Distribution

Chapter 4: New developments -- unresolved issues.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Uncle Mackey's room was an orderly haphazard. While the litter screamed chaos, it had been strewn about systematically. With the exception of the bookshelves at one end of the room, everything was placed within reach of the single swivel chair.

One look at the lone window told me that trying to open it would be a waste of time. Why borrow frustration? This was my day to look for clues. I booted the computer, and picked up one of the automotive magazines. It was dated April, 2007, a month before Mackey's death. Since there was no address label on the magazine, I decided that he must have picked it up at a newsstand.

I was leafing through the magazine when I heard a voice.

"Hello, is anyone here?" It was Nancy Dickens.

"I'm up here."

She was dressed meticulously. Should I tell her that she looked nice? The white pleated skirt outlined her legs when she moved, and the silk blouse hinted that the bra was a darker shade of green. Her hair had been brushed to a bright sheen. I suspected that she smelled good, too.

"Are you going to a party, Nancy?"

She bristled and blushed at the same time. "I stopped by to see if you have something for me to do. My shift is from noon until eight PM today."

"Your shift?"

"I told you that I have a job. I work at the library."

"Oh, I didn't know you worked there. I thought you were merely representing the friends of the library."

"I've been the assistant librarian for ten years. I'm not a member of the group that call themselves the friends of the library. I begged them to let me represent their interest in the Peoples' estate. I told them that I could be tough, but I now realize that I've been unreasonably critical of your methods. I'm sorry that I questioned the expenses you wanted to spend, and I'm sorry that I criticized Paige for taking a few days off. God knows she's had her share of troubles."

"What do you mean?" I asked. Was Nancy talking about Ms. Kindle?

Nancy shifted from one foot to the other, making her thighs spread the pleats of her skirt. Her legs, from her knees down, were bare, and she was wearing white sandals. Should I offer the only chair to her?

"You don't know? I can't believe that you've been living in the same house for the better part of a week and she hasn't told you."

"She's a private person, and I guess I am too. We don't make it a practice of talking. She hasn't told me what?"

Nancy shifted her weight, watched me, and must have decided that I really didn't know. "Her husband was killed in a gangland slaying."

"Russell Kindle isn't her husband? When did the slaying take place?"

"I don't know who Russell Kindle is. Her husband was Peter or Patrick. I don't remember. Are you sure you didn't know?"

This changed everything. Paige Kindle was the widow of a man who had suffered a horrible death. Had he been a member of a gang? It was no wonder that she had been distrustful of me. Marian had made it worse by telling her that she was my girlfriend. Ms. Kindle didn't know that the mother of my children died in two thousand six. What must she think of me?

"I'm from hundreds of miles away. How would I know?"

"It happened about three years ago. The newspaper should be in our archives. I'll make a copy of the article for you, but you've got to do something for me, too."

"What's that?"

"They're nipping at my heels like a pack of starving wolves. They want to know how much the estate is worth. I've got to give them something soon, Brian."

"I assume you're speaking of the friends of the library?"

She nodded. "They're friends in name only."

"I can't give you an accurate figure until I speak to Mr. Nelson. For now, you can tell them that three percent of the estate will buy a lot of books, but there are some unknowns, such as the taxes we'll have to pay, and how well we'll do with the sale of the stock and the antiques."

Nancy left seemingly satisfied with my explanation. She promised to attach the newspaper article about the gangland slaying of Ms. Kindle's husband to an email. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said.

I searched Uncle Mackey's computer files, hoping to find an accounting of his and Elsie's finances, but found nothing along those lines. There were, however, letters and e-mail messages. The letters were mainly to magazine editors, and the e-mails were mainly from fans of his work. From one of the letters I learned that Uncle Mackey had worked for newspapers, he'd continued to write since his retirement.

There were two, four-drawer file cabinets. One was locked, and I couldn't find the key.

In the top drawer of the other file cabinet, I found files that would keep me busy for the rest of the day. There were invoices for everything we'd found in the barn. I was able to match the correct description with the automobile parts and the war memorabilia items.

