Hidden Riches (6 page)

“Where do you think she got that dress?”

“Who, Delcine? I don't know, but did you notice how fragile she looks? She needs some of them pounds Josephine done picked up.”

“Bertie, the woman's sister just died. Don't you reckon she ought to be looking at least a little bit fragile?”

Bertie snorted. “Nary a one of them Futrells ever gave a rat's ass about Ana Mae. Now they're all here, pretending like they cared. If they cared, they would've kept track of their sister.”

“How do you know they didn't?”

“Ana Mae told me,” Bertie said, her puffed-out chest and chin indicating she had some status with the recently deceased. “Said she hadn't seen that Las Vegas one since their mama died. The fancy one from up north would send a hoity-toity Christmas card every year, sometimes from places like England and Zimbabwe.”

“Zem Bob who?”

“Zimbabwe. It's a country over in Russia or something,” Bertie added, clarifying for her less-informed friend.

“Actually,” Archer said, sidling up and interrupting the ladies. “Zimbabwe is in Africa. The country borders South Africa and Mozambique. It used to be called Rhodesia. Its people are the Shona. And if you don't mind my saying so, I believe the two of you would be treated as queens there.”

Eula Lee pursed her lips, distaste marring her red-rimmed mouth. “You're the partner.”

Archer nodded. “That's correct. I'm a partner in the law firm of Matthews, Dodson, and Dahlgren. I'm Dahlgren.”

Bertie chuckled and nudged Eula Lee. “I like him.”

That made Archer smile. He winked at her. “I like you too.”

Eula Lee wasn't so convinced, but Bertie had a question that couldn't wait.

“Would you tell me something? I've always wanted to know, you know, if it hurts. Back there. When you . . .” Her words trailed off, but she continued to look him in the eye.

Eula Lee gasped, jabbed Bertie hard with her elbow. But then looked at Archer expectantly. She too wanted to know the answer.

Archer remained nonplussed. His gaze shifted from one woman to the other, then a slow smile started at his mouth. He waggled a finger toward Bertie, indicating for her to come closer.

She leaned forward. Archer cupped a hand over her ear and whispered something.

Bertie guffawed. Loud. So loud, heads turned toward them.

“What?” Eula Mae demanded. “What'd he say?”

“I'm gonna have to try that,” Bertie said.

Archer winked at her and walked away.

Eula Lee grabbed her friend's arm. “What'd he say? What are you gonna try?”

But Bertie's only answer was a lingering chuckle and a self-satisfied smile.

Hours later, long after the funeral and the meeting with Everett Rollings, instead of anticipating their imminent departures from Drapersville, the Futrells and their spouses sat around Ana Mae's house, looking glum.

From among Ana Mae's five hundred plus TV channels Lester found an ESPN network he didn't know existed. Archer and Winslow—two men with less than zero in common professionally, culturally, or socially beyond their relationships with a Futrell sibling—tried to find something to talk about.

Archer eventually gave up.

“I'm going to go make some tea. Would you like some?”

“Tea?” Winslow asked, as if Archer had offered him crack cocaine. “No, thank you. But I'll bet there's some coffee going.”

He, clearly, also wanted to escape Lester's play-by-play and dismal company.

“Hey, Archie, will ya grab me a beer while you're up?” Lester called.

Archer didn't deign to reply but made his way to the kitchen where JoJo, Delcine, and Clayton sat at the table, grumbling.

“We're stuck for days in this backwater swamp. Kill me now,” Delcine said.

“I thought I'd be halfway back home by then,” JoJo said.

“Hey, guys,” Archer said in greeting to all of them. “Lester wants a beer,” he told JoJo.

“He can get it himself,” she said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Archer said, heading to the kitchen counter to survey the cakes and rolls and casserole dishes in an array of plastic containers and Pyrex bowls.

Not seeing what he was looking for, he started opening cabinets. A few moments later, “Ah, here we go.”

After filling a kettle from the tap and turning on a burner, he leaned against the counter.

“So, what's the plan?” he asked.

Winslow, who had apparently grown weary of Lester's running commentary on NFL game highlights, appeared at the kitchen doorway. “I was wondering the same thing,” he said, then to Marguerite, “We're on a timetable.”

“I know that,” she snapped.

“We have open tickets,” Archer said.

“But I hadn't planned to be here for more than three days,” Clayton said.

They all grumbled for a few minutes, speculating on how much lottery money might be left for them to split.

When the kettle whistled, Archer made tea. “Anyone want a cup?”

“I'll take one,” JoJo said.

“Honey or sugar for sweetener?”

“Whatever you're having,” she said.

“Well, the service was nice,” Winslow said. “You did a nice job, Clayton.”

JoJo playfully hit Clayton in the arm. “I cannot believe you told them about that carnival day.”

