Legacy of Silence

Miranda wanted to ask if his hearing loss was permanent. Did he have partial hearing? Was he getting any kind of medical treatment? For that matter, was he getting counseling for post-traumatic stress? But she wasn’t up for another confrontation, so she turned her back on Russ and addressed Henry. “Before I get told off again would you mind asking him to move the bed a few inches over? I’d prefer being able to vacuum back there before the dust bunnies start going on Easter egg hunts.”

Henry smiled. “No problem.” He immediately began signing Miranda’s request. Russ shifted the bed with ease, then, with an odd smile, he signed something to Henry.

“What did he say?”

“Loosely translated, ‘Fine, and it’s not going to matter anyway.’”

“What does that mean?”

“No clue.”

The doorbell rang before Miranda had a chance to ask anything else. She wove her way through boxes, chairs, floor lamps and at least three side tables before finally reaching the front of the house.

She pulled the door open. Two young men dressed in white shirts and black trousers smiled at her. They were both extremely clean-cut blonds with blue eyes. “Miranda Nolan?” asked the taller of the two.

“That’s me.”

The man handed her a card as he said, “I’m Brett King. Associate at Henniger and Waltham. Sorry to do this, but I’m here to issue an injunction.”

“Excuse me?”

The shorter man scowled. “Good grief, Brett! Think you can ease into this just a bit? Hi, Ms. Nolan. I’m Cort Farber. I’m an associate at Brennan and Driscoll, the firm handling Miss Radinski’s estate.”

“The firm that was handling the estate,” King stated firmly

Cort coughed. “Handling, Brett. As in present tense. Remember? We were both just in court establishing exactly that.”

Miranda blinked. “I’m so sorry. I’m beyond confused here. Two different firms vying to be executors? Do I get to choose or something? Do y’all get commissions?”

Cort sighed. “I wish. Look, may we come in?” He handed Miranda his card, as well.

The cards seemed legitimate, as did the attorneys. She opened the door a bit wider and gestured toward the disaster on the right that was the living room.

“I’m not exactly set up for business calls right now but if y’all can find a chair that isn’t covered in Miss Virginia’s belongings or cat hair, go for it.”

“We’re not staying long so don’t worry,” Cort said. He glanced around the room. “Wow. You’ve got your work cut out for you. It’s like a high-class thrift store in here. Did you know Miss Virginia had thirteen cats in this house? She found homes for all of them before she passed away. Once she went into the hospital she knew she wasn’t going to be able to live here again.” He shook his head. “She must have had incredible persuasive powers.”

“I hadn’t seen Miss Virginia in six years,” Miranda said, “but I can tell you she always had the ability to charm people into doing things they were originally determined not to do. Which is odd, really. She was such a hermit and— Sorry. I’m rattling on. So, what exactly is the deal here? Why do I have two firms?”

“You don’t,” Brett quickly replied. “I represent another claimant.”

Miranda’s jaw dropped. “Another claimant? I thought everything was settled.”

Brett appeared a bit irritated. “This is all extremely disorganized and I apologize. I’ve been out of town for the past two weeks so I didn’t realize Ms. Radinski had passed away. My paralegal—who’s about to be canned for incompetence—didn’t call me. I drew up a will for Ms. Radinski right after Dave Brennan and Cort drafted the old one. You were not named in the new will apart from inheriting some of her possessions like the piano and a few personal odds and ends. The point is, I have an injunction removing you from living in the house.”

Miranda sank down into the closest chair. “Okay... This is just...terrific. I don’t get a whiff of this until I’m moving in? Couldn’t someone have contacted me while I was still in Manhattan so I could have saved a trip?” She sighed. “Oh, never mind. So, what’s the next step?”

Cort shot Brett a glance that was less than friendly. “We’re so sorry about the bad timing. Dave thought we’d have this straightened out before you flew down. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Now, what Brett failed to mention is that our firm has no intention of allowing this second will to stand. Dave and I are challenging its validity. I was here with him the day Miss Virginia signed the will naming you her sole heir—”

“Cort, you’re stalling,” Brett said. “Get on with it.”

“If you’ll quit interrupting and let me get a full sentence out, it would help! Ms. Nolan, the Brennan firm is contesting this so-called new will. You can’t live here for the time being, but you’ll still be cataloguing the possessions. The catch is you have to do the inventory with the second claimant. I personally think it’s ridiculous, but Judge Winston Rayborn, the nutcase who issued the injunction, thinks this is a fair and reasonable solution.”

