Grave Deeds (7 page)

“I didn't go looking for her, you know,” I retorted. “It was Aunt Beatrice who wrote to me. If she hadn't, I never would have heard about her or the family land.”

“But now that you've heard about it, you can't wait to get your hands on it.”

“Mr. Markham, you're really out of line.”

There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice had softened considerably. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. “It's been one of those days. What does your husband think about all this? I imagine he sees the advantage in selling while the market's still hot.”

“My husband really has nothing to do with it. It's my land.”

“He's putting you through school, isn't he? From what I understand, his business is pretty small. Carpenter, isn't he?”

“He's a renovation contractor, and I'm paying my own way. Although that's our business, not yours.”

“I'd be happy to make it my business. I have a client…”

“I'm sure you do. I'm not ready to discuss the property till I've seen it. My grandfather and my aunt wanted me to have it. I should at least visit it before I decide whether to keep it or not.”

“You shouldn't leave it too late. Spring's the best time for cottage sales.”

“What about the bird sanctuary?”

“That's not legally binding. Once the deed is in your hands, it's yours to do with as you want. I have a lot of experience in the area of estate planning and so on. This could prove quite a windfall towards a comfortable retirement. I'm more than willing to advise you…”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, Ms. Cairns. You do that.” He hung up.

I replaced the receiver and sat for a time with my hand on it. We had always expected to inherit the Cairns family cottage. Will had so many good memories of his childhood up there,
and we had managed to spend a couple of weeks there each summer. What would we need with two such places? And the money would be nice — like winning a lottery, the sale of one hundred acres of cottage land would finance the kind of vacations we only dreamed of now. As for my grandfather's wishes, I owed him nothing — nothing at all.

On Thursday, the buzz of the intercom interrupted me in the middle of washing the bathroom floor. I was supposed to be studying; my texts and notes were neatly arranged on the round table I used both for dining and working. There were three pens, a sharpened pencil, an eraser, and a new yellow highlighter waiting beside the stack of books. I'd sat for an hour staring at the pages before giving up. I hated studying. The floor did need a wash. I must admit, though, I didn't in the least mind the interruption. I stood the mop in the pail and went to answer the summons.

“This is Hunter, Ma'am,” the voice crackled into the room. “Mr. Ross's driver. Mr. Ross would like you to step down to see him for a few moments.”

I pushed my hair back from my face. My hands were red and swollen from the hot water. I knew I should wear gloves, but the ones I had had holes in them.

“Perhaps he'd like to come up for tea.” As soon as I said it, I regretted the invitation. Although I kept my apartment clean, it was not very tidy: newspapers and books occupied much of the couch and the floor around it. Since the bookcase I'd brought from home was too small, more books were piled along the wall behind the rocking chair which was draped with a couple of afghans knitted by Will's mother in peculiar shades of green and pink. One coffee mug was on the floor by this chair; another sat on top of the TV along with a dying English ivy plant and a stack of TV guides. Because I didn't buy snack foods — the only way to avoid eating too many cookies or chips was not to have them available — I had nothing to offer by way of refreshment. My mother would have been appalled. I could make tea or fresh coffee. I always bought good coffee from the Second Cup. Hazelnut Cream was my favourite.

“Mr. Ross would prefer that you come down,” the driver said. “He's a little indisposed.”

“I'll be there in a minute, then.”

I glanced out the window. The rain that had been threatening all morning was falling now in gray sheets. Streetlights gleamed and cars sprayed the sidewalks as they hissed by. Parked by the hydrant in front of my building was the limousine, its hazard lights lazily flashing.

As usual my umbrella was not in the closet where it should have been. I debated hunting for it. Had I brought it back from the university last week? My old yellow slicker was stuck in a corner behind a parka and long wool coat. I put it on over the blue sweatshirt and pants I wore around the house. I almost forgot to exchange slippers for running shoes.

The intercom buzzed again. “I'm coming,” I shouted into it.

