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The smell of potpourri hits her as soon as the door is open. For a moment she hesitates—nothing brings back memories, both good and bad, so strongly as certain aromas—but then she squares her shoulders and steps inside.
“What a nice little place,” Rhoda Landry says. “I love a Cape Cod.”
“Cozy,” Andrea Stark adds. Why she’s here Holly doesn’t know.
“I’ve got some things for you to look over and a few papers for you to sign,” Emerson says. “The most important is an acknowledgement that you have been informed of the bequest. One copy of that goes to the IRS and one to County Probate. Would the kitchen work for you? That’s where Charlotte and I did most of our business.”
Into the kitchen they go, Emerson already fumbling with the catches of his briefcase, the two women looking around and taking inventory, as women are apt to do in a house that isn’t their own. Holly is also looking around, and hearing her mother everywhere her eyes stop. Her mother’s voice, always starting with how many times have I told you.
The sink: How many times have I told you to never put a juice glass in the dishwasher until you rinse it?
The refrigerator: How many times have I told you to make sure the door is closed tight?
The cupboards: How many times have I told you to never put away more than three plates at a time if you don’t want them to chip?
The stove: How many times have I told you to double-check that everything is off before you leave the kitchen?
They sit at the table. Emerson gives her the papers he needs her to sign, one by one. There’s the acknowledgement that she has been informed of the bequest. There’s an acknowledgement that she has been provided a copy of Charlotte Anne Gibney’s last will and testament (which Emerson gives her now). There’s the acknowledgement that she has been informed of her mother’s various investment assets, which include a very valuable stock portfolio, Tesla and Apple shares being the pick of the litter. Holly signs an employment agreement authorizing David Emerson to represent her in probate court. Rhoda Landry notarizes each document with her big old stamping gadget, and Andrea Stark witnesses them (so that’s what she’s here for).
When the signing ritual is done, the women offer Holly murmured condolences and make their exit. Emerson tells Holly he’d be happy to take her to lunch, except for his pending appointment. Holly tells him that’s perfectly fine. She doesn’t want to eat with Emerson; what she wants is to see the back of him. Her headache is getting worse, and she wants a cigarette. Craves one, actually.
“Now that you’ve had some time to think about it, are you still leaning toward selling the house?”
“Yes.” Not just leaning, either.
“With furnishings or without? Have you thought about that?”
“With.”
“Still…” From his briefcase he takes a small stack of red tags. Printed on them is SAVE. “If you find there are things you want after going through the place, you can put these tags on them. Just peel off the back, you see?”
“Yes.”
“For instance, your mother’s china figurines in the front hall, you might want those as keepsakes…” He sees her face. “Or perhaps not, but there might be other things. Probably will be. Based on my previous experience in such cases, legatees often let things go they later wish they had held onto.”
You believe that, Holly thinks. You believe it to your very soul, because you’re a holder-onner, and holder-onners are never able to understand let-goers. They are tribes that just can’t understand each other. Sort of like vaxxers and anti-vaxxers, Trumpers and Never Trumpers.
“I understand.”
He smiles, perhaps believing he’s convinced her. “The last thing is this.”
He takes a slim folder from his briefcase. It contains photographs. He spreads them out before her like a cop laying out a perp gallery for a witness. She views them with amazement. It’s not perps she’s looking at but jewelry lying on swatches of dark cloth. Earrings, finger rings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches, a double string of pearls.
“Your mother insisted I take these for safekeeping before she went to the hospital,” Emerson says. “A bit irregular, but it was her wish. They’re yours now, or will be once Charlotte’s will is probated.” He hands her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the inventory.”
She glances at it briefly. Charlotte has signed, Emerson has co-signed, and Andrea Stark—whose job description, apparently, is Professional Witness—has also signed. Holly looks back at the photos and taps two of them. “This is my mother’s wedding ring, and this is her engagement ring, which she hardly ever wore, but I don’t recognize any of this other stuff.”
“She seems to have been quite the collector,” Emerson says. He sounds a bit uncomfortable, but really not very. Death reveals secrets. Surely he knows this. He has been, as they say, around the block a few times.
“But…” Holly stares at him. She thought—hoped—she was prepared for this meeting, even for touring her dead mother’s house and the museum exhibit guest room, but this? No. “Is it valuable or costume?”
“You’ll have to have it appraised to determine the value,” Emerson says. He hesitates, then adds something less lawyerly. “But according to Andrea, it’s not costume.”
Holly doesn’t reply. What she’s thinking is that this goes beyond deceit. Maybe beyond forgiveness.
“I’ll continue to hold these pieces in the firm’s safe until the will is probated, but you should keep this. I have a copy.” He means the inventory. There have to be at least three dozen items on it, and if those are real gems, the total value must be… Jesus, a lot. A hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred thousand? Five?
Under the patient tutelage of Bill Hodges, she has trained her mind to follow certain facts and not flinch when they lead to certain conclusions. Here is one fact: Charlotte apparently had jewelry worth a great deal of money. Here is another: Holly has never seen her mother wearing any of said sparklers; did not even know they existed. Conclusion: At some point following her mother’s inheritance, and probably after the money had supposedly been lost, Charlotte became a secret hoarder, like a cave-bound goblin in a fantasy story.
