CHAPTER EIGHT
E
ric knocked softly until I looked up. He stood just outside my office, with a worried expression on his face.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said, “but I saw this girl through the window. She was standing in the snow. She’s pretty young, I think.”
“And?”
“She wasn’t lost. She wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Who is she?”
“Paige Chaffee.”
I was close to speechless. “Where is she now?”
“I left her downstairs with Gretchen,” he said.
“Good thinking. You can bring her up.”
Eric clambered down the stairs; I stood and walked toward my window. It was only three-thirty, yet it was almost dark. I watched as snow streamed down, big flakes accumulating quickly. Already an inch or more coated the branches on my old maple tree.
I turned when I heard Eric’s clomping step followed by a softer patter. Eric appeared in the doorway next to a tiny blond pixie. She was conservatively dressed in clean, well-fitting blue jeans and a crew-neck sweater with an Oxford-collared shirt peeking out, and she looked younger than twelve. Her boots were lemon yellow knee-high rubber galoshes. She wore a blue parka, unzipped. She seemed to be sizing me up at the same time that I was observing her.
“Here she is,” Eric announced by way of introduction.
“Hi.” I walked to meet her and give her a big hug, holding her close for several seconds.
I indicated that Paige should take one of the yellow wing chairs and I sat across from her in the other one. She was thinner than Rosalie, but their shared heritage was evident in their prominent cheekbones, wide-set brown eyes, and shiny hair. “I’m just so sorry, Paige. Your sister was so special.”
She nodded, cleared her throat, and said, “Thank you.”
“Do you want to take your coat off? Can I get you something to drink? Do you like tea? We have hot chocolate, too.”
She slid out of her jacket and let it fall to the floor, her expression glum. “Nothing, thank you.”
I wondered what family she had left, if any. Now that Rosalie was dead, was she all alone in the world? Listening to her solemn voice, another little part of me withered.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I need help,” she said.
I nodded. “Okay. What kind of help?”
“I’m staying with my friend’s family. So I don’t have to go into foster care, you know?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Poor Paige
. “That’s good.”
“My cousin Rodney is coming on Saturday. He’s my nearest relative. The person they appointed—the court, I mean—as my temporary guardian called him.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“I’m not.”
“How come?”
Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes and she palmed them away. “Rodney wants to take me back to California.”
I nodded. We sat in uneasy silence.
“Rosalie hated him,” she said.
“Do you know why?”
“Not exactly.”
“Sounds scary.”
“I don’t want to go with him.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s a terrible situation.”
“I can’t let him go through everything, but I don’t know how to stop him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Rosalie said you were an appraiser. Right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“She explained about what you do. She said you make a list of things and figure out what they’re worth.”
I nodded. “That’s a good description.”
“That’s what I want. Before Rodney can steal anything.”
“What do you think he might steal?”
“I don’t know. That’s why you need to do your appraising right away. Before Rodney gets here on Saturday. That’s why I came. So you have time.”
She was becoming increasingly agitated. I could hear it in the quavering of her voice and see it in the shaking of her hands. I understood. When my mother died, I’d had my father. When my father died, I’d been unable to put a coherent sentence together for a week. That was seven years ago, and I still missed him every day.
As I watched, she tucked a strand of wispy hair behind her ear. She was breathing too quickly, almost hyperventilating. I wondered when she last ate.
“Is there something in particular you’re worried about—an object that you know is valuable?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rosalie didn’t tell me.” She picked at her sleeve, maybe pulling pills, though none were visible from where I sat. She lifted her eyes and stared at me. I sensed her concern—she wanted to tell, but was afraid to do so.
“If I can help you, Paige,” I said, meaning it, “I will.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak. By any standard, Paige was too young, too inexperienced, and too vulnerable to assess whether she should confide in me.
“You won’t tell?” she asked, sounding absurdly young.
“I won’t tell unless I have to. But I can’t know what I can do to help you, or what I can’t do, until I know what we’re talking about. I can’t promise to never tell, but I can promise that I won’t gossip about it just because.”
Another minute passed before she spoke, and when she did, I had to lean forward to catch her words.
“Rosalie said we were rich, and when I asked what she meant, she said we owned something that was priceless, but she didn’t want to sell it—she wanted to donate it to a museum. She was just waiting until she got tenure. Then she said we’d be set and we could go ahead and donate it.”
“And she never told you what it was?” I asked.
“No. She told me that loose lips sink ships and it wasn’t fair to ask someone my age to keep a secret like that. She was wrong! She could have trusted me. I told her so at the time.”
“I don’t think she meant that she couldn’t trust you, Paige,” I said. “It sounds like she was operating on what’s called a need-to-know basis. Do you know what that means?”
Paige shook her head.
“It’s a military term that means that people aren’t given information unless they have a
need
to know it. You didn’t
need
to know, so she didn’t tell you.”
“Except that she was wrong. I did need to know. You just asked me what it was and I can’t tell you.” She bit her lip and looked away.
