite narrowed her eyes. “You've said all of you, all the heirs, several times now.”

“I noticed that too,” JoJo said. “Is this Howard that no one seems to know anything about going to be here too?”

“Two o'clock on Tuesday,” the lawyer-cum-funeral director said. “My law office is on Clifton Street, the next one over. Same block. You can't miss it, Rollings and Associates.” Then, with a nod to them all that was somewhat reminiscent of one given by a butler or valet, he took his leave without another word.

Grumbling, muttering, and a cuss word or two trailed his path as he departed the office, leaving the Futrells to return to the viewing parlor where Ana Mae was laid out and awaiting the final words to be spoken over her.

But not a single one of them, the Futrells or their significant others, gave any thought to the woman in the casket. They were all too preoccupied contemplating the contents of her will.

“W
hat the hell is there to give anybody?”

The sisters were back at Ana Mae's house on Clairmont Road, boxing up and clearing out Ana Mae's belongings.

Despite the fact that its guests had belittled it, the house wasn't really ramshackle, just small and cluttered, having lasted through more than six decades of the wear and tear of family living. The property was Ana Mae's now, but their parents had lived in the home for several years before Ana Mae, their oldest, had come along.

Even though there were three bedrooms, the rooms were tiny, two of them just barely big enough to hold a twin-size bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. One was Ana Mae's sewing and ironing room. The other room, while utilized as a sort of catch-all space, still had the bunk beds that JoJo and Delcine had slept in as teenagers.

Faded stickers of flowers, peace signs, and teen-idol pop stars were a lasting testament that the furniture remained the same as it had been all those years ago when they'd first done the “decorating” of their new beds. The change to bunk beds, which their father had worked double shifts for the better part of two months to afford, gave each of the girls their own space. They'd been sleeping together in a twin bed until then, scrunched together, constantly fighting, and generally getting on their own and everybody else's nerves. Delcine, being older, got the pick of upper or lower bunk, and chose the bottom one, which suited JoJo just fine.

Ana Mae had knickknacks and doodads all over the place now. A collection of elephants marched along a shelf on one wall in the front room.

“Do you want the elephants?” JoJo asked. “Isn't that your sorority's mascot or something?”

Delcine paused her sorting of the mail. She had three piles going. The first included magazines, church bulletins, newspapers, and whatnot that she tossed into a box marked “trash.” Personal mail went in another box, and bills and notices that looked official went into a third box they'd go through later. Ana Mae had a lot of mail and manila envelopes from the Zorin Corporation. It looked important, so it got dumped in the bills box that they would get back to. The trash box was the fullest by far, partly because it needed to be, given the sheer amount of stuff they had to go through, and partly because Delcine was ruthless when it came to clutter.

She looked at the ceramic elephants. “Leave them for now,” she said. “I was thinking about it. But I really don't have a place to put them.”

“With six thousand square feet of house, you don't have any place to put them? God, Delcine, just say you don't want them.” JoJo said, grabbing a piece of newspaper as wrapping and reaching for one of the figurines.

“It's not that,” Delcine snapped. “I just . . . just leave them for now, will you?”

Their tempers when dealing with each other, frayed under the best of normal circumstances, and stretched even further given the nature of their forced visit home to North Carolina, weren't getting any better.

JoJo sighed. She put both the elephant and the newspaper on the sofa.

Patchwork quilts that had seen better days were thrown over the chairs and the sofa in the living room. She looked at a pile of paperback mystery novels and a Thompson Chain Reference Bible resting on a pie-crust-edged table along with a pair of reading glasses.

They'd found four or five pairs of reading glasses scattered around the house. Ana Mae clearly bought them cheap so she could have ready access whenever she needed them.

“How about we take a break?” JoJo said.

This time Delcine sighed. “I think that's a good idea.”

Lester and JoJo were staying in the house. Lester wanted to sleep in Ana Mae's room, which had a comfortable-looking double bed, but JoJo refused, saying it disrespected the dead.

Out of habit forged long ago, she'd hoisted herself into the top bunk the first night they'd arrived. But she'd found it a lot harder to climb into it when closing in on forty years old and packing about one hundred eighty pounds. So when Lester fell asleep in front of the TV, she'd claimed the bottom bunk and had seen, for the first time in her life, the night view of the world from Delcine's perspective.

