Uncle Mac had been so much more than her father’s brother and her favorite uncle. He’d been her friend, her mentor, her ice skating buddy, her sand-castle-building engineer, her partner in crime who would come to babysit and take her out to have a banana split at ten o’clock at night. He’d always seemed so much younger than her parents, although there were only five years between him and her dad. Somehow he lived bigger, acted younger.
Once, after she and Mac had been busted returning home too late from one of their ice cream forays, her parents banned him from babysitting for a month. Mac had suffered his punishment with quiet equanimity, promising Rory that he’d plan a special day for their reunion. But for six-year-old Rory, it was the longest month of her life.
Lost in her memories, Rory missed the entrance into the parking lot of the brick colonial building on Commack Road. Surprised to find herself there already, she made a quick U-turn at the next light and backtracked. As she pulled into a parking spot, the digital clock on the dashboard of the Honda indicated that she had two minutes to spare.
She locked the car and drew in a deep breath to steady herself as she marched into the building. Her stomach was clenched with the kind of tension that reminded her of trips to the dentist when she was a child. She’d already postponed this meeting twice, pleading first a migraine and then job-related issues. Friedlander had rescheduled without complaint, simply reiterating that he needed only fifteen minutes of her time. He had no idea just how much she was dreading those fifteen minutes.
She found Jacobs, Milo and Friedlander listed in the directory in the lobby and took the elevator up to the second floor of the three-story building. At forty-eight, Lou Friedlander was the youngest of the three partners in the small firm, which was not to say that he was young by Rory’s standards.
When she entered the office suite, there was no one at the reception desk. She was about to show herself down the carpeted hallway to the left in search of Friedlander when a man emerged from one of the half dozen doors that marked its length. He was short and stocky with a manicured mustache and goatee that Rory figured was an attempt to compensate for his receding hairline. He had his suit jacket on, but his shirt collar was open with no tie, a concession to either the warm weather or the lateness of the hour. Not that the informality bothered Rory, who considered most of society’s rules outdated and often as ridiculous as the pillory and stockades. It was just an observation, a noting of details. She supposed it was the artist in her that subconsciously processed every angle and nuance, every hue and shadow.
When she’d been struggling to select her college major, Mac had pointed out that her attention to detail would serve her well if she chose to follow in his footsteps as a private detective. But while Mac’s work intrigued Rory, she’d wanted to incorporate art into her career. She’d finally settled on a major in criminology, with a minor in portrait art. For the first few years after college she’d been happy enough working as a sketch artist for the Suffolk County Police Department, but lately she was finding it harder and harder to muster up the enthusiasm to crawl out of bed in the morning.
“Lou Freidlander,” the man said, extending his hand as he came up to her. “You must be Aurora McCain. I would have known you anywhere.” His voice was appropriately solemn, but his lips curved up in a small, sympathetic smile within the framework of his beard. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” His hand squeezed hers for emphasis before he let it go.
She nodded her thanks. “Please call me Rory.”
“Yes, of course,” Friedlander said as he ushered her into his office. “I should have remembered that.”
A large oak desk was the centerpiece of the office, its surface awash in paper, a computer monitor rising out of the chaos like a lighthouse rising above a stormy sea. There was a contoured, leather chair behind the desk and two smaller chairs in front of it. A credenza, also in oak, ran the length of the window, and several wooden filing cabinets occupied the far side of the room.
“Please, have a seat,” he said. “Can I get you some coffee? I can make it iced if you like.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” Rory said, sitting on the edge of the closest chair. The last thing she wanted was to prolong her time there.
“If you change your mind, it’ll only take a minute.”
She forced a smile, wondering if her desperation to leave was that clearly written on her face.
“We’ve actually met before, you know,” Friedlander said as he took his seat behind the desk. “At a housewarming Mac had years ago when he bought his first house, that little Cape Cod. You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time. Of course, I don’t expect that you’d remember me. I was just another grownup in a house full of them. But even back then you made it clear to everyone that you hated being called Aurora.”
