She paused as Paul returned, then reached out for her refill. ‘Thank you, Paul.’
After taking a sip, Fran said, ‘Anyway, new broom sweeping clean and all that, Kim was down in the basement clearing things out when she discovered a door marked Storage. It obviously hadn’t been opened in years, Hannah. Rusted lock had to be pried off with a screwdriver. Cobweb city and acres of dust everywhere.’ She took another sip of her coffee and considered me over the rim of the mug. Was the woman ever going to get to the point?
‘And…?’ I prompted.
Fran set her mug down on the table. ‘When she finally got the door open, Kim found a room full of old records. Leather-bound ledgers, boxes stuffed with file folders, card files, old newspapers and magazines, you name it. Naturally, she called me in. Just a cursory glance, of course, but from what I could tell, some of the papers date back to the early days of the nineteenth century.’
I sat back. ‘Wow.’
‘Exactly. The present courthouse was built in 1845, and there was an earlier one before that, so who knows what we’ll discover down there. The records could have been there since Maryland was a colony still kowtowing to King George the Third.’
‘How come nobody knew about them?’ Paul asked.
‘Oh, Kimberly’s predecessor knew, all right. Had to. That storage room is directly under the courthouse bathroom. At some point there was a leak in one of the toilets and many of the records got soaked.’
From long experience as a records manager at Whitworth and Sullivan, I knew where this was going. ‘Uh oh. Mold?’
Fran nodded. ‘You got it. After the plumbing was repaired, the stupid woman obviously closed the door and put the storage room out of her mind.’
‘Are the records valuable?’ Paul wanted to know.
Fran shrugged. ‘Hard to say until they’ve been examined. That’s where I come in, Hannah. You, too, if you’re interested.’
‘Examined? What does that entail?’ Paul asked.
‘Sort, evaluate,’ I said, cutting to the chase. ‘Make recommendations on what to retain and what to discard. Send some on to the Maryland State Archives in Annapolis, I imagine. Keep or discard the rest.’
‘Anything deemed to be of historical value will eventually need to be cataloged,’ Fran added, ‘so that it can be made available to researchers. And the minute word leaks out about this discovery, genealogists are going to be clambering all over us like untrained puppies, trust me. We’ll need to be prepared.’
When I didn’t say anything for a moment, Fran gave me a nudge. ‘It’s right up your alley, Hannah.’
That was certainly true, but I’d worked for Fran before and I wasn’t sure I wanted to repeat the experience.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, risking a sideways glance at my husband, who sat as still as a garden gnome, a half smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He was enjoying my dilemma, the rat.
‘I have another volunteer,’ she said, sweetening the pot. ‘You’ll like him. He’s a local guy named Thomas Hazlett, but everybody calls him “Cap.”’
‘Is Cap a waterman?’ Paul wanted to know.
Fran shook her head. ‘No, an army vet. No archival training, per se, but he’s got local roots that go deep. Also, strong arms and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy.’
‘I can’t give you an answer right now, Fran. With the renovation going forward and all…’ I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have.’
Did her lower lip quiver ever so slightly?
I reached for a napkin. Using the company pen Caitlyn had left behind on the table I scrawled down my cell phone number. ‘Here’s my cell. Give me a call when you have a better idea of how I might be able to help.’
‘Thanks.’ Fran folded the napkin into carefully creased halves, quarters then eights before tucking it into the coin section of her wallet. ‘Have you moved in yet?’ she asked as I pushed my chair back, indicating we were ready to go.
‘Not yet – we just took possession today, but Paul and I plan to return next week to meet with some local contractors, although we don’t have anyone lined up just yet.’
‘I’ll check my calendar and get back to you, then.’ As the three of us stood around the table, Fran reached out and touched my hand. ‘It will be just like old times, Hannah.’
Gawd, I hope not, I thought. In spite of my misgivings, I said, ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you,’ wondering as I heard myself semi-volunteering if working for the woman once again would drive me as crazy the second time around as it had the first.
Fran walked with us to the door of the restaurant. ‘Remember to call Dwight Heberling. And tell him I gave you his name. You won’t be sorry.’
FIVE
‘Oh, call it by some better name…’
Thomas Moore, Ballads and Songs, 1841
In the end it was my granddaughter, Chloe, age twelve, who inadvertently started the friendly family argument that led her to win, almost by default, our unofficial ‘Name This Cottage’ contest. Shortly after we bought Legal Ease, Emily telephoned to set up a time when she could drive over with the grandchildren to check out our new place. I could tell from her tone of voice, however, that the trip was primarily to reassure herself that her parents hadn’t totally lost their minds.
Fortunately, we hadn’t. She was as bewitched by Legal Ease as we were.
‘Spending my inheritance, I see,’ Emily commented with a grin as we gazed out the living-room window together watching Canada geese circle overhead, honking.
‘That is our devious plan,’ replied her father.
Leading the flock, the head goose, wings spread wide, glided to a landing in the marshland on the opposite bank of the creek. ‘Splashdown,’ Emily whispered as the rest of the flock followed suit.
‘You are going to rename it, aren’t you?’ Emily asked as we watched the geese settle down and begin rooting through the marshland, feasting on eel grass and spartina. ‘Legal Ease is so totally groan-worthy.’
‘All suggestions welcome,’ I said.
‘Your aunt Ruth suggested Looney Dunes,’ Paul told her.
Emily moaned. ‘Figures.’
Chloe, who had been observing the geese with interest, suddenly piped up, ‘Where am I gonna sleep, Grandma?’
‘There are two bedrooms upstairs,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you run upstairs and pick one?’
When Chloe reappeared a few minutes later – ‘I like the yellow bedroom, Grandma’ – she found us in the kitchen, putting groceries away, still trying out names. ‘You could name it Fawlty Towers,’ Emily was suggesting when her daughter entered the room.
I snapped her playfully with a dishtowel. ‘You’re as bad as your father. If we don’t come up with something soon he swears he’s going to name it Base-2.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And they say mathematicians don’t have a sense of humor.’
Chloe poked me with a chubby finger. ‘I think you should call it Pooh Corner, Grandma.’
Timmy screamed with laughter and punched his older brother in the arm. ‘Poo! Poo! Grandma’s house is poo!’
Jake scowled in a brother-what-brother? sort of way. ‘You’re stupid.’
‘Poo!’ Timmy hooted, punctuating the word with a second well-aimed punch.
Jake consulted the referee. ‘Mommy, make him stop hitting me!’
‘Poopyhead!’ Timmy said.
‘No, you’re a poopyhead!’ Jake countered.
In time-honored tradition, Emily ignored her sons, turning to me instead. ‘Honestly, Mother, sometimes I’m at my wit’s end.’
Wit’s End. I considered the name thoughtfully, then discarded it, too. ‘A little potty humor never hurt anyone,’ I pointed out. ‘Look, boys,’ I said, leaning down to speak at their level. ‘Your grandfather is out in the shed. Go find him and ask him to take you to see the crab pots.’