Downstairs in the lobby, two men pointedly ignored each other: the driver, Hunter, and Roger Markham. Even in the tiny front entrance area, they had found a good three feet of space to separate them. Avoiding each other, they both watched the elevator through the glass partition that separated the entrance from the lobby. I always used the stairs: the elevator was not very reliable and I had a horror of being stuck for an hour or two with one of the weird, wired kids who lived on the upper floors. It was bad enough refusing their constant offers of dope deals; the thought of having to actually make conversation with one of them was unendurable. Besides, the exercise did me good.

Hunter stepped forward as I pushed open the glass door.

“Mr. Ross is waiting,” he said.

“Just a minute,” Markham interrupted. “I'd like a word with you first.”

“Aren't you with your uncle?” I asked.

Before he could answer, Hunter spoke, “Mr. Markham arrived a minute ago. Mr. Ross will be getting impatient.” He opened the outer door and unfurled an enormous black umbrella.

“I'll come with you,” Markham moved to follow me out the door.

Hunter barred his way. “Mr. Ross's business is with Mrs. Cairns alone. He won't be happy to see you here. He might start asking questions.”

Whatever threat was implied in that statement was sufficient to make Markham back down.

“I'll wait here then,” he muttered. He leaned against the wall of mail boxes, his eyes on his feet. I was going to let him into the lobby where he could perch on one of the orange naugahyde chairs the superintendent kept forgetting to dust, but had no time to unlock the door for him.

“This way, Ma'am.” Hunter's pressure on my elbow steered me out and across the sidewalk. The door opened and I was pushed politely but firmly into the back seat. Hunter remained outside, his back to the car, the umbrella casting a deep shade over him.

So this was what the inside of a limousine looked like. The long seat was upholstered in gray leather; gray carpeting covered the floors, walls, and ceiling. Under the tinted window that divided the front of the car from the back was a long console flanked by two smaller leather seats, both facing backwards. The console held a telephone, a small television, and a silver tray with a cut glass decanter which looked nearly full of amber liquid, probably scotch whiskey, and two glasses. A round silver bowl held a pot pourri of dried roses whose scent vied with the pervasive odor of Vicks Vaporub. All the comforts of home, I thought. When I sat, my rubber raincoat squeaked against the leather.

Mr. Ross coughed. In spite of the warm spring rain, he was still bundled in his fur-collared coat and hat. A long plaid scarf had been wrapped around his neck so that only his eyes and the tip of his nose peeked forth. The way he sat hunched over his cane reminded me irresistibly of Alistair Sims as Scrooge. I wondered what role I had to play: Tiny Tim, or the beggar girl in the snow.

“Mrs. Cairns,” he nodded at me, “good of you to come down to see me. I find it difficult getting in and out of the car. Rheumatism.” He thumped his stick on the floor.

“I was sorry that Mrs. Baker didn't have a funeral. I would have liked to say good-bye to her.”

“She had requested that there be no funeral. Under the circumstances, it was best that everything was kept quiet.”

“I would have liked to go.”

He shifted uneasily in his place. “I brought this over for
you. It's what you're waiting for, I imagine.”

He lifted one hand from his stick and reached over to the console, aiming for a yellow legal size envelope next to the tray. It was too far; I was afraid he'd topple over.

“I'll get it,” I murmured.

He sank back.

The envelope was thick with papers. My name was written on it in the shaky, cursive script that I'd last seen on my aunt's invitation.

“It's from Beatrice,” the old man said. “The deed is in there, and a map, and the key. It's all yours.”

“I don't have to sign anything?”

He shook his head. “The proper enquiries have been made. You are who you say you are. Who I know you are.”

I felt the hard ridges of the key under my fingers. Family property: I wondered if there would be pictures there. That reminded me. “Mr. Ross, did my aunt have children of her own? Do I have any cousins?”

“No concern of yours,” he snapped. “The place is yours and everything in it.”

“I'd really like to know,” I pleaded. “All those pictures in her house: what's happened to them? And all her things?”

He blew out his breath. “Questions, questions. Worse than an old woman you are.”