Rory had refused to answer to “Aurora” by the time she was enrolled in nursery school. “Rory” suited her just fine. That, and of course “L’il Mac,” which her parents had dubbed her because she was always trying to emulate her uncle whom they’d long referred to as “Big Mac.” Not only was he three inches taller than his brother, but he also had a serious addiction to fast food, the greasier the better.
“In fact,” Friedlander was saying, “looking at you now, I can still see that fiery little redhead with the freckled nose pocketing a handful of cookies after her mom said she couldn’t have anymore.”
“I actually remember that party.” Rory felt her face relax into a smile at the memory. “Those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies were my favorite. That’s why Uncle Mac ordered them.”
“He was crazy about you,” Friedlander said with a little sigh. “I’m sure you know that he thought of you more like a daughter than a niece.”
Her smile faded. “It was mutual,” she murmured. She looked down at her watch. She didn’t need to be anywhere else, but she needed to leave this office before she dissolved into a sobbing mess.
Friedlander noted her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he said in his back-to-business voice. “I know I promised to have you out of here in fifteen minutes and I will.”
Rory nodded her thanks, not trusting herself to speak around the knot still lodged in her throat.
The attorney sifted through the piles of documents on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. He pulled it out, creating a small avalanche in the process. “As I told you over the phone, Mac’s will is very simple. He didn’t leave a huge estate, but what he had he left to you. He also named you executor. Are your folks likely to contest it?”
“No, no, they’re just pleased for me.”
“Good. Mac was sure that it wouldn’t be a problem, but I had to ask. You understand. There’s really no need for me to read the will to you. This is a copy that you can have for your records.” He leaned across the desk to hand Rory the two pages that constituted Mac’s “Last Will and Testament.” The words were formal and final, devoid of emotion. Rory wasn’t sure what she had expected. Maybe something more colorful and Mac-like: “Laugh, love, enjoy life. Hope this helps.”
Rory realized that the attorney was still speaking. She forced herself to focus on what he was saying.
“. . . the house on Brandywine Lane is yours free and clear along with everything in it, all furnishings, artwork, et cetera. The mortgage was paid off last year, so if you want to hold on to it, all you’ll have to do is keep up with the taxes. Mac’s car is also yours free and clear.”
“Safe, yet sexy,” Mac had proclaimed when he’d stopped by three years ago to show the family the bright red Volvo convertible he’d just driven off the lot. They’d all piled in for a ride, Rory’s folks reminiscing about the convertibles of their youth. Her mom didn’t even complain that the wind was wrecking her hair.
“Of course you’ll have to change the title, registration and insurance. You also inherit Mac’s detective agency. In the beginning it wasn’t worth much, but then it took off suddenly about five years ago. That’s how he was able to renovate the house and all. I imagine you’ll want to sell the business name and client list. You’ll probably see a good profit from it.
“Mac’s only other assets were two bank accounts. There’s a checking account with three thousand dollars left in it after I paid the outstanding bills, as he’d instructed, and a savings account with another ten grand and change. Mac wasn’t a great believer in saving for the future.”
“I know,” Rory said. “Mac was all about the here and now.” By the time she was eleven, she pretty much understood why. Mac had lost the love of his life in a car crash two blocks from their home. They’d been married for less than a year.
Friedlander opened one of his desk drawers and withdrew a large manila envelope. “Mac’s checkbook and savings passbook are in here, along with the contents of his safety deposit box. He’d given me a key and made me a cosignatory on the box years ago when he first rented it. He never kept cash or valuables in it, just important papers relating to the house, the business and the car. In any case, in his will he requested that I empty the box and turn the contents over to you. I found one additional item in the box, a letter in a sealed envelope with your name on it. I have no idea what the letter contains, but he did leave a note to me asking that I encourage, no, the word he used was
urge
you to read it as soon as you can.”
