Legacy of Silence

“Ouch!”

“To what? The demise of his character?”

Brooks chuckled. “Well, I was thinking more in terms of you seeing Mr. Spencer again. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“Not a problem. I’m fine. Truly. The bust-up wasn’t all that dramatic. Plus, I’ve been concentrating on how to avoid getting into a huge fight with my fellow claimant or legatee or inheritee or whatever word works. I’m also discovering some very interesting things about Miss Virginia’s life before she came to Birmingham.”

She told Brooks about the house and about Jason Devere’s revelations regarding Benjamin Auttenberg.

Brooks listened attentively. “Intriguing. Although I wonder why she would hide priceless pieces of art?”

Miranda shook her head. “They might not be hidden. They might not actually exist.”

“So, what’s the skinny on this other claimant?”

Miranda paused. “He’s...as intriguing as the house.”

Brooks’s left eyebrow shot up. “Oh?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Come on, girl, give it up.”

Miranda told her agent all about meeting Russ her first day at the house “I have no idea how he ended up in Virginia’s second will and I’m extremely curious to find out. If he was that close to her, why didn’t he and I meet years ago?”

“Because you’ve been in New York or on tour for six years?”

“Good point. Anyway, Russ appears to be very smart.” She paused. “There’s a warmth and humor behind his sarcasm. I could see it in his eyes, which are a fabulous dark hazel. But what’s truly sad is that he can’t hear his own voice. It’s like hot liquid honey. Really rich baritone.”

Brooks grinned. “You do realize that your own lilting alto just savored every bit of that honey and now you’re turning the color of your hair?”

His cell phone rang as Miranda was hiding her face in her napkin pretending to mop up a trail of hot ’n’ spicy sauce. “Hang on, Miranda.”

She politely stayed silent while he was on the phone—finishing up two crab rangoons and her bowl of wontons and thinking about topics that could steer the conversation away from Mr. Gerik.

Brooks hung up and clinked his teacup against hers. “You don’t need a fortune cookie today. You got it! Congrats!”

“What?”

“I’m glad you’re sitting. That, my pet, was Wendy Konstanza. She loved you. The suits loved you. She said you were the ultimate superspy! She’s sending contracts to my office this afternoon and filming starts right after the Fourth of July.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_404e67f2-a56e-54cf-91db-65cecb5b2bf2)

“NOWADAYS, MOST OF the casting for Broadway, film and television is done by casting directors,” Miranda explained. This was the fourth man who’d asked if she’d been on Broadway and/or TV and/or movies. She felt as though she were on a late-night talk show and wondered precisely why so many gentlemen were displaying such an interest in show business. The questions had been the same. How does the audition process work? Does one need an agent? Do you know anyone famous? What’s the pay like? Do you get residuals for any TV show you do? Are you really going to be in a spy movie?

Bachelor number four, a Mr. George Miller, smiled as he placed a business card into her hands. “I can’t help with theatrical productions but if you need a real estate agent, I’m your man.”

Miranda smiled, stifling a scream, and hoped Farrah’s seating arrangement wouldn’t place her next to any of the men who’d offered her their cards and services. So far she’d spoken to a real estate agent—“Watch out for Brewster’s Realtors—totally shady.” From the accountant—“I’d be happy to help you this tax season. Stay away from Brewster’s Consultants—totally shady. Here’s my card.” A landscaper—“No, of course I don’t do the yard work personally. I have people for that. Oh, by the way, stay away from Brewster’s Landscaping. Totally shady.” And an engineer—“You’ll need top-notch inspection services before you sell, but stay away from Paulsen’ Professional Inspectors—they’re crooks. Here’s my card.” Miranda had been happy to know that Brewster wasn’t the only shady character in Birmingham. Each of the four gentlemen had mentioned that he was single and interested in Miranda—as a potential client or a date. She wasn’t sure in which order the interest was strongest and she didn’t care. Miranda felt as though she’d entered a bizarre land where speed dating had merged with advertising. She didn’t like it.

Miranda glanced around the Nolan living room, seeking escape. The other three wannabe suitors were huddled together about six feet away. Miranda could hear snatches of “he should have been picked in the first round draft. What the heck were they thinking?” and assumed football was the primary topic of conversation. She grinned for the first time that evening. She was definitely back in Alabama, where football was always the primary topic of conversation. Miranda spotted two couples conversing in the far corner of the room, but she hadn’t been introduced and didn’t feel comfortable intruding.

Farrah waved at her from the opposite side of the room, where she was chatting with Tim, Dave Brennan and the unanticipated duo of Cort Farber and Brett King.

Miranda shook hands with George, murmured something about having to discuss plans for an upcoming trip with her father then headed over to the fireplace to join the attorneys. Her dad and Dave were enjoying a heated discussion that appeared to be centered around the stupidity of hiring a new offensive line coach for the Crimson Tide, so she addressed Brett first. “Mr. King? I’m surprised to see you. Aren’t you deep in the enemy camp here?’

He chuckled. “Nah. Cort and I went to law school together. We happened to be having lunch together when Farrah called. I wangled an invite.”

Cort winked at Miranda. “I had to offer him something. He was extremely depressed after hearing that his favorite greyhound lost at the races. Not to mention he’s still sulking because our firm won a different contested will and I take great delight in repeatedly telling him he’s going to lose Miss Virginia’s case, as well. We’ve got a much stronger claim.”

