Chapter 9

As Mr. Wheeler went on out the front door, Sam unlocked Mattie’s door and pushed it open for me. “Seemed pleasant, didn’t he?”

I agreed and walked into the dim living room, its deep crown moldings almost lost in the shadowy corners of the high ceiling. The blinds were closed and the draperies drawn, so I stopped after a few steps inside to let my eyes adjust. When they did, I saw that the room was a far cry from the party-ready condition it had been in on the occasions I had entered as a guest.

“My goodness,” I murmured as Sam closed the door behind us and looked around as I was doing.

Furniture—chairs and side tables—had been pushed aside in a haphazard way. A huge chest-on-chest blocked the French doors to the sunroom with two huge Chippendale chairs pushed up against it. An étagère filled with porcelain figurines and vases stood against the far wall. The dining table had been shoved back against a window in the combination room, and two of its chairs were overturned. A lamp with a crooked shade lay on Mattie’s hard-as-a-rock damask-upholstered Duncan Phyfe sofa, and discarded packaging materials were strewn across her faded Oriental.

“The EMTs, honey,” Sam explained. “They needed room to work and to get a gurney in to pick her up.”

“Oh,” I said, but wondered why they hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. “Well, let’s get what we came for, then just leave. I’ll send someone over to straighten things before she comes home. I’m in no mood for housework today.”

Sam located a large black pocketbook on the kitchen counter, but before tucking it under his arm, he asked, “Is this yours or Mattie’s? They look alike.”

“Hardly,” I said, glancing at the much-used, chipped, and fraying bag. “Mine’s a Prada.”

“Oh, well,” he said, grinning. “There’s the difference.”

Just as I was going down the narrow hallway to Mattie’s bedroom, I glanced in at a neat, but crowded, guest room on my way. Then I proceeded on to the larger bedroom, made smaller by the high Charleston rice bed, a block-front chest, and, against the wall at the foot of the bed, a nice bureau with a gilt mirror over it. An ancient television sat on top. This room, too, was fairly neat, although there were aspects—like a robe on the foot of the bed, slippers in the middle of the floor, and rumpled pillows—that gave it a lived-in look.

Feeling again like an intruder, I nonetheless determined to do my job in as professional a manner as I could manage. So I opened the top bureau drawer, thinking underclothes, and mentally checking off a list—gowns, bathrobe, slippers, what else? Oh, toiletries, or beauty products, as Hazel Marie called them. I headed for the bathroom, where I found shampoo, comb and brush, toothbrush and toothpaste, small cases of Estée Lauder face powder and rouge, and a magnifying mirror.

“Sam?” I called. “Would you look for a suitcase? Or a paper sack? She’s going to need more than I thought.”

I heard him open a closet in the guest room. “Found one,” he called back. “Old as the hills, but it should do.”

He put it on Mattie’s bed and opened it, so that I could pack what I’d gathered into it. “Julia,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m having second thoughts about leaving her pocketbook at the hospital. Why don’t you take it home with you for now? When she’s alert enough to look after it, we’ll get it to her.”

“I think you’re right, and—even though I hate the thought of rummaging around in somebody else’s purse—I guess I should see what’s in it. For all we know, she has another bank account with a checkbook that she carries around with her. And considering the large but almost empty checkbook Mr. Sitton gave me, that would be a godsend.”

“It has something in it,” Sam said, hefting the pocketbook. “It’s as heavy as lead.”

I put a pile of underclothes and three gowns in the suitcase, then stuffed toiletries around the edges. “I hope I’ve not forgotten anything,” I said.

“You can come back anytime. Remember, you have total access.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said, shuddering a little at the thought of making myself free in this dark, crowded apartment by going in and out as if it were mine.

Carrying the suitcase, Sam followed me back to the living room. He had turned on the overhead light, so I stopped for a minute and looked around again. Every other time I’d been in the room, it had been occupied by a number of women, all of whom had taken my attention with their greetings and subsequent conversation. This was the first time I’d looked carefully at the furniture, mainly because it was all I could see.

