Hidden Riches (22 page)

On the phone, David Bell said he loved Ana Mae's home cooking and that she always brought him a bit of North Carolina when she visited. JoJo interpreted that to mean Ana Mae's chicken and probably some of the other food she specialized in. If there hadn't been so much food in the house from Ana Mae's neighbors, church members, and friends, JoJo would have enjoyed trying out a few of the recipes she'd flipped through in Ana Mae's little yellow recipe box. As it was, she planned to try out Ana Mae's secret ingredient the next time she made fried chicken.

Delcine thought she was trailer trash without a brain. But Mary Josephine knew more than either of them credited her with. Her mama didn't raise no fool.

So while Miss Hoity Toity Delcine was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, trying to figure out seven more of Ana Mae's messages from the grave, JoJo had only four, and maybe just three, to solve before she could claim the three point eight million.

If she got it, she'd gladly share with Clayton and Delcine. But Lester. Well, he posed a problem.

The image of gangland Vegas mobsters came to mind again, which made her think of Eddie Spencer. Maybe it was time to see what Spence could tell her about settling down here.

Lester better be back with Ana Mae's car when they returned to the house.

Delcine dropped off Clayton at the bed-and-breakfast inn. They didn't make plans to meet up for dinner or breakfast. Everyone was in a reflective mood after the phone call with David Bell and the brief meeting with Everett Rollings.

The stakes had gotten higher, much higher.

Their initial curiosity about Ana Mae's alleged son had turned into something else. Each Futrell now had a lot more to lose.

“I'll call you later,” JoJo told Clayton, as she reluctantly got in the front seat and powered down the window.

He closed the door. “Okay, sis. I'll see you guys later.”

Delcine pulled away before Clayton even cleared the curb.

“Why did you check out of your hotel?” JoJo asked. “I thought you didn't want to stay at the house.”

“I changed my mind,” was all Delcine would say.

“Where do you want to sleep?”

Delcine glanced at her. “I'll stay in our old room.”

“That's where Lester and I have been,” JoJo said.

“You two have been sleeping in bunk beds? Why? There's a perfectly good double bed in Ana Mae's room.”

JoJo shrugged. “I don't know. It felt weird, you know. It just didn't seem right for anyone to be in her bed. You know, like she was still there.”

Delcine snorted. “Ana Mae is six feet under over at Antioch Cemetery. She is not haunting her house.”

“I didn't say she was haunting it. It just,” JoJo shrugged again, “it just didn't seem right.”

“Hmmph,” Delcine said. “Ana Mae may not have cared about living in a fancy house, but she sure had top-of-the-line tastes when it came to her bedding. She slept well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn't you notice her sheets? They are eight-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. And not just the ones on the bed; all of her linen is top notch. And that bed, oh, my God. It's the same brand Winslow and I have. Believe you me, those do not come cheap in any size. Ours is a king, of course, but it doesn't matter. Best sleep ever. I'll gladly stay in her room.”

JoJo didn't know anything about fine linen. The sheets on the bed in their trailer back home had come from Kmart about five years ago. Leave it to Delcine to be noticing sheet thread counts.

That was okay, though. When JoJo collected the millions, she'd get herself a new mattress and some Egyptian sheets too.

What JoJo didn't know and what Delcine had no intention of sharing was that the bedding she bragged about, as well as all of the furniture in their big house in upscale Prince George's County, was days away from being repossessed, right along with the house, which was days away from being foreclosed on.

Winslow hadn't, as she'd told her siblings, high-tailed it back home to check on their children, who were old enough to be home alone for a few days. They were just fine, considering.

While they'd had a big fight, he'd also left to try to get as much stuff as possible out of the house and into a storage unit before the bank padlocked the house or the police came to arrest him. He was also going to tell the kids what was happening. They had managed until now to keep the worst of it from Cedric and Latrice, although as Winslow said, Marguerite suspected the kids already knew more than they let on.

How could they not, with bill collectors calling all hours of the day and night, threatening letters from law firms overflowing the mailbox, and parents arguing behind closed doors?

Plus, all of the stories in the
Washington Post
and other media about corruption in their father's division at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development couldn't have escaped them, especially Latrice, who had already asked “What's going on with Daddy's job?”

Daddy screwed himself and them, Delcine had wanted to tell her daughter. But she'd kept that to herself and spent her own lunch hour that day trying to find someplace for them to live other than a homeless shelter. But she had little cash and their credit cards were at or near the max, and finding a house to rent in the Washington metro area had not proven an easy task.