Frankly, JoJo thought it was kind of claustrophobic.

The sisters had spent most of the previous afternoon clearing out the debris that had been Ana Mae's worldly goods, with most of the stuff destined for a nearby landfill via the trash haulers.

The first couple of loads went out the door. Another large pile of giveaway stuff, things Marguerite characterized as junk but JoJo convinced her someone less fortunate might want—“Less fortunate than what?” Delcine had snapped. “Ana Mae was a maid, she
was
the less fortunate”—had been boxed up and was on the back porch. According to some of the neighbors who stopped by with a sweet potato pie or cake, a junk man Ana Mae apparently knew would be around to pick up that stuff in the morning—mostly clothes, books, more knickknacks, household linens, and a couple of quilts neither of them wanted and couldn't imagine Clayton and Archer using in their chic California homes, which were straight out of Architectural Digest.

The sisters went to the tiny kitchen. The refrigerator, in avocado green, looked like the same one that had been there decades ago. At least the gas stove had been updated since they'd lived in the house. They sat at the table in their dead sibling's house. JoJo took a napkin from the plastic holder—it featured a beach scene with M
IAMI,
F
LORIDA
scrawled in faded pink stenciling at the bottom.

“Wonder where she got this,” JoJo said. “Ana Mae wouldn't get on a plane if you paid her.”

“Probably from a junk shop,” Delcine said. “Or a so-called gift from one of the families she cleaned for.”

The table, like much of the counter, overflowed with Tupperware containers and casserole dishes, all brought to the house by Ana Mae's neighbors, friends, and fellow church members. They'd run out of room in the fridge. JoJo pinched a piece of ham from under a platter. After sampling it, she cut a bigger slice and put it on a napkin plucked from the plastic holder.

“You want some?” she offered.

Delcine shook her head no.

“I remember the last time I talked to her,” JoJo said. “We had a fight.”

“About what?”

JoJo opened her mouth, closed it and looked away. “It . . . it doesn't matter now. It's not important.”

Marguerite studied her younger sister for a moment. For all her boldness, JoJo kept some things pretty close to the vest.

Sort of the way Win and I are doing?

Marguerite ignored the question that was bothering her. She and Winslow literally couldn't afford to stay in North Carolina for any extra days—not, of course, that they would ever admit that to anyone in the family. Pressing matters called for them at home. Now was not a good time for Ana Mae to up and die.

She smiled.

“What?” JoJo asked.

Marguerite shook her head. “I was just thinking how Ana Mae never did anything the way the rest of us did.”

“She was happy here,” JoJo said. “God knows why. This place was a dump, and from what I've seen so far, it's not that much better now than it was then.”

“It's not so bad,” Marguerite said.

“Since when did you start loving on Ahoskie and Drapersville, North Carolina? As I recall, you were the first one up and out of here.”

“That's because I was the oldest. Well, the oldest after Ana Mae.”

“You got out by going to college,” JoJo said.

Marguerite heard the defensive edge in JoJo's voice—even after all this time.

“You could have gone to college if you'd wanted to.”

JoJo shook her head. “Mama didn't have the money for that, not after Clay cut out the way he did.”

“Well, can you blame him? He was like a leper here.”

As the two sisters chewed on that for a moment, JoJo started shredding one of the blue paper napkins.

“I'm glad he made it to San Francisco and that he and Archer found each other,” JoJo said. “Archer is good for him.”

When Marguerite appeared not to have anything to add to that observation, JoJo continued.

“You know, back home in Vegas there's this street-corner preacher guy off the Strip. He's out there trying to get people to stop gambling and drinking. Nobody pays him much mind. But one day, he was out there screaming about how Las Vegas was the new Sodom and Gomorrah and God was gonna smite down the gays because they chose a lifestyle of abomination.”

“Hmmph,” Marguerite said. “What did you do?”

“I got right up in that so-called preacher's face and told him my brother was gay and that he wasn't an abomination. That he didn't choose to be gay, he was born that way, and God didn't make any mistakes.”