Clayton got more compliments about his storytelling, and in the way of families across the world, they spent the better part of the next hour or so reminiscing and laughing together, enjoying each other's company while under the surface remained the reason they'd all been brought together: the death of a loved one.

“Hey, Archie,” Lester said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “I thought you were bringing me a beer. What's everybody laughing about?”

The life went out of the party.

Delcine stood up. “Let's head back to the hotel, Win.”

“It is late,” her husband said.

To Lester, Archer said, “My name is Archer, not Archie. And you can find your beer in the refrigerator.”

Muttering under his breath, Lester stomped to the fridge for his long-awaited brew. “If we have to be in this hellhole of a town for two more days, I'm gonna need to find a liquor store.”

Later that night, Archer told Clayton about the incident after the funeral with Bertie and Eula Lee.

As Archer expected, the eruption immediately followed.

“That is exactly why I detest this place!”

“She didn't mean any harm,” Archer said. “And you won everyone over with your tribute to Ana Mae. Actually, I thought it was quite brave of her to voice her question.”

“Brave? Brave? Try bold. Or maybe just damn ignorant.”

Archer stripped off his tie, then undid the buttons on his shirt. “Don't be such a bitch. I liked her. She wanted to know something and asked someone who might have the answer.”

Clayton harrumphed, but he got distracted when Archer shrugged off his shirt. His gaze met his partner's.

“It's been a long time,” he said.

“Yes,” Archer replied. “It has. Why don't we take the advice I gave Bertie?”

Making love was the furthest thing from Delcine and Winslow Foster's minds. Intimacy had not been a part of their relationship since Winslow finally confessed to her just how much trouble he (and by extension, they) were in. Worried about her future, Delcine paced the space between the bed and the television.

“You're blocking my view,” Winslow said, trying to see the pay-per-view boxing match he'd ordered.

She stopped, standing directly in front of the television.

“We are not down here on vacation, Winslow. We need to figure out what we're going to tell the children.”

“The children already know.”

Delcine looked stricken. “You told them?”

He scooted over on the bed to get a view unobstructed by his wife. “No. But they're teenagers. It's hard to keep secrets from them.”

Putting her hands on her hips, Delcine moved and blocked his access to the television screen again, then turned around and manually hit the power button.

“You mean like the way you kept secrets from me?”

“Oh, here we go again,” Winslow said on a sigh.

“That's right, ‘here we go again.' Do you even have a plan, or am I supposed to be the one, as usual, to figure out how to keep this family afloat?”

Launched now, their well-worn argument would rage into the night.

I
t was two days later, and one by one the disgruntled heirs trooped into the law offices of Everett Rollings, located on the back side of the funeral parlor—or if you were driving down Clifton Street, the law office was on the front and the funeral home in the back. With one piece of real estate and one office, Rollings had two street addresses and two distinct and prosperous business enterprises.

Rollings and Associates specialized in wills, divorces, and custody cases. The words conflict of interest didn't seem to occur to either the state bar or anybody in town. No hearses were anywhere to be found on the legal side of the property.

The front office, tastefully decorated in pale blues and creams, offered clients a respite from the harried world beyond its doors. Muted music, not quite jazz but not quite classical, soothed the senses.

An assistant, dressed in blue slacks, blue pumps, and a pale blue twinset, matched the décor in a way that had several of the heirs glancing at her twice.

“Welcome to Stepford,” Lester stage-whispered.

Clayton glanced at him, surprised that Lester even knew enough to make the reference.

“This way, please,” the mannequin said.

A few minutes later, the heirs found themselves in a well-appointed office. Eight leather chairs had been brought in and placed in a semicircle around the room's centerpiece, an oak and teak desk. Already seated in two of the chairs were the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste, who they hadn't seen since the day of Ana Mae's funeral, and Rosalee, who had come by the house just about every day.

“Well, this should prove interesting,” Archer said.

Delcine gave a huff as she stepped around to take a seat as far away from Rosalee and the preacher as possible.

After welcoming them and expressing her condolences, the receptionist stepped out and Rollings strode in.

“Thank you all for coming this afternoon,” Rollings began. “I hope not to keep you very long. What we have to do is, however, a bit complicated.”

“How complicated could it be?” Lester said. “It's evident from her house Annie Mae didn't have much.”

“Ana Mae,” JoJo said. “And would you please let the man talk.”

Lester stalked over to take a look at a column near the back of the room. “Hey, there're fish in there!”

“It's called an aquarium, Lester,” Delcine intoned.

Lester scowled at her, then took a seat in one of the leather chairs next to JoJo.

“In accordance with Ana Mae's wishes, you are all gathered here to hear the details of her last will and testament.”

“You mean the reading of her will.”

