A Dame with a Past - Part 3

Continued from Part 2


With Bernie clutching my hand for dear life, we followed Worthington out and down the hall a short distance. He led us into a paneled room that, except for the furniture arrangement, looked more like someone’s living room than a meeting room.

Hung along the walls was a gallery of portraits: some of the faces behind the names on the letterhead, I assumed. Dour looking bunch, I must say. There was a desk at one end of the room. Facing it, arranged in rows theatre style along a center aisle, were about two dozen ornate chairs. They looked like Chippendale to me, but what do I know? In a few of those chairs sat the other people I assumed had been named in Marjorie Mitchum’s will.

Worthington led Bernie over to four people sitting together on the right side of the aisle, and introduced her to her half-sisters Elizabeth and Charlotte, and her half-brother Mark and his wife, Midge (Midge?). I took Elizabeth and Charlotte to be about 25 and 20 respectively, and Mark to be about 22. They were all dressed with understated and obviously expensive style. Beside me, I could feel Bernie shrinking into herself. The group greeted Bernie without any genuine warmth, but politely, showing off the social graces I’m sure they’d had drummed into them. But there was no question; there was a definite chill in the room.

Seated a couple of rows behind the family were three people who hadn’t stood, and who looked very uncomfortable. They weren’t introduced, and I had no idea who they were.
 

From across the short aisle, an elegantly-dressed woman in her mid-forties stepped forward and introduced herself as Louise Fennimore. She startled Bernie with a small hug, and expressed her condolences. Bernie looked totally confused until the woman added that she’d been Marjorie Mitchum’s best friend since childhood.
 

“I knew all about you, my dear, she said in a kind voice. “In fact, I feel I’ve watched you grow up. Marjorie showed me pictures. She was very proud of you, you know.”
 

Bernie colored, and clearly didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, she was saved from coming up with something when Worthington took her arm and guided her to a seat in the front row. I tagged along.
 

We sat down. After the lawyer turned away, Bernie grabbed my hand again and breathed, “Marty, all these people! I feel so alone.” I gave her hand what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze, but I have to admit I was feeling a bit out of my comfort zone myself.  I could feel the daggers hitting our backs. Based on the powerful grip she maintained on my hand, I knew Bernie felt them, too.
 

 ~

The lawyer took his seat behind the desk and looked around the room at the people facing him.

“Thank you for coming, everyone. I believe you all know me now, but for the record, I am Malcolm Worthington. I was Marjorie Mitchum’s attorney all her life.”
 

I was relieved to hear that he didn't include the "T" when saying his name. I would have been forced to return him to "Pompous Ass" status.
 

He cleared his throat, and continued, his voice taking on that peculiar stentorian tone lawyers assume in such circumstances.

“As you know, we are gathered here to read the last will and testament of Marjorie Bancroft Mitchum.” He picked up a legal-looking document. You know the kind, one of those with several pages stapled to a blue cover at the top.

He began to read. It was like every legal document I’ve ever read, full of whereas, wherefore, and assorted other legalese. I’ve always thought lawyers use such grandiose language to confuse the rest of us. Job security, you know? I won’t bore you with the jargon, but this is the gist of it.

I’m not sure if this is traditional, but the will laid out the bequeaths in order of smallest to largest. The first went to the three people seated in the back, who turned out to be Mitchum’s housekeeper, cook, and gardener. She had left each what Worthington called a “small token of her appreciation,” though in my world, there was nothing small about it. Each was accompanied by glowing words of thanks for loyal service.

Then there was something for Louise Fennimore. Worthington read, “Thank you, Louise, for being my anchor and my support system, as well as my dearest friend. I have so much to say to you, but I won’t say it here.” At that point, the lawyer picked up an ivory envelope with a name written across its face in large flowing script. He took it over to Fennimore.

“Marjorie requested that this letter be given to you today,” he said as he handed the envelope to the weeping woman.

He returned to his place behind the desk, looked at Bernie with a smile, and resumed his reading.

“And that brings us to the family bequeaths.”

Bernie had my handkerchief clutched in her hands and she began twisting it nervously.

Worthington looked at each of Marjorie Mitchum's other three children, and said, “These are the words of your mother. ‘I know that my children Elizabeth, Mark and Charlotte are shocked to learn that they have a half-sister. I’ve never told them anything about her, and I’m sincerely sorry for that. I saw no other way. It is my hope that they will find it in their hearts to welcome her into our family.

“‘I was barely more than a child myself when Bernice was born, and I was forced to give her up for adoption. But I knew Sarah Lahey, her adoptive mother, was a warm and caring woman, and I am so thankful that Bernice grew up in a loving home. I am especially grateful that I was allowed to share a small part of her life from afar through the photographs and letters Sarah Lahey so generously sent to me. I couldn’t send any letters to you, Bernice, as much as I wanted to, but that doesn’t mean I never wrote any. They are part of my bequest to you, along with photographs of myself, your grandparents, extended family members, and your siblings. I hope they help you to know me, to know us, and maybe to know a little more about yourself.’”