“Good for you,” Marguerite said. “What did the street-corner preacher say to that?”

“He told me I was going to hell too.”

Marguerite frowned. “Well, that's not very Christian, or charitable.” Still frowning, she said, “Maybe I'll ask Clay to talk to him.”

“Talk to who?”

“Cedric. He hasn't said anything . . .”

JoJo knew that if her sister was thinking of asking their brother to talk to her son, it could be about only one of two things. Since Ced was still in high school, she doubted it was about a career in medicine.

“You think Cedric is gay?”

Marguerite nodded. “But with everything else going on . . . ,” she drifted off for a moment. “How are you supposed to ask your kid if he's gay?”

JoJo shrugged. “I don't know. You just ask, I guess. No one ever asked Clay if he was gay. We all just knew, even when he was a little kid. Hmm, I see what you mean,” she said. “You're right. Clay can give you some pointers or talk to him, tell him that it gets better. He sure went through hell here before finding his way. What about Winslow? Are he and Cedric close? Maybe his dad could have a talk with him.”

Delcine frowned.

The mention of her husband's name shut down any warm and fuzzies that may have been developing between the sisters. Marguerite gave JoJo one of her icy stares, then looked around the kitchen as if JoJo had not even asked a question.

JoJo took the hint. She'd asked one too many questions of her characteristically aloof and private sister.

Winslow either did not want to acknowledge that his only son might be gay or there was something else going on with them. Winslow Foster never had anything much to say. As a matter of fact, he'd spoken more today at the wake and in the lawyer's office than JoJo ever recalled, not that there had been that many meetings between them all.

“Look at this place,” Marguerite muttered.

“It's not like she had anything to leave to anybody,” JoJo said after a while.

“Hmm,” Marguerite said.

“And it just doesn't seem likely that Ana Mae could have had a kid,” JoJo added. “Wouldn't we have known? Wouldn't she have said something at some point over the years?”

“How often did you talk to her?” Delcine asked. Before JoJo could answer she continued. “If it was anything at all the way Ana Mae and I stayed in touch, she could have lived on Pluto and I wouldn't have known. I actually can't remember the last time we talked. But she did keep in touch with the kids. Speaking of kids, how is Crystal?”

“I was in touch with Ana Mae more than I ever was with my daughter,” JoJo said despondently. “As a matter of fact, I don't even know where she is these days. Sort of like Clay, she turned eighteen, hit the door, and never looked back.”

Delcine winced. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

JoJo shrugged. “It's like that sometimes with kids, I guess. She was nine when Lester and I got married. And they never really got along, all they did was fight. Sort of like what Lester and I do.”

“Another missing child, like this Howard of Ana Mae's,” Delcine said.

“I've been giving that quite a bit of thought,” JoJo said. “If she had a son none of us knew about, maybe she also left something of value that we didn't know about either.”

As one, the two sisters turned in their chairs, looking over the kitchen, with its avocado refrigerator and stained Formica countertops, as if the said something of value might be in plain sight. The tile on the floor had come up in several places and then been painted over, probably in the hopes no one might notice.

“Yeah, right,” Delcine scoffed. “And I'm the Easter bunny.”

She got up and cut a piece of one of the pound cakes that had been delivered to the house by one of Ana Mae's fellow church members.

“Would you like some?”

“Why not?” JoJo said. “It's not like another piece of cake won't show.”

Marguerite held her tongue on that one. Though she hadn't seen her sister in more than six years, JoJo had definitely collected about fifty additional pounds on her five-foot, six-inch frame. And she'd always tended to be what their mama described as “big-boned.”

Thick mascara and eyeliner and overly done lips, cheeks, and eyebrows were the only visible clues to her former profession. If Marguerite hadn't seen her on a trip to Las Vegas a few years back, she wouldn't have been able to guess now about JoJo's talent, nor would anyone else. She could dance, really dance, and with the best of them. She could have made something of herself instead of becoming, well, whatever it was she had become.

JoJo got up and started a pot of coffee. As it was brewing, a knock sounded on the back screen door. Before either of them could answer or even move toward the door, Rosalee Jenkins burst in.