Ms. Whitney called, saying that Mr. Nelson wanted to make sure that I had everything in place to have a successful silent auction. I assured her that we were ready. I then told her about Nancy Dickens' request that I provide the friends of the library an estimate of the estate's value. She assured me that she would consult the attorney, but it might be the following week before she could let me know.

I thanked her, but as we said goodbye, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was left with. Her soft voice vibrated in my ears. She always sounded like she was about to climax. I was reminded of the way her lips looked...kissable.

It wasn't ten minutes before she called again. "Mr. Nelson cautions that you minimize the amount of information you give the other representatives of the heirs. I'll be happy to stop by and help you format a very conservative report."

By a conservative report, I assumed she meant to keep some of the accounts in reserve, something I was perfectly capable of doing. I couldn't form the words to discourage her from dropping by. She was on her way before I returned the receiver to its cradle.

I went downstairs to wait for Ms. Whitney to arrive. Was she married? I'd been so busy peeking at the small amount of exposed cleavage that I'd not paid any attention to her ring finger.

I was entering the account balances that I could remember into my laptop when she came through the door. I paid particular attention to her left hand, and saw a large diamond. I turned the screen for her to see the numbers I'd entered.

U.S. Treasury notes: 420; stock value: 300; bank certificates of deposit: 200; checking account: 70; retirement accounts: 50.

"Those numbers are in hundreds of thousands. The treasury notes mature in the amount of twenty thousand dollars per month; the stock value is as of yesterday, the bank certificates mature by June 2008. One of the checkbooks is missing, but I hope to find it, Mackey and Elsie had drawn down on their retirement accounts," I said, realizing that I'd been talking fast because Ms. Whitney was leaning down to see the screen. Her blouse was open at the front, and the long fingernails on her left hand were tapping on my thigh, as if she were adding the numbers as I quoted them.

"That's over a million dollars," she said in the same soft voice I'd heard when she was talking on the phone. Only now, her body was inches from mine, and her perfume was in my nostrils.

"Yes and those numbers do not include the furniture or the collections in the barn and the basement. There are also the antique automobiles and the house," I said, conscious that I was still talking faster than normal.

She turned her head and gazed into my eyes. Our lips were three inches apart. She was practically begging to be kissed. I tried to concentrate as I watched her lips move.

"You've been away from home for a week. It must be hard for you to be separated from your wife," Ms. Whitney said, emphasizing hard.

I was tempted. God! How I was tempted to put my finger into the crevice between her breasts, and pull the bra toward me. Her lips would be soft and yielding. There would be no resistance as I peeled the skirt and blouse off, and lay her on my sleeping blanket. She would raise her ass to permit me to lower her panties, and she would whimper when my tongue parted the lips of her pussy. I would feel her hands on the back of my head, and when she released it, I would look up at her to see that she'd removed the bra. Her nipples would be pointing upward, and her eyes would be smoldering.

I heard an intake of air, and that's when I remembered the large diamond on her left hand.

Ms. Whitney must have gotten tired of bending over, or she may have given up on being kissed. Perhaps she remembered that she was married. She straightened her body, and moved her hand from my thigh to my shoulder. From the pressure she was putting on my shoulder, I wondered if she was unsteady on her feet. She cleared her throat.

"Mr. Nelson suggests that you provide only minimal information to the representatives of the heirs."

I wondered if she knew that she'd just repeated what she'd told me on the phone. "In other words, I should withhold information."

She moved away from me. "I didn't say that. Give them the conservative picture. You don't know how much will be realized from the stock. You also need to be prepared for contingencies."

"I understand," I said, wondering how much it would cost to connect the house to town water.

"I wish you success tomorrow, and I hope you have a pleasant Labor Day, Mr. Driver."

"Thank you, Ms. Whitney."

She looked me up and down, giving me a final once over, before she walked out the door. I watched her until she was sitting inside her car. She had her hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. Was that a shudder of her entire body that I saw?