Rollings lifted his hands and shoulders in a partial shrug. “Well, technically, yes. It is a reading. But Miss Futrell left for her heirs a multimedia presentation.”

The assembled Futrells couldn't manage to stifle their groans. The only person who looked intrigued was Archer, the lawyer.

JoJo raised her hand.

“Yes?” Rollings said.

“You said just the heirs are supposed to be here, right?”

“That's correct.”

JoJo cast a glance at Reverend Toussaint sitting in the last chair of the semicircle. “Then why is he here? And her?” she added, with a nod toward Ana Mae's best friend.

Before Rollings could answer, Delcine piped up. “Frankly, my thoughts ran along a similar line. Rosalee's presence also made me curious.”

Rosalee jumped up. “I got a letter,” she said, “from Mr. Rollings. Telling me to be here. Today at one o'clock. Just like you.”

Rollings stepped between the two women. “Ladies. And gentlemen. Everyone that Miss Futrell requested be here is present and accounted for. That includes Reverend le Baptiste and Mrs. Jenkins.”

With a “hmph!” JoJo settled back into her chair, looking none too pleased. Whatever money Ana Mae had left, it sure shouldn't have to be split five ways instead of just three.

She wasn't the only one in the room thinking that thought.

By Marguerite's calculations, she and Winslow might be able to pull off a miracle—if the leeches didn't claim too much of the cash.

Clayton and his husband were doing all right for themselves—a doctor and a lawyer living high in the tony Pacific Heights area of San Francisco. They didn't need any money. JoJo and Lester were another story. Marguerite hadn't liked Lester when her sister had hooked up with him, and nothing in the intervening years had changed her opinion of him. Rude, crude, and crooked summed him up.

Marguerite's gaze slid to the next chair. Rosalee Jenkins sat there, twisting a white cotton handkerchief in her hands. Had the hankie been paper, it would have been in shreds. Every now and then, Rosalee sniffled and swallowed. She was truly grieving for Ana Mae.

If the truth were known, Rosalee had probably been more of a sister to Ana Mae than either herself or JoJo. So she wouldn't begrudge Rosalee anything that she might get.

But that so-called preacher was another story.

Anxious to get on with the proceedings, Marguerite posed the question on everyone's mind. “What exactly did Ana Mae leave behind?”

Rollings waited for the undivided attention of the heirs. He opened a leather portfolio, took out a sheaf of papers, and made a production of straightening them. He took a sip of water, and then when all of the attention was on him, he began to read from the last will and testament of Ana Mae Berdette Futrell.

“Berdette?” Lester exclaimed. “That's even more country than Ana Mae.”

“Hush!” came from several corners.

After getting through the sound mind and body part and all of the heretofores and other legal mumbo jumbo, he got to the part they were all waiting for.

“To my nieces and my nephew identified as Cedric Foster and Latrice Foster of Prince George's County, Maryland, and Crystal Coston of Laughlin, Nevada, I leave for each the sum of one thousand dollars in cash and some savings bonds purchased for each of them.”

Marguerite and Winslow exchanged a glance, smiling. “That's nice. The children will be pleased.”

He nodded. “Particularly since they didn't even know Ana Mae.”

On the other side of the room, things weren't so rosy. “Crystal?” Lester asked. “Why does she get anything? And since when does she live in Laughlin?”

“Who is Crystal?” Rosalee asked, leaning over toward JoJo.

“My daughter. She left home when she was eighteen. I had no idea she was living in Laughlin. I wonder how Ana Mae knew that?”

Archer, who knew exactly how Ana Mae knew, just smiled to himself.

JoJo was still pondering her daughter's whereabouts and Lester still muttering in general when the attorney got to the second bequest of Ana Mae's will.

“To my friend Zenobia Bryant, I leave the white lace shawl and Japanese fan she always admired. Since she took the fan and never returned the shawl after borrowing it for the missionary tea, she already has both of these items in her possession.”

“Oh, that's cold,” Lester said on a chuckle.

Rosalee chortled. “Zenobia is gonna be pissed that she messed with Ana Mae's stuff.”

“To my dear friend Rosalee Jenkins,” Rollings continued reading, “an account has been set up in your name at First Trust and Union Bank. Go have a little fun, Rosalee.”

From the portfolio, Rollings retrieved and then handed to Rosalee a slim manila envelope. “The account number, balance statement, and other bank information you will need is all in there,” he said.

Accepting it, Rosalee blinked back tears and started to rock in her chair. She didn't open the envelope to check the balance, though; she simply held it close to her chest.

“How much did you get?” Lester asked.

The answer, clearly something that everyone in the office except Rollings wanted to know, did not come from Rosalee.

Her head bowed as she rocked; she was openly crying now, still clutching the unopened envelope containing the bank documents.