“Point taken. Maybe she loaned it to a museum. That would be a safe place for it.”
She shook her head. “She would have told me.”
I nodded. She looked down at the carpet, a Persian in red and gold, as if she were trying to determine if it were genuine or not. It seemed hard to believe that Paige wouldn’t know more about an object her sister described as museum quality, yet I couldn’t imagine why, once she’d made up her mind to confide in me, she’d want to withhold that key fact.
“Maybe it’s a desk,” she added.
“What kind of desk?”
“Old. Rosalie got it from our mom when she graduated college. I don’t remember much about it, but I know it was really special.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Rosalie told me.”
I nodded. Lots of heirs in the midst of tumultuous grief and unexpected decision-making responsibilities lost track of details, even of their routine schedules. That a twelve-year-old girl in Paige’s circumstances would forget about an object she hadn’t seen or thought about in years would be a norm, not an exception—her mind was full. It was possible that she might remember something more about it or its location in the coming days and weeks.
“So will you help me?” she asked after a few seconds, without looking up.
I considered the obstacles to my saying yes. She was a minor with a court-appointed guardian. “Why did you just show up here?” I asked, struck by the oddity of her unexpected arrival. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Because it’s too hard to explain on the phone. And I need to let you into the house. I have the key.”
She waited for me to respond with an expression like Oliver Twist’s when he was asking for more food—game, but without much hope.
“How did you get here?” I asked, stalling.
“I hitchhiked.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “That’s so dangerous! Really, Paige, don’t do that ever again! Call me and I’ll make sure that you get to wherever you want to go, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed, her tiny voice barely carrying across the short span that separated us.
Rosalie had talked about living on the West Coast, although she’d never mentioned a cousin named Rodney. Her conversation had revolved around her childhood, when she and Paige had lived with their parents in Santa Monica. They’d lived in a big house with a swimming pool and a gazebo for barbeques and parties, and life had been good. Then their parents were killed in a car crash near San Diego when Rosalie was twenty-eight and Paige was just eight.
“Yeah, it was tough,” she’d acknowledged in response to my shocked dismay on hearing of the tragedy. “But I was old enough to become Paige’s guardian, thank God. Can you imagine how much worse it would have been if I hadn’t been able to take charge of her?”
Paige, orphaned four years ago, had been lucky enough to have a big sister who loved her and who cared for her. Now, it seemed, she was utterly alone.
I shook off the memory, and looked at Paige. She was watching me, waiting for my reply.
I had to help her. I couldn’t leave her adrift with a court-appointed guardian and a much-hated cousin from California. I forced a smile, aiming to convey self-assurance and dependability. “Of course I’ll help you. Don’t worry, Paige. We’ll find it—whatever it is.”
CHAPTER NINE
W
ith Paige’s permission, I called my lawyer, Max.
Max Bixby was kind and smart; protective yet flexible; a rock of stability and reliable good sense that I depended on for far more than his legal acumen. I could picture him leaning back in his big black leather office chair, wearing a brown or green tweed jacket with a color-coordinated shirt and bow tie. Knowing Max was on my side made it easier to face all sorts of frightening and confusing events.
“Josie!” he said when I had him on the line. “How’s tricks?”
“I’m fine, Max. But I have a kind of, well, unusual situation here.”
“Okay, shoot,” he said, shifting seamlessly from casual chitchat to business.
“Have you heard about Rosalie Chaffee’s death?” I asked.
“Only from the news. Why?”
“I knew her. We were friends.”
“Terrible what happened.”
“Horrible,” I agreed. “Just unbelievable.” I glanced at Paige, feeling conspicuous and uncomfortable discussing her situation in front of her. She’d walked across the room and faced the window. The snow was blowing hard against the near-black sky. “I don’t know if it was discussed on the news, but Rosalie had a sister, Paige.”
“No, it wasn’t. But I’m aware of her because Paige is in the same class as my eldest, Andrea. Andrea has mentioned her—she says that Paige is a good sport and a nice girl. I don’t think I’ve ever met her myself.”
“She
is
nice. She’s right here with me in my office.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, she’s asked me to do something and I thought I ought to call you about it.”
“Tell me,” he instructed.
“It seems that there’s a cousin named Rodney who’s coming from California to take charge of her. Until then she’s staying with a friend’s family. To avoid foster care.”
“Good.”
“Yeah, except that Paige says that Rosalie hated Rodney.”
“Not good.”
“And Rosalie told her they were rich, that they owned something good enough to merit being donated to a museum, but she—Paige, I mean—she doesn’t know what Rosalie was referring to. So, anyway, Rosalie mentioned what I do to Paige, what an appraiser does. Paige wants an appraisal done before Rodney gets into town.”
“Pretty savvy move for a kid.”
“Yeah.”
There was a long pause while Max considered the circumstances. I heard a winter bird call something, then an answering caw-caw, then silence.
“Paige will have had an attorney appointed by the court.”
“She only mentioned a guardian.”
“I can make a couple of calls and find out.”