I hurried back upstairs and opened the second drawer on the file cabinet. The original copy of Uncle Mackey's magazine articles were in order by the date they were submitted. I thumbed through the folders, and decided to return to drawer number two later.

Drawer number three contained his World War Two military service record. From letters to his family, which had been preserved all these years, I learned that when war was declared on Japan, he was a twenty-one-year-old college senior. He enlisted almost immediately, and was inducted in February 1942. His letters described the army as 'hurry up and wait.' He finished boot camp the same day his classmates were getting their diplomas.

After boot camp, Private Peoples was made an instructor to new inductees. At first, his letters home were quite humorous. He wrote that in one day, he had introduced young men to recognize tear gas, operated a contrary movie projector, and held a class on the risks associated with venereal diseases. He soon became a Private First Class. After a year at the same duty station, his letters became cynical. He had requested a transfer and was turned down. He was instead promoted to Corporal. During the next year, he applied to attend radio school, and when his application was denied, he requested paratrooper school. He was promoted to Sergeant and told that he was too valuable to lose in his present position.

In September, 1944, he got his wish and was transferred to an infantry unit that was training for deployment. But first, he was granted a furlough. On his fifth day at home, he met Elsie Driver, a twenty-two year old beauty, who was a recent college graduate. Twenty days later, when it was time for him to leave, he had not only fallen in love, he'd proposed marriage to Elsie and they'd had sexual intercourse four times. She turned down his proposal, but promised to write to him every day.

A photo album caught my attention. There were pictures from his early days in the army, followed by the furlough when he met Elsie. They looked young and happy, but the next group of pictures showed him wearing hospital pajamas and leaning on a set of crutches. He was smiling, but looked much older than the summer before when he and Elsie had hammed it up at a picnic.

It was late in the day when I realized that I was hungry. I don't know what made me want to open the bottom drawer. I took a small bundle of letters downstairs, intending to explore their contents while I ate some of Ms. Kindle's chicken.

But the letters would have to wait. There were phone calls to make, and email to answer. There was a message from Ms. Dickens with a newspaper article attached.

I told everyone the same thing; we were making good progress, but there was still a lot to do. When I went to bed, the letters were sitting on the kitchen table, bound together with a strand of fading, pink ribbon. Nor had I downloaded the newspaper article about the slaying of Ms. Kindle's husband.

Charlie was the first to report for work. I ask him to help me take pictures of the antique automobiles. We opened the barn doors, stripped the drop cloths off the old cars, and took shots from every angle.

On our way back to the house, I told Charlie about my find. "Mackey had invoices describing every purchase he made, and that includes the war memorabilia," I said.

Ms. Dickens was there, looking stunning in a summer blazer, shirt with a wide collar, short pants, and what looked like nurse's shoes. With the exception of the shoes, the outfit was the color of beach sand. I let her watch me fill out the bid for the game table before I placed it in an envelope and handed it to her.

"Are you sure you want to pay that much for a table?" she asked.

I assured her that I was serious about buying it, and she wished me good luck.

Mr. McMahan was dressed casually, but Nadine Meriwether showed up wearing a long skirt, colorful blouse, and oversized jewelry. The dangling earrings extended to her shoulders, and the beads in her necklace were one inch in diameter.

I put Mr. McMahan to work assembling the collections of antique scales and whirl-a-gigs we'd agreed to use to occupy dealers while they waited to come inside the house.

"What if they want to buy one of the scales or whirl-a-gigs?" Ms. Meriwether asked.

"Explain that we're planning to advertise those items on eBay, and that we're merely using them to keep the antique dealers busy while they're waiting."

"I'll keep them busy," Ms. Meriwether said, hiking her long skirt to reveal fish netting covered ankles.

"I'll bet you will."

A total of twelve dealers showed up, but two of them were husband and wife teams so that meant that one of the eleven dealers had decided not to come.

Ms. Dickens greeted everyone with the same pleasant, but brief message, telling them to take their time, but to be considerate of those waiting to bid.

My attention was divided between the living room and the dining room, particularly watching the visitors inspect the game table and the contents of the hutch.

