Authors: Tena Frank
“Well, a guy who’s renovating an apartment
for me says he used to see you mowing the lawn over at 305 Chestnut. Says there
used to be people who took care of the place, you being one of them. So I’m
hoping you can tell me what happened over there, why it’s gotten so run down.”
“Now why would you care? Don’t nobody care
’bout that place no more.”
Tate noticed a hint of anger in Scott’s
voice. “Sounds like maybe
you
do.”
“Mebbe I do. Don’t matter though. I can’t
work for nothin’, and that’s the only way anythin’s gonna get done over there
since they stop payin’ for the upkeep.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Them damn lawyers, that’s who. They had
plenty money, far as I know. But they jus’ walked away from the place. Prob’ly
kep’ the money theyselves. Jus’ let the place fall apart. Stop paying me, the
maintenance man, everone who kep’ the place in shape.”
“When was that, Scott?”
“Oh, mebbe eight, ten yars ago.”
“Up until then, who paid you?”
“Lawyers, like I said. Name a Page and
Smith, or sumpin’ like that. Checks stop comin’ but not me. Kep’ on workin’ for
months, waitin’ ta git paid. Finally tracked ’em down where they office was,
but they long gone from the looks of it. Empty buildin’, paper tacked ta the
winders . . .”
“So, that was the end of it? Did you ever
hear from anyone again?”
“Nope. Heared nothin’ and got nothin’. They
still owe me hunderds a dollars.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Scott. Sounds like
you took good care of the place until that happened.”
“Yep, did best as I could. Funny ole place,
that one. Sad, ya know?”
“Sad how?”
“Man who built it kilt hisself right there
on the front porch. My daddy were his lawn man. I usta work with him when I
were a boy. It was purdy fancy when Mr. Harlan’ first built it, but always
strange, you know. Like all the things on that house don’t go together.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.”
“
And then
when he were dead, the neighbors was real mean ’bout it. Like he were a bad man
or sumpin’. He weren’t no bad man. Jus’ a man livin’ in a big ole house by
hisself, tryin’ to get by like the res’ of us. ’Cept of course, he had way more
money!” Scott chuckled to himself. “He weren’t ’xactly good, but he weren’t bad
neither. He were near nice to me sometimes. Give me a li’l money a my own when
I worked there with Daddy.”
“Sounds like a nice gesture to me. He didn’t
have to pay you extra, did he?”
“Didn’t have to, no. Jus’ seem like he knew
it would mean sumpin’ to me, you know, to have a li’l bit a money a my own. And
he made sure ta tell my daddy the money were mine ta do as I please.”
“Did you ever meet the man who owns the
place now? A Mr. Leland Howard?”
Disbelief flashed across Scott’s face.
“Somebody own the place?”
“Yes, but I don’t know
how he came to own it . . . or why.”
“Far as I know, no one done owned it since
Mr. Harlan’ shot hisself.” Scott looked perplexed. “Why that man let it go
fallow?”
“I wish I knew, Scott. Now the City wants it
torn down and I want to save it. I hope what you just told me will help me do
that.”
“Seem like a big task, ma’am. Don’t know why
you care, but if it kin be saved, I hope you save it.”
“Thanks, Scott. I’ll keep in touch, if
that’s okay. I have some property over on Maplewood and I’ll be looking for
someone to tend the lawn come spring.”
“Always glad for work, ma’am, leas’ so long
as ole Blue here’s welcome, too.”
“Your dog is more than welcome on my
property, Scott.”
They parted ways, Scott waving a goodbye,
Blue gently wagging his tail and Tate highly motivated to track down “them damn
lawyers.”
Tate
went directly to the library and immediately sought out Carla for assistance.
Tate found her at her desk in the reference room.
“Hi, Tate. What can I help you with today?”
“It won’t come as a surprise that I need
more information, right?”
Carla smiled. “No, it won’t. And that’s what
I’m here for, so what can I do for you?”
“Well, at some point in the past there was a
law firm in town named Page and Smith. I checked directory assistance for them
but there’s nothing there now, so I figured I’d come straight to the expert for
help!”
