Chapter 47

When Coleman’s patrol car rolled to a stop in my driveway, Etta Mae and I hurried out to meet him. Etta Mae was ready with the combination in hand, while I was getting more anxious by the minute. What if she couldn’t open the safe? What if Cobb had taken the sampler out before he’d moved the safe? And hidden it where we’d never find it?

But, no, not even he would’ve been that foolish. He wouldn’t have struggled to get the safe from closet to trailer, across a gravel parking lot and up a ramp, if it had been empty. It had to be in the safe.

Still, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that shirt box again. So we watched as Coleman swung out of his car, walked to the trunk, opened it, and stood back.

“There you are, ladies,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Safe and secure, just as we left it.”

I leaned in to look, and, yes, there was the safe, but there was also a lot of police gear, including a shotgun, a first-aid kit, a shovel, an extra pair of socks, a rain poncho, a bag of Doritos, and who-knows-what-else. The safe was sitting right where it had been dumped from the dolly, but it had landed upside down with the dial facing the back of the trunk.

“Oh, my,” I said, “it’ll be hard to get to, but, Coleman, I don’t want you trying to move it. It’s too heavy, and you could ruin your back. Etta Mae,” I went on, turning to her, “you think you can get to the dial with it facing that way?”

“Sure.” And with Coleman’s help, she hopped up into the trunk, squatted next to the safe, and went to work. And misdialed the first time. “Phooey,” she said, “I’m doing this upside down, but hold on. I’ll get it.”

And she did. She opened the safe, pulled out the Rich’s box, and handed it to me. Then Coleman helped her jump out of the trunk.

Coleman looked from me to Etta Mae to the Rich’s box, then said, “Is that it? What is it?”

“It’s a box,” I said. “A shirt box.”

“Well,” he said, eyebrows raised and a grin on his face, “you went to a lot of trouble for a shirt. I hope there’s more to it than that.”

“There is, Coleman. It’s just about the sum total of Mattie Freeman’s estate, bless her heart, and I thank you for taking care of it. And, by the way, you can have the safe. Tell the sheriff that I’m donating it to the department. Oh, and, Coleman, I was about to forget. How is Andrew Cobb? Etta Mae’s concerned about him.”

Coleman grinned. “Last I heard, he’s claiming amnesia. Says he doesn’t remember anything that happened last night.”

Etta Mae, thinking she’d caused brain damage, moaned.

“He’s not going to get away with that, is he?” I was incensed that he’d claim a loss of memory. A lot of us might want to forget what we’ve done, but it’s not that easy—too many other people have good memories.

“Nope,” Coleman said. “In fact, they’re drawing up charges against him now—breaking and entering, larceny, abduction—that would be of you, Miss Julia—reckless driving, exceeding a twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, property damage, failure to stop, driving on a sidewalk, public endangerment, and a defective taillight. Oh, and driving under the influence—the fumes in that car would knock your socks off.”

Just as Etta Mae started to speak, I frowned and slightly shook my head at her to keep her quiet—no need to respond to something that wasn’t a direct question.

Coleman didn’t notice. He went on with what he was saying. “Cobb’s got a lot to answer for, amnesia or no amnesia. But he remembers enough to get a lawyer. They said the first thing he asked for this morning was Mr. Ernest Sitton.”

“What!” I cried, stunned. “Mr. Sitton is representing him? Why, he can’t do that. He’s Mattie’s lawyer. Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

Coleman shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe not. The court’ll straighten it out.”

“Well, that just beats all I’ve ever heard,” I said, just done in by Andrew Cobb’s audacity and Mr. Sitton’s lack of professional sense.

“Etta Mae,” I went on, “let’s go in. I’m calling Mr. Sitton right now, and”—I stopped and clutched the box to my bosom—“I need to check this out. We may have to lay a few more charges on Mr. Andrew Cobb.”

With a wave to Coleman as he backed out of the driveway, we went inside to make sure that we had what we wanted. Holding my breath for fear that something else would go wrong, I untied the twine, lifted the lid off the box, and unwrapped the sampler—just enough to peek at it. Reassured, I rewrapped it, put the lid back on the box, and thanked the Lord for travel mercies—it had been through so much.

Then I put it back among my flannel gowns.

_______

“Mr. Sitton,” I said when he answered his phone, and before he could say more than “Sitton here,” I demanded, “What do you mean by representing a thief and a scoundrel? Do you know what he did last night? Do you know he endangered my life? And stole from another client of yours—you know, the one who’s dead and can’t take up for herself? But I can. I mean, I can take up for her, and I want to know just what you’re doing by representing both sides of a criminal case.”

“I presume this is Mrs. Murdoch.”

“You presume correctly, and I want some answers.”

He took a mighty breath as if he were not accustomed to being called to account. “Mrs. Murdoch, Andrew Cobb called me because I was the only lawyer he knew. I have since recommended a few to him, and I assume he’s followed up on at least one of them. I assure you that I am not representing him. Under the circumstances, it would be highly questionable if I did.”

“Well,” I said, quickly losing steam, “I should think so.”