“Should she hire you to represent her? To protect her rights. I don’t know the legal wording, but if you represent her, you can authorize the appraisal and maybe even check out this Rodney guy, right?”
“The court might allow it. I have some experience in family court. At twelve, most courts would entertain the notion that she should be allowed to have an attorney of her own choosing,” Max reasoned. “Let me get the lay of the land and get back to you, okay? It shouldn’t take too long.”
We hung up and I swiveled to face Paige. She still stood by the window, so I spoke to her back. “Max is going to find out if you already have a lawyer. He thinks the court probably appointed one for you. He’ll call me back.”
She turned toward me and nodded. “Thank you.”
“I had another thought,” I said. “The people you’re staying with . . . they might be worried, you know? What do you think about calling them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t need to. No one’s there. They work, and my friend’s still at swim practice.”
“Still. I’d feel better. I’ll call if you want and leave a message. Okay?”
She told me their name and number. As expected, no one was home. I left the message, telling them who I was and that I’d see that Paige got back to their house safely.
When I finished, I buzzed down and asked Gretchen to bring up some hot chocolate. “Are there any cookies or anything around?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? We
always
have cookies!”
“Good. Bring a few, will you?”
“None for me,” Paige said when I’d hung up the phone.
I shrugged. “I hope you’ll nibble on one. Even if you don’t feel hungry, you’ve got to eat.”
Gretchen brought up a tray, her eyes big with curiosity.
“Here you go,” she said, a smile in her voice, placing the tray on the butler’s table near the wing chairs. “Can I do anything else?”
“No, thanks.”
Paige and I sat in companionable quiet while waiting for Max’s call. I was pleased to see her eat two cookies and finish her entire cup of hot chocolate.
At least she has some food in her stomach
, I thought,
and some real milk from the hot chocolate
.
Gretchen buzzed up to tell me that Max was on line one.
“Arthur Bolton has been appointed to represent Paige,” he said, “and I don’t think it’s necessary or desirable for me to interfere with the court’s arrangements. I reached him just now and he was appreciative of the information I gave him about the need for an appraisal. Since he’s familiar with your work, he’s comfortable asking you to proceed. He’ll be calling you within the hour to direct you to conduct a formal appraisal, one for which you should bill the estate. Rosalie apparently died intestate, so all of her possessions will pass to Paige. That means they’ll be held in trust for her until she’s eighteen. Mr. Bolton agreed that it’s prudent to catalogue all assets before any outside interest comes into play—for instance, Rodney.”
“That’s great. Thanks, Max. What about Rodney?”
“He agrees that a full background check should be conducted before a minor is turned over to an unknown person.”
“This is all good news, then.”
“Yes. I know his work—Bolton’s competent and thorough.”
“I’ll tell Paige.”
“Please also tell her how impressed I am with her. Not many adults would have acted with the presence of mind she’s shown.”
“That’s really true, isn’t it. I’ll tell her you said so.”
By the time I’d filled Paige in and explained that I could start the appraisal in the morning, her lawyer, Arthur Bolton, called and officially authorized me to act.
We agreed that I’d stop by his office by nine the next morning to pick up a letter of authorization and the keys. Paige had returned to the window and stood leaning against the frame, peering into the far distance, a picture of loneliness and despondency.
“May I speak to Paige, please?”
“Certainly,” I replied, and called Paige to the phone.
“Hello,” she said. “Uh-huh . . . okay . . . let me get a pen. . . . I’m ready . . . okay . . . school and work, right . . . the house, and car, and her health club . . . Yes, at Heyer’s . . . okay . . . okay . . . Thank you.”
She handed me the phone, and said, “Mr. Bolton said I should tell you that Rosalie used the corporate health club at Heyer’s. Even though she wasn’t a regular employee she got to use the facilities. She has a locker there.”
“Thank you. You should think about other places she might have kept things, but right now, with this snow, I better get you to your friend’s house. Okay?”
She nodded, looking and, if I knew anything, feeling wretched. I could imagine at least some of what she was going through. As an only child of doting parents, their deaths had been horrible for me. The sharp sting of loss had faded, but not the just-below-the-surface ache. And there was another legacy of losing too much when I was too young to cope with the turmoil—an always-present anxiety that loss was my lot in life. Although I rarely spoke of it, I lived with a constant low-level concern that occasionally metamorphosed into fear, that it was, in fact, my affection for someone that caused the loss. I knew it wasn’t true, but knowledge isn’t always enough to overcome irrational worry. To this day, it’s hard for me to let myself feel and show love.
Once, when I was having trouble committing to a college boyfriend, my father said,
You can’t control how you feel, but you can control how you act. Never make decisions based on fear, only hope
. Since then I’ve tried to follow his advice, with mixed success. Fear, I’ve learned, is a deeply entrenched enemy of hope.
Paige, at twelve, had already experienced more fear than many people had to face in a lifetime. Perhaps, I thought, if I could find Rosalie’s treasure, Paige could rediscover hope, and from hope might come courage.