The news that Ana Mae had left a significant estate buoyed their hope that they could salvage their financial situation. But it was taking far longer than either of them anticipated for Ana Mae's money to get cleared.

Marguerite loathed the idea of staying at Ana Mae's house, but she could not afford another night at a hotel. She and Winslow couldn't afford the four nights they had already put on an American Express Platinum card, a card that would go into default when they failed to pay off their hefty balance at the end of the month.

She glanced at her sister. If Clayton hadn't insisted she be let back in the hunt, Ana Mae's money would have been split only two ways instead of three.

Clayton and Archer didn't need the money. With two hefty professional salaries, two million-dollar homes, and Lord only knew how much stashed away—Clayton had been tight with a dollar even when they were kids—Ana Mae's money would for them be cash for investing in property that would bring in rental income or donating to one of their gay causes. Delcine needed the money to keep a roof over her head and to feed her kids.

And right now, the only way she could see to do that was to beat out her brother and sister in claiming Ana Mae's legacy.

Their mama, God rest her soul, always preached that what one had they all had. But that thinking, Delcine now knew, was nothing less than shortsighted and designed to keep them all in poverty.

She'd escaped from Drapersville, North Carolina, once before and had no intention of ever, ever finding herself trapped in it or any place like it ever again. So she would do exactly what she needed to do to secure her future.

Just as soon as she dropped off JoJo at the house, Delcine planned to head out to see that Fisher boy one more time. She had an offer that would appeal both to his inventor's heart and to her negative-balance bank accounts.

“Are you having a good visit to Drapersville and Ahoskie?”

The deep male voice came from the right. Clayton paused near the reception desk at the bed-and-breakfast.

An elderly man who looked vaguely familiar sat in the Queen Anne wing chair closest to the arched entrance of the parlor. His blue-and-brown-striped sweater vest seemed a bit much for the heat, but the ensemble, which included a cream-colored shirt, brown slacks, and tasseled loafers, suited him. He had the air of a professor at an Ivy League university.

“Not particularly,” Clayton said.

“That's unfortunate,” the man said. “If I recall correctly, you had a rough time here years ago. I had hoped things would be better for you now.”

Clayton cocked his head, considering the man. Then he crossed the lobby area and approached the stranger.

“Have we met?”

The man placed a hardback book on a side table and rose. “It's been many years,” he said, extending his hand. “Ambrose Peterson. I was a guidance counselor at . . .”

“The high school,” Clayton finished.

He clasped the man's hand and pumped it. “Yes, I do remember you. Hello, Mr. Peterson. Oh, my goodness. It's been years. I thought you looked familiar. I've been away so long I wasn't sure. Are you here at the inn visiting Mrs. March?”

Mr. Peterson shook his head. “No, no. I'm a guest at this lovely establishment. I retired and moved farther south. Join me for coffee?”

Mr. Peterson indicated the coffee and tea service on a mahogany sideboard.

Clayton hesitated, and glanced at his watch. “Well, I . . .”

“Oh, I'm sorry. You probably have plans for the evening.”

It took Clayton less than a moment to make up his mind. A cup of coffee with someone from his Drapersville, North Carolina, past who didn't evoke anger or bitterness was a rare treat.

“Mr. Peterson, I'd love to chat with you. How have you been?”

Clayton went to the sideboard and poured two cups of coffee from the carafe. “Cream? Sugar?”

“No, thank you,” Mr. Peterson said. “Just black.”

Clayton added two teaspoons of sugar and a touch of half-and-half to his own cup, then balanced cups and saucers as he went to the matching chair. He placed both his own and his old guidance counselor's coffee on the side table, then returned to the sideboard for napkins and a few of the homemade cookies baked fresh each morning by Mrs. March.

When the two men were comfortably settled and had sipped on their coffee, Mr. Peterson asked, “So, what brought you home to North Carolina?”

Clayton looked startled for a moment. The town was so small and the newspaper story about Ana Mae's legacy so prominent, he would have thought everyone knew.

“My older sister, Ana Mae, she died August seventh.”

Mr. Peterson's cup clattered on its saucer. Clayton reached for it to right it before the hot liquid spilled.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Clayton,” the older man said. “I didn't know.”

“It's okay. And thank you, Mr. Peterson. The funeral was last Wednesday. We, my other two sisters and I, we're still here wrapping up some family things.”

Mr. Peterson nodded, then he sighed and reached for his coffee cup. “Yes, there is a lot to do following the death of a loved one.” He brought the cup to his mouth.

But something in his voice caught Clayton's attention. Maybe it was knowing the sadness of losing someone close. Clayton's loss seemed to be almost personal for him.