Flo Fitzpatrick - Legacy of Silence

Once the path was clear, she sank down onto the piano bench and lifted the lid to reveal the keys. The chord she sounded was clear, bright and absolutely in tune. The action was even the right weight. She immediately popped back to her feet and, on a hunch, opened the bench, where she discovered a pile of sheet music. Things were looking up already. Images of mornings spent in Virginia’s kitchen drinking tea followed by leisurely sessions of playing the piano began flowing through her mind. Perhaps she wouldn’t sell. Perhaps she could rent some of the bedrooms to reliable tenants (assuming such beings existed) and stay at the house, something she resolved to do more often. Or she could hire a caretaker.

Miranda resisted the impulse to start playing a musical number from Phantom of the Opera. Instead, she dug inside her purse, grabbed her mobile phone and hit Speed Dial number two.

“Hey, Dad.” Miranda didn’t wait for a hello. “Have you seen this place in the past few years?”

“A bit overwhelming?”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t remember it looking like a museum. It wasn’t like this the last time I came over. Of course, that was right after I graduated college and Miss Virginia didn’t want me to come inside. We had tea and kolaches on the porch.” Her voice cracked. “I am not a good person. Six years. At least I sent cards. Big whoop, right?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally, Miranda’s father asked, “Miranda, is this going to be too much? You can stay with Farrah and me until you get things sorted. I just thought this would give you some time by yourself.”

Miranda shuddered, imagining the stress of being around her father’s self-assured “I’ve owned my own successful catering business since the day I graduated college” wife of eight months. At forty-one, Farrah Nolan was only fourteen years older than Miranda—too young to be her stepmother and too old to really be a friend. Miranda dismissed that thought, musing that age had nothing to do with her feelings about the new Mrs. Timothy Nolan. Miss Virginia had been in her seventies when Miranda met her and their friendship had been instantaneous and solid.

“Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t dream of invading your space. Y’all are newlyweds, after all! The good news is the piano is in tune, so I’m a happy singer. And as you might recall, Miss Virginia was a lady with eclectic tastes—I may find riches here...or at least a live cat or two. Are you sure all this is kosher? I mean, my living here before the will has been finalized.”

“As far as I know, no one is challenging your inheritance,” her father said. “If another claimant does turn up before or during probate, Dave will handle it.” He paused before adding, “There are times I’m very glad I teach international law. I’d hate to have to tiptoe around the intricacies of estates and deal with irate relatives. The latter, thankfully, are non-existent in this case. Virginia was quite clear in her wishes. Dave told me that she left the house and all her worldly goods to you, Ms. Miranda Nolan—and added a comment about your kindness to her over the years. You must have impressed the fool out of the lady when you were a kid.” His voice caught. “I’m still grateful Virginia took over much of my nonexistent parenting.”

Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the tall but frail woman who’d treated Miranda as if she were her own child.

“It’s okay, Dad. You were going through a lot after Mom died. Miss Virginia saw a need and stepped in. She truly was family.”

Miranda glanced around the living room and sighed, envisioning the hours of work ahead of her. “I have to say, this is going to be interesting. I’m about to dive into the history of the mid-twentieth century. I’m already in awe of these antiques. You should see the clocks. I’ve been in the living room less than ten minutes and I’ve already counted two grandfather clocks, three anniversary mantel clocks and some kind of weird pendulum thing à la Edgar Allan Poe. I can’t wait for midnight when everything goes off at once.”

“Mark ’em all down, Miranda. You need to provide as much info as you can to help out the executor, who’ll be someone from the Brennan firm. Which reminds me, Dave said he’d be happy to send an appraiser or a Realtor at some point, but you might want to contact an antiques dealer if you already have someone you trust.”

Miranda tripped over a heavy box but managed to hang on to the phone. “I do know someone but unfortunately, he’s in Manhattan. That’s okay. I’ll get a better idea of who or what I need once I’ve taken a good tour of the entire house. There are probably hidden passages strewn with pots of gold. Or ghosts in every bedroom and of course the attic.”

“Scared?” Tim teased.

“Nah. It’s cool. Miss Virginia and I were good friends from the moment we met. If she pops out of the woodwork one night I’ll ask her spirit to tea—”

“She loved giving tea parties! For kids, anyway. I remember she’d invite you over and always send you home with a doggie bag full of fantastic cookies and little cakes. The woman was an amazing baker. I wonder if she was one of those culinary marvels who just sweeps into a kitchen and emerges with delicacies or if she had to dive through cookbooks and recipe files.”

“Hmm. Now that would be a treasure—finding her recipe book. Tell Farrah if anything like that turns up, I’ll give it to her. Anyway, I honestly don’t mind being here sans companionship, unless creepy critters really do inhabit the woodwork—and I do not mean Virginia’s spirit or any other non-corporeal beings. I’m talkin’ rats or mites. Or maybe I’ll trip over a feline who deserted the old Caddy in search of tuna.”

After a moment, Miranda’s father coughed and completely changed the subject. He quietly asked “Not to sound like a nosy parent, but how are you feeling about the fiasco with Grant? It’s only been a couple of days since you told me y’all broke up. Are you okay?” He paused. “Are you up to telling me what happened?”

Miranda pushed a box of books off an armchair and then sank down into the soft cushions. “I’m fine. Really. Surprisingly, I’m more than fine. The basic story is that Grant Spencer chose the occasion of our closing night party for Illumination to announce that he had wonderful news. He’s going to direct Topaz in Delirium.”

“I remember you saying something about that a few months ago. He was sweet-talking the producer every chance he got, right?”

“Oh, yeah. But apparently he took it a step further. After I’d congratulated him on getting the gig he rather casually added that he was dating Cyan Marlowe, the college-age daughter of Tyrone Marlowe, who just happens to be the producer of Topaz in Delirium.”

“Wait. Back that up.”

Miranda could hear the mirth her dad was trying to hide.

“Did you say Cyan?”

“I did.”

“As in the inkjet color that always runs out first?”

Miranda laughed. “Precisely. Daddy Marlowe is Mr. Broadway Producer Extraordinaire. It’s going to be interesting to see whose ego wins between Marlowe and Grant. Anyway, it struck me that my boyfriend was a toad—which admittedly wasn’t until after he broke up with me—but it still hit purty durn fast. I decided I’d be better off without a narcissistic, overly ambitious jerk who ruined the closing night party for me.”

“Sorry, hon. Sounds like Grant brought tackiness to a new level.”

Miranda sighed. “My only lingering question is ‘what on earth did I ever see in him beyond good looks, charm and smarts and the theater mania we had in common?’”

Her refined and genteel father produced a distinct snort. “Well, having met the man, I’d add charisma to that list. I thought he was great for you and I’m generally a decent judge of character. I guess we were both deceived.”