Worthington stopped reading, and swiveled his leather chair around to an ornate wooden chest along the wall behind the desk. From within one of the doors on the front of the credenza, he withdrew a bag. It was about the size of one of those old-fashioned train cases women used to travel with. Made of tooled leather, it was fashioned like a small trunk and was secured with two buckled straps. The lawyer picked it up by its handle and carried it over to Bernie.

Holding the bag on her lap, Bernie ran her hands over the tooling on its side. I can only imagine what she was thinking. In her hands was a portrait of a family she never knew she had. I glanced back at her newly found siblings, and the set of Elizabeth’s and Mark’s mouths as they looked at Bernie made it pretty clear what they were thinking. Displeasure clung to them like a fog. At least Charlotte appeared to have an open mind. She looked at Bernie with more curiosity than anything.

Worthington continued reading, and it turned out that bag Bernie held in her lap wasn’t the extent of her inheritance. I could hear everyone in the room gasp when the lawyer announced that Marjorie Mitchum had left Bernie an apartment building on Nob Hill.

We sat through the remainder of the will’s bequeaths, which didn’t take long. Basically, Marjorie Mitchum had left the remainder of her considerable estate to her other children, but I don’t think Bernie heard a word of that. She was too stunned.

When the meeting broke up, everyone but Bernie and I, the lawyer, and Louise Fennimore were gone in a shot. Charlotte paused on her way out the door to say to Bernie, “I hope we can get acquainted. Call me Charlie.”  Then the disapproving looks from her siblings pulled her into the hallway as if she were tethered. So much for a warm family welcome. I could tell that Bernie was a little hurt, but Louise came right over with more hugs.

“I’m so glad that Marjorie left you a reason to return to San Francisco. I hope you'll come often, and that we can get to know each other. Your mother was a wonderful person, and I’m looking forward to telling you all about her.”

Bernie smiled back at the gracious woman. “Thank you, Ms. Fennimore.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear. You must call me Louise. I know we’re going to be great friends.”

She snapped open her handbag and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my card. Please call me when you return.”

“Thank you. I will.” Bernie replied as she took the card. She looked at it before slipping it in a pocket, and I caught a glimpse. “Louise Fennimore Interior Design.”

“And, oh, Malcolm didn’t mention it, but the building includes an owner’s apartment, so you’ll have a place to stay when you’re in town. I can help you redecorate, if you’d like, but I have a feeling you might like to leave it just as it is. It was a favorite retreat of your mother’s.”

Before leaving, she turned to me. ‘Thank you for accompanying Bernice here, Mr. Tremaine. I know this was hard for her.”

“My pleasure.”

We said our goodbyes, and Louise Fennimore left the meeting room, leaving a small cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake

Holding the door open for us, Worthington said, “Please, come back to my office with me. I’ll give you the details of your inheritance.”

We spent another hour with the lawyer. He gave Bernie the business card of the building manager, who also lived on premises, and told her to contact him when she was ready. Worthington told Bernie that Marjorie had been a friend as well as a client and assured her that he was there to help should she need anything. See? I knew he was a nice guy all along.

~

As we rode down in the elevator, I asked Bernie what she wanted to do. It was a little late for lunch, but we hadn’t eaten since arriving. I was wishing I’d taken advantage of the spread at the law offices.

“I’m not hungry, Marty. Maybe just a cup of coffee?”

There was a Peet’s in the lobby of the building, so we went in. I settled Bernie and the leather bag at a table, and after giving her another shot at some food, went to the counter. In a few minutes, I returned with two coffees and a ham and swiss panini to find her looking through a small stack of photos.

“This is all so unreal, Marty. Last week, I was Sarah Lahey’s daughter, Mike McGraw’s wife, and a graphic artist with a crummy salary. Now look.”

I sat, and took a huge bite of my Panini. “Sure you don’t want half?” I mumbled around the sandwich.

She shook her head, and when I’d swallowed my mouthful and had a drink of coffee, I said, “Bernie, you are still all of those things. Nothing’s really changed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, nothing at all, except I have a mother I never knew, a family which doesn’t seem overjoyed to find out about their bastard sister – well except maybe for Charlotte -- and, oh yeah, I own a apartment building. A freaking apartment building! What am I going to do with that?”

OK, I had to admit her newly found siblings could have been a little nicer, but we had to remember that they were as shocked as Bernie was to discover Marjorie’s secret love child. But the apartment building?

“No worries, Bernie. You can keep it as an investment. Worthington said it had a building manager, and he’s there to help too if need be. Besides,” I added before taking the last bite of my sandwich, "it’ll give you a place to stay in Frisco. Nob Hill, kiddo. Pretty nice digs.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Hey, do you want to go over there now and take a look? It’s only a few blocks away, a bit uphill to be sure, but it’s a nice day. Or we could catch a cab.”

She thought a minute, then said, “No, thanks, Marty, but I’m not ready. I need some time to digest all this. Can we just go back to LA?”

“Sure, I understand.”

We finished our coffee and headed to the airport. We were back in LA by 4:30pm. I offered to drive her home, but she said she’d rather take a cab. We said our goodbyes, and headed our separate ways.

 

~

Continued in Part 4

  

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 3: "Alone Never Felt So Crowded."

