“Well?” said Dolly Smith impatiently. “What did he say?”
“At first he talked about money laundering. I never could make head nor tails of his explanation-so I said I didn’t think that was it. Finally, as we were pulling into the church parking lot, he laughed-in that superior way men have-and he said, ‘Well, Miss Mary, you could always stash your ill-gotten gains in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. They won’t tell anybody who’s got what.’ ”
“What in the world are the Cayman Islands?” asked Anna Douglas from the doorway. As usual, she was late for the meeting.
“They’re in the Caribbean,” said Mary Lee. “Not that it matters, because you don’t have to go there, although I’m sure they’re very nice. All I had to do was telephone a bank there and ask to set up an account, and I sent them a check.”
“For how much?” asked Lydia Bridgeford. “We can’t spare much.”
“Sixty-five dollars,” said Mary Lee. “Half of that was Flora’s. We bought a money order at the 7-Eleven and sent it in.”
“In your name?” asked Ellen. “But what if something happens to you? How will we get the money?”
“All you need is the account number and the paperwork. They explained it all to me. You just use the number for transactions. Besides, I opened the account in a different name altogether. Mrs. James Ewell Brown Stuart.”
Lydia Bridgeford nodded approvingly. “Jeb Stuart, eh? I expect he’d rather like that. After all, he was born in the next county over, so he is rather a neighbor of ours.”
“Except of course that he’s dead,” said Mary Lee Pendleton.
“At Yellow Tavern in 1864,” sighed Flora, who had rather a thing about the late general.
“I’d hardly have opened an account for him if he weren’t dead,” snapped Mary Lee. “The whole point is that we have to hang on to this money. It’s all we’ve got for our old age.”
“Well, perhaps not,” said Dolly Smith.
“You want me to do what with the money?” asked Bill MacPherson, staring at the circle of smiling pink faces.
“It’s very simple,” Flora Dabney assured him. “I expect you haven’t done that sort of transaction before, but there’s really nothing to worry about. You simply instruct your bank to wire it to this account number at our bank, which happens to be in the Cayman Islands.”
“But why do you want the money wired to a Caribbean island?” wailed Bill.
“We thought we might go there,” said Dolly Smith. “My doctor said it might help my arthritis.”
“But why deposit the money there? They take traveler’s checks in the Caymans.”
Flora Dabney smiled. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing. Will you promise not to laugh if we confide in you?”
Bill nodded.
“Well, it’s just that we felt a little funny about selling Confederate property and putting the money in a U.S. bank. I know that when I first hired you I said that the war was over, but some of the ladies here still feel strongly about it. Very strongly.”
“My dear papa never believed in banks after ’29,” said Ellen Morrison. “And I believe most of them are controlled out of New York, which just goes to show you.”
“And since there is no longer a Confederacy, we decided to send the money out of the country altogether.”
Bill stared at his clients. Surely they were joking. “But what if you want to use some of it? To buy groceries and things!”
“In that case,” said Flora, “we might find it necessary to transfer some of it back. But for now you must allow us our little gesture. Now here’s the account number. Don’t lose it.”
“Wasn’t there something else you wanted?” asked Anna Douglas. “I’m late for bridge club.”
“Oh, the power of attorney,” said Bill, recalling his original errand. “I drew up a form authorizing me to act on your behalf in the selling of the property. I need each of you to sign on these lines.” He pointed out the appropriate place on the document, and produced the pen his parents had given him for graduation. One by one the ladies signed their names, passing the pen from hand to hand: Flora Dabney, Mary Lee Pendleton, Ellen Morrison, Lydia Bridgeford, Anna Douglas, and Dolly Hawks Smith. Julia Hotchkiss had to be persuaded to sign by the offer of another package of cookies, but in the end she scrawled her name below Jenny Allan’s tentative script, and the form was complete.
“I guess that’s it,” said Bill, putting the paper back in his briefcase. “Tomorrow Mr. Huff will come to my office, and we’ll sign the deed. After that you’ll have two weeks to vacate the house. Will that be sufficient?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton with her serene smile. “We have already decided to go to Oakmont, that lovely retirement community just outside town. They have charming little apartments and a dining hall and people to check on you if you need anything. We’ll still be together.”
Flora Dabney patted his arm. “And you must come out and see us. Perhaps you could come to tea in a month or so, when we’re settled.”
“Thank you,” said Bill. “I’ll try to do that.”
“And you won’t forget about depositing the money, will you?” asked Ellen Morrison.
“It will go straight from the firm’s trust account to you. Less my commission, of course. I’m one of the honest lawyers,” said Bill.
They all laughed merrily.
Forty-five minutes later Bill returned to the office with two large pizzas balanced on the top of his briefcase. “How’s it going?” he called to Edith. “Any problems?”
“Maybe one,” said Edith, clearing space on her desk for the pizzas. “Did you get the old ladies to sign that power-of-attorney form?”
“I sure did,” said Bill. “See? Eight signatures.”
“Uh-huh.” Edith frowned as she examined the form. “Did you remember to have a notary present?”
“Oh, shit!”
“Shall I take that as a no?”
Bill sat down and put his head in his hands. “I completely forgot,” he groaned. “I was so busy rushing around, trying to get back here and finish the rest of this paperwork and buy the pizzas and all. It just slipped my mind.”
Edith sighed. “Want me to type up another one?”
“Well, one of the ladies said she had bridge club tonight. I might not be able to get all the signatures. Oh, hell. I should have thought to take you along. You’re a notary, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Edith, cutting the pizza with her letter opener. “Did you remember the napkins?”
“No. Use a paper towel. Look, I don’t suppose you could notarize this now, could you? I mean, I know you’re supposed to see the document being signed, but I swear to you that they all signed it, and I signed it, and it’s all legal. Oh, please, Edith! If we don’t get all this done by tomorrow, the deal will fall through.”
Over a slice of pepperoni pizza, Edith gave him a look of exasperation. “All right,” she said. “You are new at this. I guess everybody’s entitled to one incredibly stupid screwup. But it’s illegal, you hear? So I don’t want you ever to make this mistake again.” She opened her desk drawer, took out her notary seal, and witnessed the document.
“Thanks, Edith,” said Bill. “I promise I’ll never forget again. You’ve saved my life.”
“That’ll be a dollar,” said Edith.
RADFORD, VIRGINIA
THERE WERE ONLY six gray-clad soldiers in a makeshift camp near the house. The redbrick mansion sat on a hill overlooking the New River; it had belonged to a colonel in the Revolutionary War. Now its sprawling green lawn was dotted again with tents and tethered horses.