Charlaine Harris - A Bone To Pick

Much rummaging among the papers on his desk. By now I was not deceived. Bubba Sewell for some reason found this Lord Peter Wimsey-like pretense of foolishness useful, but he was not foolish, not a bit.

“Here we are, it was right there all the time!” He flourished the file as though its existence had been in doubt.

I folded my hands in my lap and tried not to sigh obviously. I might have lots of time, but that didn’t mean I wanted to spend it as an unwilling audience to a one-man performance.

“Hoo-wee, I’m sure glad you managed to turn it up,” I said.

Bubba Sewell’s hands stilled, and he shot me an extremely sharp look from under his bushy eyebrows.

“Miss Teagarden,” he said, dropping his previous good-ole-boy manner completely, “Miss Engle left you everything.”

Those are certainly some of the most thrilling words in the English language, but I wasn’t going to let my jaw hit the floor. My hands, which had been clasped loosely in my lap, gripped convulsively for a minute, and I let out a long, silent breath. “What’s everything?” I asked.

Bubba Sewell told me that everything was Jane’s house, its contents, and most of her bank account. She’d left her car and five thousand dollars to her cousin Parnell and his wife, Leah, on condition they took Madeleine the cat to live with them. I was relieved. I had never had a pet, and wouldn’t have known what to do with the creature.

I had no idea what I should be saying or doing. I was so stunned I couldn’t think what would be most seemly. I had done my mild grieving for Jane when I’d heard she’d gone, and at the graveside. I could tell that in a few minutes I was going to feel raw jubilation, since money problems had been troubling me. But at the moment mostly I was stunned.

“Why on earth did she do this?” I asked Bubba Sewell. “Do you know?”

“When she came in to make her will, last year when there was all that trouble with the club you two were in, she said that this was the best way she knew to make sure someone never forgot her. She didn’t want her name up on a building somewhere. She wasn’t a”-the lawyer searched for the right words-“philanthropist. Not a public person. She wanted to leave her money to an individual, not a cause, and I don’t think she ever got along well with Parnell and Leah-do you know them?”

As a matter of fact, I am something rare in the South-a church hopper. I had met Jane’s cousin and his wife at one of the churches I attended, I couldn’t remember which one, though I thought it was one of Lawrenceton’s more fundamentalist houses of worship. When they’d introduced themselves I’d asked if they were related to Jane, and Parnell had admitted he was a cousin, though with no great warmth. Leah had stared at me and said perhaps three words during the whole conversation.

“I’ve met them,” I told Sewell.

“They’re old and they haven’t had any children,” Sewell told me. “Jane felt they wouldn’t outlast her long and would probably leave all her money to their church, which she didn’t want. So she thought and thought and settled on you.”

I thought and thought myself for a little bit. I looked up to find the lawyer eyeing me with speculation and some slight, impersonal disapproval. I figured he thought Jane should have left her money to cancer research or the SPCA or the orphanage.

“How much is in the account?” I asked briskly.

“Oh, in the checking account, maybe three thousand,” he said. “I have the latest statements in this file. Of course, there are a few bills yet to come from Jane’s last stay in the hospital, but her insurance will pick up most of that.”

Three thousand! That was nice. I could finish paying for my car, which would help my monthly bill situation a lot.

“You said ‘checking account,’” I said, after I’d thought for a moment. “Is there another account?”

“Oh, you bet,” said Sewell, with a return of his former bonhomie. “Yes, ma’am! Miss Jane had a savings account she hardly ever touched. I tried a couple of times to interest her in investing it or at least buying a CD or a bond, but she said no, she liked her cash in her bank.” Sewell shook his receding hairline several times over this and tilted back in his chair.

I had a vicious moment of hoping it would go all the way over with him in it.

“Could you please tell me how much is in the savings account?” I asked through teeth that were not quite clenched.

Bubba Sewell lit up. I had finally asked the right question. He catapulted forward in his chair to a mighty squeal of springs, pounced on the file, and extracted another bank statement.

“Wel-l-l-l,” he drawled, puffing on the slit envelope and pulling out the paper inside, “as of last month, that account had in it-let’s see-right, about five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Maybe this wasn’t the worst year of my life after all.

I floated out of Bubba Sewell’s office, trying not to look as gleeful as I felt. He walked with me to the elevator, looking down at me as if he couldn’t figure me out. Well, it was mutual, but I wasn’t caring right now, no sirree.

“She inherited it from her mother,” Sewell said. “Most of it. Also, when her mother died, Miss Engle sold her mother’s house, which was very large and brought a great price, and she split the money from that with her brother. Then her brother died and left her his nearly intact share of the house money, plus his estate, which she turned into cash. He was a banker in Atlanta.”

I had money. I had a lot of money.

“I’ll meet you at Jane’s house tomorrow, and we’ll have a look around at the contents, and I’ll have a few things for you to sign. Would nine-thirty be convenient?”

I nodded with my lips pressed together so I wouldn’t grin at him.

“And you know where it is?”

“Yes,” I breathed, thankful the elevator had come at last and the doors were opening.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Teagarden,” the lawyer said, setting his black glasses back on his nose and turning away as the doors closed with me inside.

I thought a scream of joy would echo up the elevator shaft, so I quietly but ecstatically said, “Heeheeheeheehee, ” all the way down and did a little jig before the doors opened on the marble lobby.

I managed to get home to the town house on Parson Road without hitting another car, and pulled into my parking place planning how I could celebrate. The young married couple who’d taken Robin’s town house, to the left of mine, waved back hesitantly in answer to my beaming hello. The Crandalls’ parking space to the right was empty; they were visiting a married son in another town. The woman who’d finally rented Bankston Waite’s town house was at work, as always. There was a strange car parked in the second space allotted to my apartment, but since I didn’t see anyone I assumed it was a guest of one of the other tenants who didn’t know how to read.

I opened my patio gate singing to myself and hopping around happily (I am not much of a dancer) and surprised a strange man in black sticking a note to my back door.

It was a toss-up as to which of us was the more startled.

It took me a moment of staring to figure out who the man was. I finally recognized him as the Episcopal priest who’d performed Mother’s wedding and Jane Engle’s funeral. I’d talked to him at the wedding reception, but not at this morning’s funeral. He was a couple of inches over six feet, probably in his late thirties, with dark hair beginning to gray to the color of his eyes, a neat mustache, and a clerical collar.

“Miss Teagarden, I was just leaving you a note,” he said, recovering neatly from his surprise at my singing, dancing entrance.