“What else do you know about them?” Carla
turned to her computer and started typing.
“Not much, really. I have an idea they were
still practicing law ten years ago, but around that time, they apparently
closed up shop.”
“Is this related to that place on Chestnut
Street?”
“Of course! I’ve been living and breathing
that place since I saw you last. That’s what led me to Page and Smith. They
used to pay the gardener for taking care of the lawn, and then the checks
abruptly stopped coming to him eight or ten years ago.”
Carla continued searching her data base as
they chatted. “I’m not finding Page and Smith. I’m spelling that P-A-G-E. Is
that right?”
“I think so, but I only heard the name
spoken. I’ve never seen it written. Are there other possibilities?”
“P-A-I-G-E is worth a
try. Aha! Here’s something!” Carla pointed to the monitor and Tate read over
her shoulder. “Okay, if that’s them, then its Paige and Schmidt. Let’s see . .
. according to this article, they closed the practice in 1996, and it looks
like they may have been in trouble . . .” Carla summarized the piece, which
focused on a complaint by a client that someone in the firm had failed to file
paperwork with the court on a timely basis, resulting in the client’s case
being dismissed. That client had filed a lawsuit claiming malpractice and won a
huge settlement.
“I wonder what was going on,” Tate mused.
“Sounds like someone let things slip. That may be what happened over on
Chestnut.”
“What do you mean?” Carla seemed genuinely
interested, so Tate continued.
“Well, I tracked down
the man who used to do the lawn work over there. Apparently there were
caretakers in place for several decades after Freeman’s suicide. This guy,
Scott is his name, says his father was the gardener and there was a handyman.
I’m guessing the taxes were paid, too. Is there any way we could track that
down? Wait . . . I’m sorry. I’m rambling again.”
Carla seemed completely content to let Tate
go on unabated. “No, it’s fine, Tate. Really. I’ve been a librarian for a long
time, and I don’t remember ever working with someone as fired up as you seem to
be about this . . . what is it? A project? A passion?”
“A puzzle! I’ve loved them all my life, ever
since my sister started making up word games to play with me when I was only 2
or 3. And this is a big, huge puzzle! Everything I learn seems to create more
pieces, more questions. You’re right, I am fired up!”
“Okay, so tell me more. What else did you
learn?”
“Well, Scott took over when his father
passed and kept the lawn and garden in good shape. The lawyers paid for his
services, and there was no problem until suddenly the checks just stopped coming.
He finally went to the office only to find it had been closed for some time.
The place was vacant. No forwarding address, no way to contact them.”
“What’d he do then?”
“He had to stop doing his work at the house.
He couldn’t work for free, even though I got the feeling he loved the place.
From the looks of it, the same happened with the caretaker and the taxes. Seems
like the law firm just walked away from the place. And I wonder if they were
letting it slip a long time before that. The façade is in bad shape. I doubt it
has been painted since it was built.”
“Let’s look further, then,” Carla suggested.
After close to thirty
minutes of searching, they had formulated a speculative timeline for the rise
and fall of Paige and Schmidt. Established in the heyday of the mid-1920s, the
firm quickly gained a reputation as top-notch specialists in real estate law
and estate planning. Both original founders retired in the early 1940s and
their sons took over. The second generation of Paige and Schmidt continued as
active partners for another two decades even after their offspring, also sons,
assumed stewardship in the late 1960s. During that time, the firm’s reputation
began to fade.
Carla and Tate found
two articles hinting at the eventual downfall. In one case, a junior partner
was arrested and convicted of drug use; in the other, a major malpractice suit
against the firm was dismissed, but in the aftermath, Paige and Schmidt quickly
shrank from five attorneys down to two—the great grandson of the original Schmidt,
and the great granddaughter of the original Paige. She married a wealthy
Frenchman and moved out of the country, leaving the firm in the hands of the
only remaining descendant of the founders. It was under his watch that the firm
folded, following the lawsuit that apparently bankrupted it.