Rory nodded, adding that bit of information to all the other bits that were already swirling around in her head like snowflakes in a crystal globe.
“I’ve put half a dozen copies of the death certificate in here as well,” Friedlander said, leaning across the desk to hand Rory the envelope. “You’ll need them for things like closing out the accounts and changing the titles. The keys to the house, the office and the car are also in there. I’ve labeled them for you and noted the security codes and passwords for each. I think it would be prudent to change the locks on the house and the security—” He interrupted himself with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I forget—you’re with the police department.”
Rory managed a smile. “That’s okay, I appreciate the concern.”
“So, that’s all of it. Do you have any questions?”
Rory shook her head. She had a lot of questions, but none that the attorney could answer. “Thank you.” She slid the will into the envelope with the other documents and stood up to leave.
Friedlander rose and came around his desk to take her hand again. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call on me. Mac wasn’t only my client, he was my friend.”
Rory thanked him again and assured him that she would.
Once she was back in her car she exhaled a deep, shaky sigh. She laid the envelope with the remains of Mac’s life on the passenger seat along with her pocketbook and turned on the air conditioner. “Get a grip,” she scolded herself. “Mac would never approve.” She did some deep breathing as the cool air washed over her, and after five minutes she felt better, steady enough to make the trip home. In this case “home” meant back to her parents’ house in Woodbury. Like so many other college grads who couldn’t find affordable housing on Long Island, Rory had moved back into the family nest. Although she got along well enough with her folks, who were only too happy to have their only child back under their roof, it was still awkward. She couldn’t very well entertain dates in her room, and telling her mom and dad not to worry if she didn’t come home on a Saturday night would never be a comfortable alternative.
Rush hour had wound down while Rory was in Friedlander’s office, and traffic was moving along Jericho Turnpike well above the posted speed limit of forty. She stayed in the right lane, too preoccupied to trust herself in the Indie 500 that was barreling past her on the left. Although she had intended to go straight home, when she reached the turnoff that would take her to Mac’s house, she changed her mind.
As she made the left into the West Hills section of Huntington, it occurred to her that the place of her own that she’d longed for but despaired of ever having was now hers. Along with the thought, a tidal wave of guilt broke over her. She knew that if Mac were there he would be laughing at her reaction, pointing out that since she hadn’t actually shot, knifed or poisoned him; hadn’t planned, abetted in or hoped for his demise, she had no right to the guilt she was feeling. Yet there it lay like a heavy, wet overcoat dragging at her shoulders and soaking into her.
She turned onto Brandywine Lane, following the graceful curve of the road past houses that had been built as long ago as 1798 or as recently as the previous year. Given the many inconveniences of older homes, buyers had three options. They could either raze the existing structure and start from scratch; save the shell but gut it to create a more modern, open floor plan; or just update the kitchen and bathrooms and restore the rest of the house to its original condition. Rory had been glad that Mac had chosen the latter route.
She pulled to the curb in front of Mac’s home, her home now. She wondered how long it would take until she thought of it as hers. Built in 1870, the three-story frame Victorian sat well back from the road on an acre and a half of gently rolling land. The area was zoned for horses, two per acre, and the neighbors on either side had small, neat stables with rings and paddocks surrounded by whitewashed fences. On most days horses could be seen grazing in the paddocks or being put through their paces in the rings.
Rory turned off the engine and left the cool oasis of the car, pleasantly surprised to find that the air temperature had dropped a few degrees during her drive. A light breeze riffled through the leaves of the old oaks and maples that lined the street. The sun at her back, she leaned against her car and stared at the house as if she were seeing it for the first time. It didn’t have too much of the fussy gingerbread detail often associated with Victorian architecture, which was why Mac had liked it. It was graceful yet strong, a man’s Victorian. For Rory the best part was the deep, welcoming porch that embraced the front and sides of the house and invited you to come and relax on a warm summer’s day.