“And,” Mr. Sitton went on, “we may have more congress with Mr. Cobb than we want as far as Mrs. Freeman’s estate is concerned. I’ve been notified that prison records and pictures will be in my office sometime tomorrow. We should know by then just who Mr. Cobb is.”

“I can tell you who he is,” I said, suddenly sure of what had to be true. “He is not Andrew F. Cobb, unless there’re two of them. Why would he have gone to the trouble—and it was trouble—to steal her most valuable asset if all he had to do was petition the court as Mattie’s nephew and he would’ve had it all? We’re dealing with an impostor, Mr. Sitton.”

“I expect you’re right, but we’ll know for sure by tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to believe it even if your picture is a dead ringer for that man. I was eager to pass along this entire mess to him at first, but now I will fight him tooth and nail for every penny of Mattie’s estate.” Even, I thought, if most of it had to go toward an air-conditioning unit.

_______

“Julia?” Diane Jankowski said, an underlay of excitement in her voice when I answered the phone at seven that Monday morning. “The truck’s already left Atlanta. It should be here around eleven. Helen and I are going to meet at the apartment at ten to do a last-minute check.”

“That’s wonderful, Diane. I’ll be there, too, with Lillian. We’ll have that place cleaned out by suppertime. And, Diane, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

“Well, hold off on the thanks,” Diane said, laughing. “You haven’t heard it all yet. I’ve had a pile of e-mails over the weekend, and three phone calls, too. Everybody I contacted is excited about the sampler, but, of course, they want to authenticate it. Most of them want to do it themselves, but I don’t want it to be passed around and fiddled with that much. If you agree, I’d like to take it to the Smithsonian, let them examine it, then put it up for auction. How does that sound?”

“Like I was fortunate to have turned to you in the first place,” I told her, feeling a great sense of relief—there was beginning to be a light in the tunnel. “Go ahead and make your plans, Diane, and Mattie will send you to Washington.”

Having not lost a thing in the nation’s capital, I thought as we hung up, Better her than me. Still, I hated the thought of depleting Mattie’s meager bank account for plane tickets and a hotel room, but, as they say, you have to spend money to make money. And the best bet to make money for Mattie—or rather, for Mattie’s beneficiaries—was that sampler.

_______

Later in the morning, Lillian, loaded down with mop, bucket, brushes, rags, and several spray bottles of cleaning solutions, followed me into Mattie’s building, where we had to stand aside as men were already bringing in furniture padding. Helen and Diane were doing their last-minute check, making sure that the real antiques were properly covered and protected for the trip to Atlanta.

It was amazing to watch the men—only one of whom spoke English, such as it was—as they expertly wrapped and tied padding around each piece of furniture, preparing their valuable cargo for the return trip.

Strangely, with all the activity in and out of Mattie’s apartment, Mr. Wheeler was making himself scarce. It wasn’t at all like him to ignore what was going on—none of the tenants could’ve helped knowing that Mattie’s apartment was going through its last roundup. And Mr. Wheeler had always seemed not only willing but eager to help, yet here we were, working away, and he was nowhere to be seen.

“Helen,” I said when I found her labeling boxes in the sunroom. “I thought Mr. Wheeler would be around. Is he out of town?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

Uh-oh, I thought, then said, “He’s been so helpful in the past, I thought he’d be here.”

Helen straightened up after drawing a heavy line under the last label. She sighed, and said, “Julia, I asked him not to come by. It would be awkward having him around.”

“Oh, Helen, I’m sorry. I thought . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, but I hope you’re all right with whatever happened.”

“I’m fine.” Short and sweet. Then she drew herself up, composed her face, and explained, “He wants children.”

It took me a minute to understand. “Oh, I see. Well, Helen, life can be full without children, and I should know. But it’s too bad that you didn’t meet when you both were younger.”

Helen gave me a look that could’ve peeled an onion. “I assure you that age—my age—doesn’t enter into it. I simply do not wish to have children.”

“Oh, well. Well, good for you, Helen. I admire you for knowing what you want and what you don’t.” Then, turning away, I said, “I better go help Lillian.”

I had never really understood Helen, but I appreciated her, and never more than in the past few days when she’d been so much help in sorting Mattie’s furniture. But as far as her personal life was concerned, I’d learned my lesson—I was staying out of it. But don’t tell me that her age didn’t enter into it.

Other than that, I had too much else on my mind to tend to somebody else’s business. Getting Mattie’s apartment closed would be a huge step toward ending my executive duties. Sometime during the day, Mr. Sitton would be able to establish Andrew F. Cobb’s true identity, and, above all, Sam would be home by nightfall.

He had called the evening before from somewhere in Alabama where they’d stopped for an overnight stay. He’d laughed as he told me that they were in a Sleep Inn right off the interstate.

“Lloyd was disappointed,” Sam said. “He wanted to look for a Motel 6, because they were leaving a light on for us. Oh, and, Julia, you better tell Lillian and Hazel Marie to be prepared. We’re bringing home two coolers full of fish.”

“Just so you bring yourself home,” I said. “And Lloyd. Well, and Mr. Pickens, too.” Fish I could do without.