Dave broke off his chat with Tim Nolan, frowned at his young associate and turned to address Miranda “I can’t discuss the inheritance with Mr. King at my shoulder, but I wondered if you and Mr. Gerik had been able to make any plans for the inventory process. I’d also like to apologize for the whole business turning chaotic thanks to Judge Rayborn. He’s quite the character. Likes folks to think he’s eccentric but there are many in the legal community who say he borders on nutcase. When I’m around his friends I stick to the word charming.”

Miranda grinned. “I’m in theater, Dave. I’ve met more than my share of offbeat characters—in scripts and off stage. As to the inventory, I’m going to sort everything into piles and tag it all with stickies that read recycling, charity, keep for now and the ever enjoyable dump as fast as you can.” She paused before adding, “Of course, this needs to be ironed out with my adversary.”

“Ah, yes. When are y’all getting together?” Dave asked.

“Tonight at nine. Just a prelim, but I can’t wait to get a closer look at the house.” Miranda didn’t mention that her anticipation at starting on the inventory kept centering on Mr. Gerik, rather than the objects at Virginia’s.

Farrah suddenly interjected, “What kind of price do you think you can get for the house?” She smiled at Brett. “Assuming she ends up the winner.”

The response came from George Miller, who’d managed to plant himself behind Miranda. “A good one. The market is bouncing back, and that house is a gem. Two-story, four bedrooms, three baths, a huge living room plus a parlor, which we now call a bonus room. There’s a usable attic, gorgeous trees all around the property and a deck in the back that only needs a little sealant to get it into shape. There’s even a storm cellar. I’d suggest an estate sale first...”

George glanced at Brett, which made Miranda wonder what the Realtor knew about the two wills.

“Whoever inherits, that is. You know, I’d imagine there’s a ton of antiques in that place,” George continued. “I’ve heard the piano alone is worth several thousand. Do you or Gerik have an appraiser yet?”

The lust in his voice made Miranda queasy. She spoke up before George could continue his verbal tour of the Radinski property. “I’m sure we can find one when the time comes. Now—no offense, y’all—can we change the subject? This all seems rather ghoulish to me since Miss Virginia has been dead less than a month. And from the very little I’ve read in her journal, she did not have a pleasant life.”

“What do you mean?” Cort asked.

“Oh.” Miranda immediately wished she’d kept silent but said, “Well...to begin with, she was in a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Her husband was killed there. Horrible.”

Tim winced. “No wonder she was so reclusive and seemed to prefer the company of children. Most of them don’t learn how to hate until they reach adolescence.”

“That’s a gloomy thought,” Dave said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Tim glanced at his daughter. “I feel woefully ignorant. I honestly didn’t know there were camps in the Czech Republic.”

Miranda nodded. “You’re not the only one who was clueless. I didn’t, either. I looked up Terezin online after I saw the name in her journal. It was very close to Prague, and it housed a lot of artists and musicians. Sounds almost nice, doesn’t it? Yet the death rate at that place was...” She swallowed. “So many talented people who lost their lives...” She smiled wanly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this up. Miss Virginia’s spirit seems to be accompanying me everywhere.”

Farrah quickly became the good hostess. “Well, let’s hope her spirit leads you to some of her old recipe books. Tim has told me about the baked goods she used to share with everyone in that neighborhood. If you could find her kolache recipe I’d be the only caterer in the city who could deliver authentic Czech pastries.” She smiled. “I know there’s no way you’ll attempt to bake them.” Her tone changed almost imperceptibly, but Miranda swore she caught a whiff of superiority as Farrah added, “Miranda is the world’s worst cook. I’m hoping to get her to the point where she doesn’t have to exist on takeout once she’s back in Manhattan.”

Miranda gritted her teeth but casually said, “Might as well give that up as a lost cause. My schedule is usually too wacky for me to attempt making home-cooked meals. But Farrah, you’ll be pleased to know that I already found one recipe book in the short time I was in Virginia’s house. I’ll do my best to make sure you get it, even if I have to beg Russ Gerik to sell it to me. At any rate, I definitely don’t have use for it apart from reading, salivating and remembering devouring some of those goodies years ago.”

Farrah frowned. The men didn’t seem to notice any tension and began discussing Birmingham’s best restaurants. The debate over which local barbecue joint served the juiciest ribs and the closest to homemade biscuits was still raging when Farrah announced that dinner was ready and asked the guests to be seated in the formal dining room.

Dave Brennan offered Miranda his arm and led the way to the table. He pulled out a chair for her and quietly said, “Farrah Myers Nolan is a very fine chef and her catering business is taking Birmingham by storm. She appears to truly adore your father. That being said, she doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with a grown stepdaughter. My wife, Nancy, could certainly give her a few tips on mothering. I credit her with raising all five of our kids to be reasonably productive members of society who still feel free to come to us for advice and support. The most important thing—what Farrah needs to learn—is that you shouldn’t push.”

Miranda sank back against her chair. When Dave took his own seat next to her, she whispered, “Feel free to repeat that advice to my dad so he can deter Farrah from planning further ‘let’s find a date for Miranda’ parties. I’m not interested. Right now, I want to focus on doing the inventory with Mr. Gerik.”