 

 

 

A Dame with a Past - Part 2

Continued from Part 1


On the short flight to San Francisco the following Monday, Bernie and I got a chance to become better acquainted. Though she’d not offered any insight to whatever issue I’d picked up on in the office, she seemed less fearful. It was as though she’d found a bit of peace from whatever had been bothering her when last we met. Whatever it was, I could tell there was something beyond her confusion over the lawyer’s letter. I hoped that the information she was about to learn from Worthington wouldn’t further upset her teetering applecart.

When the cab pulled up to the imposing building on California Street that housed T. Malcolm’s offices, I wasn’t surprised. It was just what I expected after seeing that letterhead: one of those tall glass cathedrals erected to the pursuit of money. A quick glance at the directory on the wall behind the two Pinkerton guards sitting at the reception desk in the lobby showed an army of law firms, wealth management firms, and very large (as in former Big Eight-large) accounting firms. It was the sort of building you didn’t enter unless you came with a very healthy bank account as the price of admission.

T. Malcolm Worthington, Jr. was on the 37^th floor, and he was expecting us. After we signed in and received our visitor badges, a guard buzzed us in through the locked glass doors to the elevators. From there it was just a speedy ride on the express to the law firm’s floor.

The elevator doors opened onto a lobby worthy of the Ritz.  Across from the elevators, way across, sat a pretty blonde receptionist who looked like she was just out of school, very Sandra Dee-ish. She took our names and asked us to help ourselves to a refreshment and take a seat. As she spoke, she nodded her head in the direction of a counter to one side of her desk. It was stocked with chilled bottled water, croissants and muffins, and fresh fruit. And it boasted one of those fancy machines that spits out Italian cappuccino at the press of a button. Here I thought our Keurig was something pretty special.

I asked Bernie if she’d like something. “No, thanks. I’m too nervous.”

I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze and led her to one of the groupings of comfortable-looking couches and arm chairs.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be nervous about. We’ll get this cleared up in no time. Worst case: it’s all a mistake and we’ve wasted a trip to San Francisco. We’ll make up for it with a good lunch someplace on Union Square before we head back.”

 

~

We’d waited only a few minutes when the clicking of high heels on the marble floors announced the approach of Worthingon’s “executive assistant.” Personally, I think Steve’s title of “mother-hen-in-residence” has more of a ring to it, but that’s just me.  

She introduced herself as Carol Feldman, and said, “Mr. Worthington can see you now.”

She led us back the way she’d come. As we followed the woman down a rabbit warren of hallways, I glanced into several of the offices and conference rooms we passed along the way. They were decorated to the hilt, and their occupants looked as though dressed in suits from Savile Row.  I felt under-dressed, and given the price of the Bergdorf suit I was wearing, that’s saying something. No question: the law business was good.

When we reached our destination, Ms. Feldman opened the door and led us into Worthington’s office.  The lawyer was seated behind a massive wooden desk, a breathtaking panorama of the city and the bay beyond displayed though the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. As we crossed the room, he stood and came around his desk to greet us.

“Ms. McGraw, thank you for coming up to San Francisco to meet with me.” He shook her hand, then turned to shake mine. “Mr. Tremaine. Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee or something else?”

He indicated yet another refreshment bar against the wall of his office. Like I said, business was good.

Bernie and I declined. We took our seats in the two client chairs in front of Worthington’s desk, which was empty except for a file folder.

“Before we go in to meet the others, I think I should take a few minutes to give you some background, Ms. McGraw.”

 “Since I have no idea why I am here, I think that would be a good idea,” Bernie said. “And you might as well call me Bernie. But I’m sure you have the wrong person, Mr. Worthington. My mother was Sarah Lahey, and she died just over three years ago.”

“And I’m Marty,” I said. “But wait.” Bernie hadn’t caught the first part of his statement, but I did. “You said ‘go in to meet the others.’ What others?”

Worthington answered, “The other named beneficiaries of the will. We’ll be reading the will this morning, but first, I want Ms. McGraw, Bernie, here to be comfortable with how she fits into all this.”

I glanced at Bernie as he spoke. I know she hadn’t expected this meeting to turn into a reading of the will of a woman she’d never heard of. She looked gob-smacked. I got up and went to the refreshment bar and poured her a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully.

“Yes, please, let’s get to how I ‘fit into all this’,” she said after she taken a drink.

“Bernie, I know you believe that Sarah Lahey was your mother,” Worthington began.

Oh, this was getting worse by the minute.

“What do mean, ‘you know I believe’?” Bernie sputtered. “I know who my mother was!”

“Yes, well. Perhaps you should look at this. Then I can explain.” He picked up the folder on his desk and placed it in front of us. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.”

He rose and left the office.
 

~

I turned the folder toward Bernie and opened it. There was a small stack of documents inside.

The top sheet was a short contract. It was a “conveyance of private adoption” giving legal custody of an infant female to Sarah Ann Lahey. It went on to stipulate that the adoption was to remain a closed adoption and never revealed to the adopted child. In return, Sarah Ann Lahey would receive a monthly stipend to help support the child until she was eighteen years old. If the agreement were violated, the support payments would stop.