“The locks will be changed after you leave today,” Brett added. “The keys will be provided to you and my client once you’ve made arrangements for doing the inventory. Paralegals from our offices will pick the keys up each time you finish. That way no one can sneak back in. It’s tricky and annoying but that’s the judge’s ruling.”

Miranda bit her lip. She’d gone from inheritor to homeless to accused thief, all within the past ten minutes. For a split second she contemplated flying right back to Manhattan, but her spine stiffened and she realized she was going to fight this. She wanted Virginia’s house.

Cort gave her a reassuring wink. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going to deal with this and you’ll be living here in no time.”

Miranda finally had enough presence of mind to say, “I didn’t think Miss Virginia had any relatives. Who’s this pesky other claimant?”

Brett gestured behind her. Miranda turned. Russ Gerik had entered the living room and was standing beside the piano as though it were his. He smiled at Miranda.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8b2a6543-ad15-5903-a9ca-43fab3d35c67)

“BROOKS, YOU ARE the most incredible agent in the history of show business, but this is nuts! I just got here,” Miranda groaned. “On the other hand here didn’t end up being where I thought it was.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Never mind. I’m currently at my Dad’s—which means I’m also at Farrah’s—instead of sleeping in my brand-new bed at Virginia’s house. Two days so far.” She shuddered. “She’s trying to teach me to cook.”

Brooks howled. “I’d buy tickets to see Ms. Miranda Nolan in the kitchen! But this is more important. I swear. So book a flight and get up here—like yesterday. You’re perfect for this role. Wendy Konstanza is casting and she specifically requested that you read for the part of Miami Montreville, superspy. I gather she caught your stellar performance in Illumination and was impressed. And Miranda, this is a one shot deal. They’re not doing callbacks. You’re looking at a major film and consequently a major career booster. You won’t need a house in Birmingham—you can buy an apartment in Manhattan if this comes through.”

Miranda was still reeling from the news that one of the best casting directors in the business wanted her to audition. “Konstanza asked for me? Really?”

“She did. So quit whining, take a red-eye and be ready to knock ’em dead Thursday. I’m emailing you sides and as much character analysis as the skimpy sheet provided,” Brooks Tanner practically growled into the phone. “Someday I’m going to revolutionize the entire industry by demanding that in-depth casting breakdowns become the norm.”

Miranda chuckled. “Dream on, darlin’ dream on. Agents from the days of vaudeville have tried and failed. Okay. I’m already online. I’ll see what I can find for cheap flights and get there tomorrow sometime. Give me the details and maybe we can squeeze in a little agent/actress coffee while I’m in town. Wait. Scratch that. Let’s make it a meal at China Tan’s. I need hot ’n’ spicy anything with peanut sauce on it.” She chuckled. “And a fortune cookie reading, Nice Job! Movie Yours!”

“It’s a date,” Brooks said. “Now go pack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER Miranda was in a Manhattan studio smiling at five men in suits who were apparently producers and the only other woman in the room—Wendy Konstanza. Miranda had just taken a big breath and was ready to read her lines opposite the bored production assistant when a curve ball came sailing past home base.

In the less than twenty-four hours since Brooks had called her, the producers of The Agency (precisely which agency not specified and hopefully non-existent in the real world) had begun to consider options for the character Miranda was reading for, a spy with the unlikely but entertaining name of Miami Montreville. The original script (and the sides) had called for Miami to die.

But the producers and screenwriters were obviously thinking “sequel” and hadn’t decided whether to let Miami miraculously survive what any sane person would consider certain death.

Now, instead of a scripted death scene, Miranda was plunged into the land of “wake up, realize you’re alive and escape,” which translated into “improvise, Miranda.” The character breakdown hadn’t included much of the plot for The Agency apart from, “Miami Montreville, female spy, dies in Indonesia while on a mission.” Miranda wasn’t terribly familiar with the geography of Indonesia but she knew Jakarta was a big city and big cities have restaurants and shopping malls so she figured those would be great places for a resurrected spy to duck into and find a cell phone some poor tourist had carelessly left on the table. Miranda idly wondered if plans were being made for an actual location shoot in Jakarta, hopefully during winter months, but she shelved that thought for later.

All was going well. Wendy liked Miranda’s improv and the guys in suits gulping coffee nodded a lot during Miranda’s attempts to come up with outrageous lines spoken into an imaginary cell phone.

Then came the final twist.

Wendy held up her hand. “Miranda? Nice job. But we’d like to see a little interaction with another human.” She gestured to her assistant, who opened a door and ushered in an actor. Miranda nearly shouted, He’s not human! He’s a rodent!

Grant Spencer stepped inside the studio. He appeared to be as stunned as Miranda.