Seeing an incredible amount of interest in the game table, I printed a statement, which I attached to the table, declaring that one of the members of the distribution committee had placed a bid for it. Several of the dealers discovered that the drawer extended from one side of the table to the other, but I only saw one person look on the underside to read the inscription Mackey's mother had made.

I spoke to each of the dealers on their way out the door, collected their bid forms, and answered their questions. One man handed back a blank form, saying that none of the rubbish was worth bidding on. I thanked him for coming.

Two of the dealers wanted to know what authority we had to sell the contents of the house. I gave them copies of my credentials. Several people wanted more information about the antique automobiles, and one guy begged me to sell him some of the whirl-a-gigs.

As I collected the forms, I entered the bids into a spreadsheet. When the last dealer dropped off his form, I noticed that many of them were waiting for the results of their bids. Nadine Meriwether was doing her best to entertain them. I quickly circled the winning bids on the forms and added the total amount for each dealer.

There seemed to be a pattern in the bidding. The high bid for each item was always much higher than the other bids for that item. In almost every case, the winning bidder had fallen in love with the furniture. The exception was my bid for the game table. My bid of one thousand, seventy-three dollars was only seventy-three dollars above the next bid.

I called the dealers inside, one at a time, to settle up, and then Mr. McMahan and Charlie helped them move their purchases outside to their van or truck. .

The bid form clearly stated that only cash, good checks or bank drafts would be accepted as payment. The winning bidder for the dining room furniture submitted a credit card. I explained that we had not made arrangements to accept that means of payment. At first he stalled, and then he threatened to leave. It became obvious to me that he did not have the funds to write a check. I desperately wanted to accept his bid because it was double the amount of the next one.

I called Ms. Shaffer, the lady at the bank who had been so helpful in getting the utility companies to cooperate with our plea to have their services resumed. The way Ms. Shaffer remembered me made me proud that I'd phoned to thank her for her help. She said to send the dealer to the bank. I told him to see Ms. Shaffer, and he returned twenty minutes later with the cash.

The couple that bought the furniture in the downstairs bedroom wanted to know the amount of my bid for the game table. I told them the number, and the lady chastised her husband for making their bid one thousand dollars. "Mackey Peoples was a famous writer. We could have easily gotten two thousand dollars for that table," she said.

"There were no bids for the two chairs that Mackey's father gave him. I'll let you have them for one hundred dollars each," I offered, and the lady said that she would write the check while I helped her husband carry the dressing table out to their van.

I had no expectations as to what we could realize from the sale. Some items had exceeded the amount that I would have paid for them while I felt that we had given other pieces of furniture away. Everything had been picked up except the leather covered pieces in the living room and a bed in one of the bedrooms.

When all the dealers were gone, I announced the total receipts, and was surprised by the cheer that followed.

We congratulated each other on doing a good job. Thinking that I would raid the cookie jar, I offered to take everyone to lunch, but they all said they had plans. Even Charlie was going out the door when we heard it; the float in the expansion tank was calling for water, but the pump was not responding.

"Shit!" I said. Charlie said he would get his toolbox and be right back.

We worked on the pump until midnight without success. We were tired, dirty, and hadn't stopped for anything to eat. I sliced chicken and made sandwiches, which we ate with a beer.

"Charlie, would you be interested it having Uncle Mackey's tools?" I asked.

As tired as he was, I saw his eyes light up. That was enough for me. "I want you to have them, but we'll have to put it to a vote. Ms. Kindle has already said that she will vote with me."

"I couldn't accept them unless the vote was ninety-seven to zero," he said.

"Leave it to me," I said, confident that I could persuade the other three to agree to let Charlie have the tools. They'd all seen how much of his time he had contributed, hadn't they?"

Charlie left, saying that he would be back bright and early the next day. I was hesitant about returning her call, but desire to talk to Henrietta won out.

"You took long enough to call me. Have you been on a date?" she asked.

I told her that I was sorry if I had woken her, and proceeded to tell her about my day. "I had an urge to hear your voice before I go to bed."