The contract was signed by Jonathan J. Bancroft III, legal guardian of minor Marjorie Ellen Bancroft, and was dated July 10, 1981.

Bernie was a white as a sheet. She picked up the document and read it again.

“Marty, my birthday is July 7, 1981!”

Flipping through the remaining documents, she found a birth certificate and pictures of herself throughout her childhood from about the age of three or four, several taken in front of a birthday cake. There were also a few notes from her mother, Sarah Lahey, to Marjorie Bancroft, who became Marjorie Mitchum when she married Elliot Mitchum.

She whispered, “It’s true. Oh my God, it’s true.”

She turned to me, tears running down her cheeks. “Marty, these pictures are of me. I have an album with the same photos. And this,” she held up one of the notes, “is definitely my mother’s handwriting.”

I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her. “It looks that way, Bernie.”

She wiped her face, and then blew her nose noisily. “How could she keep something like this from me? I don’t even know who I am, Marty!”

I reached out and took her hand. I’m not often at a loss for words. After all, I’m the guy whose dad used to claim was vaccinated with phonograph needle. But I didn’t know what to say to her. I could see she was devastated, and I knew nothing I said would undo that. Her whole reality had shifted the minute she looked at that file. My heart ached for her. Shit, I was almost in tears myself.

I was saved from coming up with something comforting to say when the office door opened and Worthington came back in.  He saw Bernie’s face, and stopped for a moment and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you all these things. I knew it would be hard on you.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “You were just doing your job.”

When he’d seated himself behind the desk again, she said, “Can you tell me how this all happened. And why?”

As the attorney spoke, Bernie clutched my hand as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Speaking slowly, and giving her every opportunity to ask the flood of questions that must be filling her head, Worthington told us about Marjorie Bancroft, and the dilemma she’d faced years ago.

“Marjorie was fifteen when she became pregnant. Pregnancy at that age, and when unmarried, was just not something that was done in her world. She didn’t willingly tell her parents of her condition, but when she began to show, there was no hiding it any longer. When her parents confronted her, she refused to identify the father.  She wanted to keep the baby, but her parents would have none of it. The very thought of motherhood at age fifteen was anathema to them. They were sure she'd be thought of as a 'fallen woman' in their social circle, as old-fashioned as that sounds. They shipped her off to a private school in England, where she stayed until the end of the school term, which brought her pretty close to the end of her pregnancy term as well. She came home to San Francisco, and a little over a week later, she gave birth to a baby girl.” He paused to smile at Bernie. “That would be you.”

“I…” Bernie began, and then stopped for a moment, trying to get her mind around his words. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know this is a shock. Give it some time to sink in and I’ll answer all your questions. I know you must have many. Now, to continue…”

Worthington opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder similar to the one he’d handed to Bernie. He took out the contract that had brought everything Bernie knew of her heritage into question. He started to speak, but Bernie suddenly interrupted.

“Wait! My father! Who is he? Where is he?

Worthington shook his head. “I’m sorry, Bernie, but that is a secret your mother took to her grave. She never revealed his identity. Not to her parents, who are both deceased, by the way, and certainly not to us.

“This law firm has handled Marjorie’s affairs, and those of her parents, for decades. My father drafted this contract between Marjorie and Sarah Lahey.” He held up the contract. “Or I should say, between Marjorie’s father and Sarah Lahey. He signed as her legal guardian. She never knew the terms of the contract until she was twenty. All correspondence came through my father, and then through me when I took over the account.”

“Did she never want to meet me, or to try to get me back when she was older?” Bernie asked, tears filling her eyes again. “Didn’t she love her own child? How could she just give me up? I can't believe my life began with being abandoned by my own mother!”

I gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m sure she did love you, Bernie. You weren't abandoned. She wanted to keep you, remember? But it sounds like it was out of her hands. She was only fifteen, just a child herself, really.”

“Marty is right, Bernie, I’m sure she loved you, but she also knew that Sarah Lahey was the only mother you knew, and no doubt loved. It was because she loved you that she never tried to destroy that relationship. She asked only that she be allowed to share your life from afar. In 1988, we amended the contract to include the provision that Marjorie would receive photographs of you as you grew up. I know she regretted losing you all her life, and she did the best she could for you."

He placed his hand on top of the file folder.

“Copies of those photographs are in this file. As I mentioned, everything came though his firm, and before passing the photos on, we made a copy of them for the file.”

As he spoke, Bernie had pulled out the photos, and was sifting through them. “Do you have any pictures of her for me? I never saw any, but then, how could I?”

“Yes, I do, but let’s hold off on that for the moment. I’ll give them to you before you leave today.”

Taking out the notes that were in the folder, Bernie asked, “And these letters from my mother? I mean… Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean.”

Worthington smiled kindly.

I should add that it was about at this point in the meeting that I changed my opinion of T. Malcolm Worthington, Esquire. I have to admit that I had prejudged him based on his name and the law firm he represented. I had expected a pompous, self-important twit, but he was proving me wrong. He was an okay guy.