“So where do you go from here?” Carla’s
question echoed Tate’s own thoughts.
“Where do I go from here? Good question.
Maybe I can find someone who can tell me more about these lawyers. And there
was a trust fund . . . rather there is a trust fund. Where is it? How do I find
out more about it? Who has control of it . . .?
“Looks like you may be heading back to the
courthouse, no?”
“I think you’re right, Carla. As usual,
you’ve been a great help. I owe you!”
“It’s my job, but I have to say you make it
more interesting than usual, so I owe you, too.”
“Well, when I get this all sorted out, we’ll
have to celebrate.”
“I’d like that very much, Tate,” Carla said,
smiling broadly.
Her inviting response surprised Tate. “Oh .
. . okay, then. Well . . . thanks again, Carla.”
Tate left the library and headed for the
courthouse, where she learned that the only trustee on record for the property
held in Leland Howard’s name was the defunct law firm of Paige and Schmidt.
Indeed, they had just closed up shop and walked away.
FORTY
2004
Tate
had been so busy thinking about the ramifications of what she had learned
through Scott and Carla about Paige and Schmidt that she had little time left
to prepare herself for the evening with Cally. That also meant she hadn’t had
time to worry about her dinner with Cally. Now she stood before her closet,
searching for what to wear and wishing she had nicer choices than her usual
jeans and t-shirts. She finally settled on the one pair of black slacks she
owned along with her favorite lightweight jacket. Then she shoe-horned her feet
into her black cowboy boots with the silver toe and heel guards. The final
touches included small gold earrings and dabs of her signature essential oil
blend at her wrists and behind her ears.
So much for this not
being a date!
“Well, it isn’t a date,” she insisted to the image in the mirror as she
gave her hair a quick brushing. “I don’t do dates anymore!”
Why not?
the image seemed to ask. She locked the
front door and headed for her truck, refusing to follow that path of inquiry
into the past.
Tate
pulled up in front of the Princess Hotel at the appointed time and found Cally
waiting for her at the entrance, dressed in an outfit of tailored slacks in
slate gray with a hip-length, belted, black leather jacket over a white, cotton
shirt, the high collar flipped up behind her neck and accented with a silk
scarf in crimson.
Stunning!
What a gorgeous woman!
Tate
felt her pulse quicken as Cally climbed into the passenger seat.
“You look great!” Tate smiled
self-consciously as she greeted Cally.
“You too, Tate! I’ve been looking forward to
seeing you all day, especially after that visit with Gampa yesterday. Do you
think we could go back tomorrow?”
“Sure, I can work that into my schedule
easily.”
“I hope I’m not keeping
you from important work. I fear I’ve been monopolizing your time ever since we
met.”
“Well, I’m the only boss of me these days,
so I make my schedule whatever I want it to be. You don’t need to worry.”
“Okay, then. Tomorrow it
is. But I don’t know where I’m going to get good brownies. I promised him, you
know.”
“There are a couple of great bakeries in
town. We should be able to find something. But don’t expect to fool him that
they’re homemade. He has a remarkable ability to tell the difference!”
They had agreed to have dinner at The Corner
Kitchen, so Tate decided to take the route through downtown on their way to
Biltmore Village.
“This is such a
beautiful town, and so much different from when I lived here as a child. I’m so
glad I came back—came
home
! And meeting you is a big part of that for me. It’s like
we were destined to meet . . . at least it feels that way to me.” Cally had not
taken her eyes off Tate since getting into the truck, and Tate felt a bit uneasy
under the intensity of her attention.
“I know what you mean. I’m not surprised,
though. Spirit had some reason for getting me tangled up with that house in
Montford. Like maybe I found it so I could help you find Leland or something. I
don’t know. Does that sound weird?”
“I’ve never been all that religious or
spiritual, so it does sound a bit . . . unusual to me. But you clearly feel a
connection to things like that—Spirit as you call it, your runners . . .”
Tate welcomed the
opportunity to divert Cally’s focus from her. “Yeah, my runners! I’m hoping
they’ll find us a good parking space down in the Village.” The two continued to
chat amiably, but Tate felt herself pulling back a bit whenever Cally moved the
conversation into personal territory.