“That information is for Mrs. Jenkins to share if she sees fit,” Rollings said. “And she is under no obligation to do so now or at any time in the future.”

Lester snorted. “That must mean it's a lot.”

Archer handed Rosalee a monogrammed handkerchief. Accepting it, even though she had the other hankie balled up in her hand, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“I'm sorry, y'all,” she said. “I just . . . I just can't believe she's really gone.”

When no one commented on her grief, Rollings cleared his throat, then continued on with the reading of Ana Mae's will.

“I bequest to the Drapersville Piece By Piece Quilting Club the fabrics, sewing supplies, and equipment that is not wanted by my heirs. Rosalee Jenkins should oversee the distribution of these items.

“I bequest all of my household goods, vehicles, and my house and land jointly to Mary Josephine Futrell Coston, Marguerite Futrell Foster, and Clayton Futrell.”

“That's like a booby prize,” Lester said on a guffaw.

“Shh,” JoJo hissed at him.

“To my church, the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer, a fixed annuity has been established that will provide the church with income to be used at the discretion of the pastor, associate pastor, board, and membership.”

“Thank you, Sister Ana Mae,” the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste intoned.

Rollings continued to read, listing Ana Mae's other financial bequests, usually in the one thousand to five thousand dollar range, to various local charities.

Delcine, doing the math, just shook her head.

“And finally,” Rollings said, “to my family members . . .”

“All right now, here we go,” said Lester rubbing his hands together and sitting on the edge of his chair.

“Lester, please,” JoJo said.

Rollings gave him a pointed look, and Lester sat back.

“To my family members,” Rollings read, “I leave to Clayton Futrell, Marguerite Delcine Futrell Foster, and Mary Josephine Futrell Coston the sum of ten thousand dollars each.”

“Hot damn!” Lester declared.

JoJo shushed him again, but he sat there beaming.

Clayton, looking bored, glanced at his watch.

Delcine sighed.

“When do we get the money?” Lester wanted to know.

“Mr. Coston, please. Let me finish,” Rollings said.

Grinning, Lester rolled his hand forward in a “do go forth” motion.

“There is a stipulation,” Rollings said.

Lester groaned.

“How much longer are we going to be, Mr. Rollings?” Clayton asked. “I'd like to get back to our bed-and-breakfast so we can pack and catch an earlier flight home.”

“Please,” Mr. Rollings said. “If I can have your undivided attention for a few more moments.”

Clayton sighed and examined his nails.

Mr. Rollings placed the will on his desk blotter and clasped his hands together. “The final part of Miss Futrell's last will and testament is rather complex. She has stipulated for each of you ten thousand dollars, and I have that money here for each of you in the form of a check,” he said, tapping the leather portfolio. “However, there is a codicil.”

“What's a codicil?” JoJo asked.

“A sort of amendment,” he said, surveying the eight people in his office, before focusing on the three Futrell siblings. “Mrs. Coston, Mrs. Foster, and Dr. Futrell, you have five minutes, just five, to decide as individuals if you would like to accept the ten thousand dollars from Miss Futrell or waive it, forfeit it,” he added with a nod toward JoJo, “in order to be considered for the rest of Miss Futrell's estate.”

“What rest?” Delcine asked.

“I am not at liberty to say at the moment,” Rollings said.

“Well, what the hell else can it be?” Lester said. “The thirty grand is about all that's left of that lottery money. She's already given you guys that raggedy house and old car. I think ten grand is a nice little farewell gift.”

“I don't know, Lester,” JoJo said, getting up to pace the office. “Let me think.”

“What's there to think about?” he said. “We can sure as hell use ten thousand dollars about now.”

As the three couples began to review their options, Rollings retrieved a few items from a desk drawer and placed them on the desk top.

Delcine leaned forward to consult with Winslow. She kept her voice low so their conversation was private.

“I hoped there would be more,” she said.

“Yes, so did I.”

“Like Lester over there, I was doing a tally as he named beneficiaries. It looks like her church and probably Rosalee got a big chunk of whatever was left of the lottery money.”

“Ten thousand isn't going to help us,” Winslow said. “It's not even enough to hold them off for a month or two.”

Delcine sighed again. Then, “What do you think this remainder of the estate is?”

Winslow shrugged. “I don't know. It could be anything. Maybe it's some land that's worth something. Or maybe she made some wise investments. She was your sister, what do you think?”

Delcine rolled her eyes. “Ana Mae and investments? Those words don't belong together. She died cleaning somebody's toilet, Win.”

Conceding the point, he nodded. Then added, “But you never know.”

“We've got nothing to lose,” Delcine added. “I'll waive the money on the hope that there's something of value that can be sold for the amount of money we need.”