“The letters… no, the letters were not a part of the contract. But your adoptive mother was a kind woman. She called me shortly after we added the amendment for the photographs to the contract, and asked if it would be okay for her to send a note about you now and then. She didn’t want to upset Marjorie, but thought that she’d want to know how you were doing. ‘I know I would,’ she said to me. Like I said, a kind woman.”

“Yes,” Bernie agreed, sniffling. “She was. I miss her terribly. She was the only family I had until I married Mike.”

I could see the thought come over her. Her next words told me I was right.

“I just realized… Was she the only family I had? Besides my…my mother, I mean?”

I could tell that the lawyer had expected this question too.

“No, actually, you do have other family. Marjorie Bancroft married Elliot Mitchum in 1987, and they had two daughters and a son. As I mentioned in my letter to you, one of the stipulations of the will is that all of the beneficiaries be present at the reading, so you will meet them then. I suspect that was Marjorie’s intent.”

Worthington looked at his watch. “And the reading is scheduled to begin in about ten minutes. Before we go in, let me quickly give you the rest of the background on how you came to be here today.

“Last year, when it became apparent that Marjorie would probably lose her battle with breast cancer, she came to my office. She was concerned about you, and said she thought you should know about the breast cancer history in your family. You see, her mother had also died of breast cancer. But she didn’t know how to go about getting the information to you.

“We talked about it, and she decided that after she was gone, you had to be told about your relationship to her, the contract notwithstanding You were already named in her will, which was sure to raise questions. She believed, and I agreed, that those questions needed to be answered. It was necessary for your own health and well-being, but it also seemed like the right thing to do. We knew that Sarah Lahey was deceased, and Marjorie really wanted you to know you had family.”

The lawyer stood, and said, “Now, let’s go to the meeting room, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of your family.”
 

~

Continued in Part 3

  

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5. Muse 2."The Fallen Beginning."

A Dame with a Past - Part 1

Some might call her decrepit, and I suppose they would be right. But she works hard at maintaining a stately dignity, standing tall and proud despite her aches and pains. I like that in a gal.

There’s no question about it, though: she’s a very old lady. And like so many grand old dames, she has her secrets. Since I’ve been hired to ferret them out, I’m hoping she’ll succumb to my many charms, and tell all.

~

This all began several weeks ago. It had been a long, grueling day, and I was exhausted. You know the kind of day I mean: one where there is so little to do, the hardest part is just staying awake. To make matters worse, it was Monday, a day I’ve never been terribly fond of. For the past twenty minutes or so, I’d been watching the clock between yawns, waiting until it was safe to pull out the bottle of Maker’s Mark from my bottom left desk drawer and pour myself a drink. Just as I decided that it was unlikely – and there’s an understatement – that any new clients would be coming this late in the afternoon, the door to the right of my desk burst open, and my perpetually disheveled partner leaped in with a flourish, loose shirt tails flapping. Since Harry is something of a laconic sort of fellow, he got my attention.

“Marty, me lad, I think I’ve got a hot griddle in the oven. Better clear the decks and sharpen your cutlass.”

I should mention here that Harry is a past master of mixing his metaphors.

Harry Carrold (Harold Carrold, if you can believe it) and I have been friends since college. He lives in the office connected to mine by the door he’d bounded through. Not full time, you understand; he does have a home. But old Harry has spent many a night crashed on the old cracked leather couch in his office.

We’ve been working together for a few years now, Harry and I, and he knows as well as I do that there’s little on the decks needing clearing. To put it kindly, business has been slow.

~


If we haven’t yet met, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Marty Tremaine.

I’m a PI.  I used to be an “accountant to the stars,” until I just couldn’t take another over-blown ego looking to put one over on Uncle Sam. I took down my CPA shingle in disgust and hung up a new one. I began my new career in LA several years ago. Envisioning myself as the new Sam Spade, I bought myself a trench coat and opened this office with the door out front etched “Tremaine Investigations.” Turns out, I have some skills. And I’m good at reading people, even to the stuff they’d rather you didn’t see. That’s proven to be pretty valuable in this line of work.

And since (in his words) he had nothing better to do, Harry came along for the ride.

This is an odd business. I don’t know, maybe it’s the nature of the beast or maybe it’s just that we haven’t quite caught the wave yet (to use the vernacular of the land), but our cases seem to have come in fits and starts. One week we’re scrambling just to stay afloat, and the next we’re treading water waiting for some action. Suffice it to say that when “a big one” comes our way, it doesn’t take much thinking for us to jump on it. We haven’t earned the right to be picky and choosy just yet. 


~

“Yeah? What’s up?” My casual tone belied the little jolt of hope zapping through me. I’d been worrying all day about how I was going to pay the bills.

Harry came over and threw his rumbled self into one of the client chairs in front of my desk. I’m not sure, but it had been so long since anyone had sat in it, I might have heard it say “ouch.”

“Just had a call from Bernice Lahey.”

“Bernice Lahey… Who’s that?”

“You know, I told you. See...”

He settled in, throwing a leg over one of the chair’s arms, clearly ready to get into a story. Harry’s a great one for stories. “She’s that friend of my bowling buddy Joe’s wife, the one I…”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember,” I interrupted. Best we don’t get into this particular story. “And?”

“Well, first of all, she’s married now.” Harry pulled his face into an exaggerated hang-dog look.