Thanks to her runners, Tate believed, they
quickly found a space within a block of the restaurant and were seated less
than ten minutes later. The Corner Kitchen occupied a quaint house dating back
to the late 1800s, one of the many original cottages in Biltmore Village, which
sat at the entrance to George Vanderbilt’s magnificent estate. They had a
choice table near the fireplace in a small dining room across the hall from the
open kitchen.
“Do you have any favorites?” Cally asked as
she perused the menu.
“I’ve only been here once before, and
everything was delicious. I’m thinking about the trout, but the steak sounds
good, too. What about you?”
“Yes, the fish, I think.”
They ordered an appetizer to share, and
Cally ordered the fish along with a perfectly paired Riesling, while Tate
settled on steak and a smoky chardonnay.
“I know I’m supposed to drink red wine with
steak,” Tate offered preemptively.
“Really? Why?”
“Well, red wine with red meat, and all that.
There are lots of rules, aren’t there?”
“It all depends. Do you like red wine?”
“No! Every time I’ve tried it, I ended up
with a massive headache. I’ve been told by people who seem to know about these
things that I must be drinking cheap red wine. I think it doesn’t matter. Me
and red wine don’t mix.”
“Then there’s no reason to drink it, is
there?” Cally took a sip of her Riesling and waited for an answer.
“That kind of surprises me. You seemed to
choose your wine carefully, and only after you decided on what you were having
for dinner. Me, I always order something white, regardless. I bet you’re one of
those who know a lot about wine.”
“In my business, I’m
expected to entertain clients, and to do so lavishly. The firm has a huge
budget for wining and dining, and they even sent me to wine pairing classes so
I could court new top-tier clients. So, yeah, I know a lot about it. But if you
don’t like something, you don’t like it, no matter what the experts say.”
“That’s a refreshing attitude. And a
relief!” Tate laughed as she tipped her glass in a salute to Cally. “So what is
your work, exactly?”
“I’m a publicist. I work
in a prestigious firm in Los Angeles, and I have a variety of clients, but
mostly I represent companies and people who provide services, like accountants,
doctors, hairdressers to the stars . . .”
“Do you like what you do?”
“I’m good at it, let’s leave it there. I
fell into it. It’s not what I planned for myself.”
“What did you plan?”
“Nothing, really! I earned my bachelor’s
degree in psychology. Then I went to work as a receptionist just until I figured
out what I wanted to do next. That was ages ago, and as the years passed I
learned more about the business, moved up the ranks, and they were about to
make me a partner before I left town.”
“When do you go back?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure I will.”
“Really?”
“It feels like there’s nothing there for me
anymore. My mom died not long ago, my girlfriend left me . . .”
“I’m sorry, Cally. Sounds like you’ve had a
rough time of it.”
“You know, I thought so, too, until I spent
three weeks driving across the country. That’s plenty of time and distance to
get some perspective on your life, and that’s what I did. It’s pretty clear to
me that I don’t want to go back, and there’s really no reason to.”
“So what would you do instead?”
“Stay here—move back
home. I should be able to find some kind of work here. I have enough money to
live on for quite a while, so I could take time to look around. Maybe go back
to school. I have a lot of ideas running around in my head, but so much has
happened I’m having trouble sorting through all of them.”
“Well, there’s more to add to the mix. Want
to hear the latest news regarding that house in Montford and your grandfather?”
“Yes, but I’d also like to get to know you
better, Tate.”
Alarms started sounding
in Tate’s head again. She paused and took a sip of wine before responding. “I’m
sure we’ll get to that, but let me tell you about these lawyers . . .” and she
launched into the story of meeting Scott and researching Paige and Schmidt.
Cally listened, and by the time dinner arrived, she seemed content to focus on
the quest for answers about 305 Chestnut Street rather than pressing Tate for
more personal information.
“This trout is outstanding!” Cally offered
Tate a taste and Tate reciprocated with the steak, which had been cooked to
perfection.