“Goodness, Sam, I don’t know how Mattie lives all crowded in like this. Look at that highboy. The pediment almost touches the ceiling. And there’s a bowfront sideboard—Sheraton, I believe, and she only has a dining area, not a room. And look at those huge wing chairs, plus the sofa, and I don’t know how many side tables.” I walked over to one and lifted the crocheted cloth that covered it. “Would you look at this! I think it’s a handkerchief table, Sam, but it’s too crammed in to get it open. Oh, look at that little table in the corner.” I leaned over to look closer. “No, it’s too deep to be a table. It might be a cellarette.”

“What’s a cellarette?”

“Oh, you know. It’s a . . . well, basically it’s a wooden box on legs. See, Sam, it’s right behind that Chippendale chair. See how deep the box is? It’s to keep wine bottles and, I suppose, other spirits under lock and key in case there’re tipplers in the house.”

“Tipplers, huh?” Sam said, grinning at my choice of words. Then, turning to scan the room, he went on. “You know, Mattie may have more assets than we’ve given her credit for. If this furniture is as good as you say, it could see her through some rainy days.”

“Well, I’m no expert, but some of these pieces have nice lines. That’s not foolproof, though, because reproductions can be quite good. Still, if it comes down to it, she could get an appraiser in here to see what it’s worth. Of course, it might not matter. If Mattie hasn’t sold it before this, who’s to say she would now?”

“Your decision now, honey.”

“Yes,” I said, sighing, “but how could I sell what she so obviously values?”

_______

Before going home, which I was more than ready to do, we went by the hospital to drop off the suitcase and its contents. After locking Mattie’s pocketbook in the trunk of the car, Sam and I went straight to her room, intending to visit for only a few minutes, ask if we’d forgotten anything she wanted, and then leave.

“I just hope,” I said to Sam as we rode up in the elevator, “that she’s making sense for a change. I don’t like promising something that I have no intention of doing—like looking for elbow-length kid gloves—even if it does humor her.”

Sam smiled. “I hope so, too. If all goes well, she should soon be able to manage her own affairs, and that’ll relieve you.”

Something devoutly to wish, I thought, as we walked down the hall toward Mattie’s room. Clutching my own fairly heavy pocketbook, I turned into the room, nodded to the roommate, as Sam, carrying the suitcase, followed me to the bed next to the windows.

“My goodness,” I said, as I saw potted plants and fresh bouquets on every surface in the room. “Look at all the flowers. I guess I should make a list of who sent them for thank-you notes. I expect writing them is part of my job description, too. Just put the suitcase anywhere you can, Sam.” Then, turning to the bed, I said, “Mattie? It’s Sam and Julia. We’ve brought you a few things from home. How’re you feeling?”

Not so good, it seemed, for she didn’t respond. Her eyes were partially open but I didn’t think she was looking at anything in particular. Someone had combed her hair, but it hadn’t significantly improved her looks. In fact, she looked about half sick, which didn’t seem quite right for a broken hip that had just been expertly mended.

I put my hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t stir, so I tiptoed away from the bed and whispered to Sam, “I think she’s asleep. Maybe we’d better go.”

Sam agreed and off we went, stopping at the nurses’ station to inquire about Mattie’s progress. As expected, we didn’t get a straight answer, so I asked a nurse when she expected Mattie’s surgeon to make his rounds, intending to waylay him in the hospital if it wasn’t in the middle of the night—surgeons can, on occasion, be somewhat eccentric. Telling the nurse that I’d left a packed suitcase in the room, I asked her to make sure that Mattie knew it was there.

“When she wakes,” I said, “she’ll be glad to have her own gowns and personal items.”

“I’ll tell her,” the nurse said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your bringing them.”

“Just let her know that I’m doing the job she gave me,” I said, with a tinge of sharpness I couldn’t suppress, then, as we walked away, mumbled to Sam, “The job she foisted on me.”

Sam grinned and said, “Let’s go home.”