“Oh, please. You didn’t think she was pining away for you, did you? It’s been about three years, after all, right? So why’d she call you after all this time?”

Harry heaved a big sigh. “Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, reason she called is, she thinks she’s got a problem that she’s not really sure is a problem, but she wants to make sure before she gets in too deep and makes a mistake. She got a little unclear at that point, but from what I gathered, she got this letter, and I think there’s maybe some money involved. But, Marty, it’s more than that. She sounded kind of scared. ” He scratched his head. “Well, whatever. I told her to come in tomorrow.”

~

The next morning I beat both Harry and our receptionist-secretary and official mother-hen-in-residence Steve (“don’t call me Stephanie”) into the office. Beating Harry in to work was no great accomplishment; he’s never been one to be up-and-at-‘em with the normal people. But for me to be the one to unlock the office door and turn on the lights meant that either Steve was under the weather or I’m in really, really early.

That day it was the latter. Call me anxious, and you’d be right. There weren’t too many days left until flicking the light switch just inside the office door would do nothing but announce that SoCal Ed’s patience had run out. I was really hoping that Harry’s bowling pal’s wife’s friend’s problem would save me from writing a check on my personal account to cover the bills.

I was in the front office standing in front of the Keurig waiting for it to warm up -- I seriously needed to brew myself a good strong cup of Starbucks French Roast (like I said, it was really early) -- when Steve came in, her cap of wild red curls framing the look of incredulity on her face.

She glanced at her watch. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope. In fact if all goes well, everything will be very right.  Harry may have found us a client. She’s coming in this morning.”

Steve dropped her handbag in a desk drawer, picked up her Garfield cup, and came over to the coffee station.

“Oh, yeah, Bernice Lahey. Harry told me about her. She’s the one he…” Her voice drifted off.

I looked at her and she gave an eye-roll worthy of our First Lady. Of course Harry had told her. Mother hen, remember?

“Does that mean I’m going to get my paycheck after all?” she asked with a smirk, coating her words with sarcasm. For Steve, sarcasm knows no bounds, so it was a considerable dose.

“Have we ever not paid you?” I kept my tone light. I didn’t want to tell her how close it had come.

Coffee in hand, I went into my office. Before closing the door, I said, “Let me know when this Lahey woman gets here.”

~

The woman seated across the desk from me wasn’t what I would have called a “looker” and I found myself doubting Harry’s account of the blind date he’d had with her.  But she was definitely attractive in a low-key, girl next door sort of way. She reminded me a lot of a younger Jody Foster. Not a Taxi Driver Foster; more a Little Man Tate Foster. Her simply-styled dark blonde hair just touched her shoulders, and she sported that light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that I always find charming. She was dressed in a black and white wrap dress with a black sash belt and low-heeled black shoes. She looked quite stylish in the outfit, but there was something about the way she wore it that told me this was a woman who preferred jeans and sneakers.

And she hadn’t come alone. She had a tall, casually dressed man with her, one she didn’t seem entirely thrilled was there. He was what my mom used to refer to as “Black Irish.” His fair face was topped by dark hair, and with his piercing blue eyes, I have to say he was a good looking guy. And that explained why Steve seemed a bit breathless when she showed the couple into my office. Our Steve is a sucker for a handsome Irishman.

When she offered her hand, which trembled a bit in mine, and introduced herself to me, Bernice Lahey’s worried eyes belied her smile. In fact, she looked a little like a deer in the headlights.  I think Harry was right; this woman was frightened.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mr. Tremaine. I’m Bernice McGraw.” The name threw me for a moment until she introduced the man with her. “This is my husband Mike.”

Mike McGraw shook hands with me and said, “Hello.”  His deep voice carried the lilt of his homeland. He seemed nice enough, but my radar was picking up something else. I couldn’t help but wonder about the relationship between the two of them.

“Call me Marty, please.” I almost said that Harry had told me a lot about her, but quickly thought better of it. “Happy to meet you both. It’s no problem. My morning was wide open.” And my afternoon, and my tomorrow, and…

“And I’m Bernie,” she offered with a tremulous smile.

I decided to chat with them a bit to put her at ease before getting into what had brought her to Tremaine Investigations. Using the services of a private detective is not something people do every day, mystery novels notwithstanding. And I could see her fear as clearly as if she’d been wearing a sign announcing it.

Besides, Harry hadn’t shown yet, and I thought she might be more comfortable if she got to know me a little before he arrived.

We’d spent a few minutes exchanging meaningless pleasantries, when Harry appeared. He’d buffed himself up, making me wonder again about that long-ago blind date with Bernie. He was wearing his usual khakis, but they were pressed and his plaid sport shirt was topped with a blue blazer. And, wonder of wonders, he’d actually combed his hair.

As I often quip to friends, Harry is Oscar to my Felix. Blessed with a form that makes off-the-rack look designer, I usually look like I’ve stepped from the pages of GQ, if I do say so myself. Harry, on the other hand, would be hard put to claim Mad Magazine. If indeed Mad Magazine would have him. Disheveled doesn’t begin to describe Harry’s normal “look.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he leaned down to kiss Bernie’s cheek. “Bernie. It’s been a long time. How are you?” He turned to Mike McGraw, who hadn’t bothered to rise to greet Harry. ”And you must be Mike.” The two men shook hands.