“I’m as impressed this time as I was on my
first visit. This may become one of my favorite treats when I’m feeling
extravagant.”
“I bet you have a lot of favorite places,
don’t you?”
“Not all that many, really. I mostly cook
for myself, but occasionally I go out for brunch with friends. I like AnnTony’s
as you know. And Over Easy. Wait! You’ve already been to most of my favorites
with me!” Tate hoped offering these superficial details of her life would
satisfy Cally’s curiosity.
“Then I guess we’ll have to find some new
favorites together.” Cally seemed completely unselfconscious as she said this.
“Uh, well . . . yeah, we’ll have to try some
new places.”
She’s not
going to give up.
Tate
tried to cover her discomfort with a weak smile and another sip of her wine.
Cally paused and studied
Tate closely before responding. “Yes, we’ll try a bunch of new places, and
maybe we’ll both find some favorites.”
Tate thought Cally’s
response could mean more than just favorite restaurants, but she decided to let
the innuendo pass without comment. Over dessert and coffee, each shared details
about her life, but Tate continued to shy away from anything remotely romantic
when Cally headed in that direction. Eventually, Tate won out. Cally’s demeanor
shifted slightly, her intimate tone receding even though she remained upbeat
and friendly. Tate recognized that Cally’s disappointment counterbalanced her
own sense of relief.
They used the drive back to Cally’s hotel to
firm up their plans for visiting Leland the next day.
“It was so good to see him, but I’m still
nervous about going back,” Cally offered.
“What worries you? The visit yesterday
seemed to go really well.”
“I know. It did go well. But it was
stressful, and I just hope it wasn’t too much for him. And, there are so many
things I want to know. What happened to Gamma? Where has he been all these
years? Why didn’t he contact me? Those are hard questions, and maybe I won’t
like the answers I get, assuming he will—or even can—answer them.”
“You can drive yourself crazy with the
worrying” Tate said, “or you can just let things unfold as they will.” Cally
stiffened a bit and Tate realized after the fact her comment sounded a bit
harsh.
“Oops! Sorry for being
so abrupt. Let me rephrase that. In my experience, we can make things worse
than they really are by dwelling on everything that might not work out the way
we want.”
“Of course, you’re right, Tate. I’m just so
eager to know these things, and . . . but I’ll be patient, I promise. At least
I’ll try to be patient.”
“Well, if anyone knows about patience, I
think its Leland. His work is so detailed. I mean he’s in his nineties, and he
still sits all day and makes those delicate ornaments and sweet little boxes of
beautiful wood. You didn’t get to see them yet. Some of them have hidden
compartments in them—”
“You mentioned that the
other night—hidden places—and it seems so familiar . . . I wish I could
remember . . .” Cally closed her eyes and concentrated intently.
Tate gasped as an idea flashed into her
mind. “Oh, Cally! I just realized something! Have you seen the fireplace at the
Princess, the one in the sitting room just off the lobby?”
“Sure, it’s beautiful. Why?”
“I’ll show you why as soon as we get inside.
You’re going to love this!”
Tate had just pulled up to the entrance of
the Princess. Instead of dropping Cally off as planned, she quickly parked the
truck at the side of the drive. They went inside, and Tate steered Cally
directly to the fireplace and gestured to the mantel.
“Does this look familiar?”
“No, why?” Cally seemed puzzled.
“This mantel is Leland’s work, Cally.”
Cally stared at Tate wide-eyed. “No!”
“Yes! Leland made this
mantel. I was here last week, and Mr. Wright, the owner, showed it to me. It’s
very
special.”
“Yes, it
’s quite beautiful . . .”
“I mean
special
, really special,
Cally. Look . . .” Tate hoped she would be able to find the trigger mechanism.
She carefully moved her finger across the notched lower edge of the mantel as
Warren Wright had done. Her first pass yielded nothing, so she tried again,
slowing her movement, closing her eyes, tuning out the background conversation,
even holding her breath so she could focus totally on finding the right spot.
Then, a faint click and the hidden drawer dropped open.