“Mr. Weems,” I heard Mama say on entering Senior’s library.
“Miz Dakin.” Mr. Weems sounded cold and dry as a dug-up old bone. I wondered if he smelled that way too.
There was a settle in the library, with two chairs to either side. Mama took the chair on the side nearest me. Mamadee dithered a moment and then punished the settle. I do not mean that Mamadee was heavy. She had a biggish bottom but the rest of her was no more than well upholstered. What I mean is that the settle was on the delicate side. Mr. Weems lowered his skinny buttocks into the other chair.
“I trust you are recovered,” Mama said.
“Thank you, my dear, I am.” Mr. Weems coughed then, as if to threaten a relapse. “May I ask when the visitation hours will be?”
“Never. I am not having every fool in Alabama gawking at my husband’s coffin and trying to imagine what’s inside and what it looks like. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow at ten.”
Mr. Weems drummed his fingertips nervously on the arms of his chair.
“I have spoken to the police,” he said, “and also an agent from the Birmingham office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI would like to interview you again at your earliest convenience. The search of the house has been completed. There is no objection to your returning there from either the police or the FBI. However, the lien-holder does object.”
“The lien-holder?” Mama’s voice faltered and then recovered to assert, “There are no liens on that property. Joseph bought it outright. We owned it free and clear.”
“I am sorry to have to tell you, dear lady, that it is not free and clear. Your late husband, God rest his soul, mortgaged the property to the hilt. It has been in the process of foreclosure for some time. Had not the tragedy intervened, the foreclosure would have occurred on Ash Wednesday. The lien-holder has been patient because of the circumstances.”
Mama jumped up. “I don’t believe you! It’s a lie! He would have told me. He never kept his business secret from me. You know perfectly well that he always wanted me to know everything! You’ve heard him say it yourself, that he would be dammed if he left me a widow without a clue, the way so many men leave their wives! I have my own checking account and not only did he keep it full, he never once told me that I spent too much or unwisely!”
Tansy’s knock interrupted Mama’s tirade. Tansy came in, bearing coffee things tinkling and liquids sloshing on a tray. Nobody said anything while she served. Mama lit a cigarette and moved around below me, hunting up an ashtray.
Once the catch of the door clicked closed again behind Tansy, Mama burst out again. “Winston Weems, this is bizarre, this is crazy!”
“It is true,” Mr. Weems said stiffly. “The lien-holder is the Atlanta Bank and Trust of Atlanta, Georgia. Evidently your late husband did not want anyone in Alabama to know of his financial difficulties. Indeed, it was canny of him.”
Mamadee sipped coffee. Remarkably, she had remained silent.
“I want to see the mortgage. And Joseph’s will,” Mama said, “right this minute.”
Mr. Weems sighed. A creaking of hinges and old leather followed, as he opened the briefcase to extract a file.
“Mortgages,” he corrected Mama. “The dealerships are mortgaged as well. Your late husband has been robbing Peter to pay Paul. Indeed, I fear there may be a question of fraud on his part.” Mr. Weems sounded inordinately pleased. “See for yourself.”
A weight of paper thumped onto the coffee table, followed by a scuffle of paper from the top.
“Here is the will. It is little more than boilerplate. As required by law, you as his widow receive one-third of the estate.”
Mama blew smoke harshly. “What kind of game are you playing? I saw Joseph’s last will when he updated it. It was hardly boilerplate. There are trust funds for the children and I am his residual legatee.”
Mr. Weems went on, “This latest will was executed on February seventeen of this year. It was not executed in my office. I never saw it until it was discovered in your late husband’s safety-deposit box here in the Carroll Trust. In this testament, Ford Carroll Dakin is the residual legatee, receiving the other two-thirds.”
Mama’s breathing was hardly louder than the whisper of the coal of her cigarette.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Weems continued, “there is no estate. There are no assets, only debts.”
“That is not possible,” Mama said.
There was a chink of china and a slop of coffee, the sounds of her pouring herself a cup with a less than steady hand.
“Lies, lies and libels. How dare you slander Joseph.”
“You may not believe me, Roberta Ann,” Mr. Weems replied, “but I am genuinely sorry for your loss, and genuinely appalled to discover the state of your late husband’s affairs. The fact remains that he has left you with one-third of less than zero, and he has left young Ford with two-thirds of less than zero.”
He stood. The briefcase latch snapped. “The lien-holder advises me that you may remove some personal effects from the house, under my supervision. The list is in the folder, along with my resignation. Good day, madam.”
Mama took a single step forward and made a sudden movement. Liquid sloshed through the air and spattered something. From the immediate gasp, it was clear that the something was Mr. Weems’s face. Mamadee gasped at nearly the same instant.
For a moment there was only sniffing and shuffling and the snap of Mr. Weems’s handkerchief being whipped from his breast pocket. He cleared his throat and mopped his face, and then his tie and shirtfront.
Mama blew prideful smoke. Then she calmly poured herself another cup of coffee.
The lawyer picked up his briefcase and made for the door.
Mamadee followed him at his elbow, murmuring to him: She was horribly embarrassed, horribly shocked, she would never be able to look him in the face again, poor Roberta Ann was unhinged with grief and shock, not that that was any excuse, and more of the same.
Mama snorted contemptuously. Her nails scratched a little on the coffee table and the paper as she picked up the files. She took a few steps to the desk and the weight of paper whumped again onto it. The wheels of the desk chair creaked as she pulled it under herself and sat down.
She heaved a big disgusted sigh. “Joe Cane Dakin,” she said, “I would like to dig you up and put you through a meat grinder! Hell will feel good to you when I get finished!”
Tansy opened the door without knocking.
Covering our mouths to stop ourselves giggling, we listened to Tansy’s indignant heavy breathing and muttering as she mopped and wiped and scrubbed at upholstery and rug.
Ford and I did not speak until we were back in Junior’s radio room. He flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“This is some fancy caper,” he said. “Some scheme afoot. We need a detective.”
I sat down at the end of the bed, next to Betsy Cane McCall. “This ain’t TV or a movie or a story.”
He crooked his arm to put his wrist under his head. “You know where this is headed, Dumbo?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“The Chair. The Hot Seat. Your daddy got himself murdered and your mama hired it done.”
I picked up Betsy Cane McCall and threw her at him. “Liar!”
He swatted Betsy Cane McCall away.
“Your daddy,” I said. “Your mama. You will go to hell for lying about your own mama for the worst crime there is.”
“Think so? There’s worse. You ain’t old enough to know what they are. One of them is havin’ ears like yours though.”