“Thanks, Harry. Nice to see you, too.” Did I imagine it, or was the smile she gave Harry a bit strained?  “I’m fine, but I wish I knew what was going on.”

Intriguing opening, and my cue. Trying to look my most sincere, I said, “Why don’t you fill us in, Bernie, and tell us what we can do to help.”

“Give him the letter, Bernice,” her husband said.

She flashed him a look, and clicked open the black clutch bag she held in her lap. She removed a long envelope.

“I got this a few days ago,” she said as she handed the envelope to me. “It makes no sense to me. I have no idea what it’s about or why I got it.”

The envelope was addressed to Ms. Bernice Lahey McGraw in Pasadena. The return address bore the long name of a prestigious law firm in San Francisco.

I pulled out the letter it contained. It was typed on the same heavy, expensive-feeling vellum as the envelope. The top of the page was occupied by a long list of “Esquires” and half a dozen locations, taking up nearly half the available real estate on the page.

“Dear Ms. McGraw,” it began. I quickly scanned it, then went back to read it again, more carefully this time.

“Dear Ms. McGraw,

It is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the passing of your mother. It is our understanding that you have been estranged from her for a long time, and therefore you might not know that she has been fighting cancer for several years. A week ago, she lost the battle.

You may wonder why you weren’t notified immediately, but it was her desire that you not be burdened or feel obligated in any way to handle her funeral arrangements. There was no formal memorial service. She has been cremated, her ashes scattered in Muir Woods, as requested in her final wishes.

You are mentioned in her will. Though there is no legal obligation under California law, we are nonetheless obligated by the specific terms of the will to read it in the presence of all its beneficiaries. We would like to do that as soon as possible.

Please contact my office at the telephone number above so that we may make arrangements satisfactory to all concerned.

Again, please accept my condolences on your loss. I look forward to hearing from you.”

The letter was signed by one T. Malcolm Worthington, Jr., Esq. Looking again at the impressive letterhead, I saw that the junior and senior T. Malcolm Worthingtons were both listed as partners in the firm.

 I handed the letter to Harry.

“I’m so sorry, Bernie,” I said to her. “What a cold way to learn such sad news.”

“I suppose it is sad news, but not to me,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked as he folded the letter, put it back in its envelope, and handed it back to Bernie.   “Didn’t you get along with your mother?”

She gave a faint smile. “Oh, I got along with my mother just fine, and I miss her terribly. I have no idea who this woman is, but she isn’t my mother. My mother died three years ago in an automobile accident on the 405.”

Harry and I looked at each other. What? Then Harry asked, “What d’you mean, that they sent the letter to you in error?”

“I don’t know. I have to think that. But to my knowledge, there are no other Bernice Lahey McGraws in LA County, let alone in Pasadena.”

Mike added, “This looks like a big law firm. How could they make a mistake like that? Where would they even have gotten our name and address?”

A hint of a grimace flashed across Bernie’s face at the “our name and address,” then she looked from Harry to me. “That’s why I need your help. It doesn’t seem like it, but what if this is some kind of scam?”

We talked a bit more, and Bernie gave us a Readers’ Digest version of her history. She was born in LA, and had lived here all her life. Her father died of a heart attack when Bernie was a toddler, and her mother never remarried. When she died in the car accident, that left Bernie alone. She has no siblings, and both her parents were only children, so she has no family other than her husband. Bernie and Mike McGraw were married two years ago.

“All my life, until she passed three years ago, it’s just been Mom and me. Then this,” she waved the envelope in the air, “comes out of the blue. It’s got to be some kind of mistake.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. We call them up and ask.” I said.

I held out my hand for the letter, and she passed it to me. I pulled it from the envelope and picked up the phone.

~

A conversation with T. Malcolm Worthington, Jr., Esq, who sounded exactly as you’d expect a guy with a name like that to sound, did little to clear things up.

“I assure you, Mr. Tremaine, we know exactly who Ms. McGraw is, and she is most certainly a beneficiary to our client’s estate.”

The esteemed Mr. Worthington was unwilling to discuss the details of the will nor the family relationship between Bernie and his deceased client on the phone. But he did give me the name of the deceased: Marjorie Mitchum. I repeated the name to Bernie, and she shrugged.

“Never heard of her,” she muttered to Harry.

After much calendar checking, and some back and forth with dates, we ended the call with an appointment for Bernie, with Tremaine Investigations in tow, to meet with T, Malcolm in his San Francisco office the following Monday. The attorney promised to explain everything then. Mike was working as a golf pro and had a lesson he couldn’t cancel, so he wouldn’t be joining us. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that Bernie looked relieved hearing that, making me wonder again about the relationship.

Bernie seemed like a nice person, and something about the vibes I was picking up from both her and her husband made me feel protective of her. I made a silent promise to see to it that she got a fair shake in whatever this turned out to be.