“You're not being fair to me,” I insisted. “Aunt Beatrice was going to tell me everything. Do I have cousins?”

“One,” he sighed. “Beatrice's granddaughter, Marilyn Finch.”

“Does she live here in the city?”

He shook his head. “Never has. Her mother married an American. She lives in the Southern States somewhere. One of the Carolinas. Roger would know. He takes care of the trust fund Beatrice's husband set up for his family.”

“Does she know about me?”

“Of course she knows about you. Now. Beatrice said she wrote to her at Christmas and told her the whole story. She inherits the house — she won't get much for it, I'm afraid. You saw what condition it's in. Roger is taking care of all that for her.”

“What does she do?”

He shifted uneasily on the seat. “What does it matter?” he waved a hand dismissively. “She never bothered with her grand-mother except when she wanted the cottage for vacations. Never visited Beatrice in the city and made sure her time up north didn't overlap with her grandmother's weeks there. She didn't even bother coming up when we informed her about Beatrice's death. I doubt she wants to meet you. Especially now that you've got the cottage.” He chuckled. “Serves her right. Probably planned to sell the land and pocket the money. No flies on Beatrice, you've got to say that for her.” He cocked his head. “I wonder, now, if it wasn't so much guilt about not carrying out her brother's wish to give the land to you, but revenge on Marilyn that led her to contact you. Could be, could be.” He cackled.

I shifted on the seat. The raincoat squeaked against the leather. “You can't just leave it like that. You have to tell me something about her. Is she married? Does she have kids?”

“Ask Roger,” the old man muttered. “He's the one who deals with her.”

“I will,” I said. “He's waiting for me now.” I nodded towards the building.

“Roger is?” Mr. Ross looked up in surprise. The cane slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. I picked it up. He took it from me quite roughly and used the rubber end to bang on the window. I leaned back into the seat, away from its erratic waving.

Hunter opened the door and looked in. “Yes, sir?”

“What's Mr. Markham doing here?” the old man demanded.

“I'm afraid I don't know, sir. He arrived just after we did. You didn't see him going in?”

“Of course not. Go and ask him what he's doing here. This is none of his business. I thought I had made that quite plain.”

Hunter closed the door with a quiet thud. Mr. Ross wheezed heavily. I could hear him muttering to himself but couldn't make out the words. A couple of minutes passed in silence. The door opened again.

“He says it's something to do with Dr. Finch, some personal things about the family she thought Mrs. Cairns would like to know.”

Mr. Ross glared at his driver for a moment, then nodded. His whole body seemed to shrink into his coat. I caught Hunter's worried look. It was time for me to go.

“Thank you for bringing me these papers yourself,” I said. “I guess I should be going.”

The old man waved one twisted hand in farewell. Hunter reached for my elbow to help me out of the car. I turned my face up to the sweet rain, glad to be out of that cloying atmosphere. Mr. Ross banged on the window. The driver reopened the door.

“Mrs. Cairns,” the old man called. “One moment please.”

I leaned back inside the car, steadying myself with one hand on the roof.

“Remember,” Mr. Ross said. “your grandfather's wishes. If you don't want to use the cottage yourself, the land is to go the province. It's not to be sold, you hear.”

“I wasn't planning on selling it.”

“It's not to be sold,” Mr. Ross repeated. His cough shook his whole body. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Hunter eased the door shut. “I'll see you in, ma'am,” he said.

“Will he be all right?” I nodded toward the car.

“Happens,” Hunter replied. “He's got an inhaler in there. And a spittoon. Doesn't like people to see him use it. He's got pride for an old fellow.”

We reached the door. Markham was reading a newspaper he'd pulled from a stack on the floor. He began refolding it when he saw us. I was about to go inside, when Hunter stopped me with a slight pressure on the elbow.

“Watch out for him,” he whispered.

“Who? Mr. Markham? Why?”

Before he could answer, Markham opened the door. “That took long enough,” he grumbled. He eyed the envelope I clutched in my hands. “Hunter, you can leave now.”