~

After saying goodbye to Bernie and her husband, Harry and I lingered in the office long enough to rehash the meeting and have a spot of the bourbon I’d been hankering for earlier.  We decided I would accompany Bernie to San Fran. Harry was worried that their brief but memorable past might be obtrusive, and I tended to agree with him. Besides, sometimes Harry exhibited all the social graces of a “bull at Sunday Mass.” Remember the mixed metaphor thing?

“And besides,” Harry added we parted on the sidewalk in front of our building, “I want to take a look at that McGraw guy. Something about him skeeved me out.” Apparently, he’d picked up on something that felt off, too.

Over the weekend before the meeting, I did a little research on Marjorie Mitchum nee Bancroft. She had been a well-known socialite and philanthropist, a player in the San Francisco social scene all her life. I easily found reports of her cotillion, her education at Bryn Mawr, the event-of-the-year wedding soon to follow, and her subsequent social appearances, a lot of it in her glowing obituary. She had been all over the society pages both in life and in death. What I couldn’t find was any mention of a connection to Bernie.

Should be an interesting trip.

 ~

Continued in Part2

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5. Muse 1."If I Could See People's Fears"

New Year's Resolution

Schlummernde Frau

by Johann Baptist Reiter (1849)(Source: Wikimedia Commons)

 

 

minutes past midnight,

she yawns, and her eyes open.

the muse is awake.

 

I’m still stiff with sleep,

she says, don’t expect too much,

a few words at best.

 

with months of silence,

few words are better than none.

make them good ones, please.

 

ah, no, she responds,

that’s entirely up to you.

you must wake up too.

 

 

 



The Quickening

Detail from a 1606 etching by 

Antonio Tempesta (Italian, Florence 1555–1630 Rome)

expectant clouds swell

gravid with winter's chill seed

 Chione labors

* Chione is a minor Greek goddess of snow.

They Walk Among Us

The Scream by Edvard Munch
(Source: Wikipedia)

They walk among us.

They are our friends and neighbors, and even members of our family. They look just like the rest of us. They smile and laugh with us, and chat with us about inconsequential things. And they can be delightfully charming. Unless you knew, you might never know, not from just from looking at them, anyway. Most of them hide it very well.

You all know some of them. You may even be one of them. They are the bigots, the haters. They hate those who are unlike themselves. Whether the difference be that of color, race, religion, nationality, sexual preference, political party, or economic status, anyone who wear that difference so that it shows will be at risk of suffering their bigotry.

They breed and they raise their children to see the world as they do, to hate as they do.

They vote for people who share their hatred.

It terrifies me.

When people I once respected open their mouths and vitriol spews forth, I feel loss.

When my country's elected officials legislate based on hate, I feel shame.

When I see the result of all this hate every day in the newspaper, on the television, and on the streets, I feel fear.

As Goethe said, “There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.”

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

*

The Other Shoe

(Photo by Nick Wiebe
Source: WikiMediaCommons)

You know that old saw that goes "bad things come in threes"? Yeah.

I am generally not a superstitious person. I've broken more mirrors than I can count with no ill effect. I might avoid walking beneath a ladder, but it'd be because I know how hard it is to get paint out of your hair. Not only do I not fear that black cat walking across my path, I'm likely to call him over so I can pet him.  I'm smart enough to know that the fourteenth floor on the hotel is really the thirteenth, but it doesn't bother me. And Friday the Thirteenth? Not only is it not a bad thing; evidence shows that it's my lucky day. I was promoted three times during my working career on Friday the Thirteenth. So, no, I'm not superstitious.

Except...

I admit it. The whole "bad-things-come-in-threes" thing creeps me out. Think about it. It seems that too often, when you hear about a disaster, within hours, you hear about two more. Plane crashes, celebrity deaths, your friends' divorces. The list goes on. I'm sure you have your own list of threes in your life. It happens often enough that when Bad Thing Number One occurs, I find myself waiting for Bad Thing Numbers Two and Three to follow. It's kind of like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and the shoe after that.

Example: Since 1996 when an airline safety website started paying attention, there have been three (and sometimes more) plane crashes occurring within a few days of each other every year but one. Given the infrequency of plane crashes, this seems notable.

Example:  Within the last month, The Sopranos bad guy James Gandolfini, Glee singer Corey Montieth, and just this morning, long-time White House correspondent Helen Thomas all died. Yes, people die all the time, but the only one of these three whose death might be expected was 92-year-old Thomas.

I tell myself that this phenomenon is coincidence. I see disasters in threes because I look for them. OK, that makes sense, right?

Except...

A couple of days ago, another of those "bad-things-come-in-threes" hit, and I definitely wasn't looking for it. If you are a Facebook junkie like me, you know the sorts of things you see on your wall are as varied as your Facebook friends who post them. You see everything from cartoons, photos, rants (political and otherwise), and cute kitten videos to "I burned my toast this morning."  So, when in less than 24 hours, I read heartbreaking posts from three of my good Facebook friends (and folks, I don't have all that many Facebook friends) that his or her beloved dog was horribly ill, was dying, or had already died, I took notice.

I'm not superstitious, but some people believe these things.

At least all three shoes have dropped.

Except...

Native Americans believe the number is four, and the Chinese five.

Hug your pup.

*