Read Online Grave Deeds by Betsy Struthers - Free Book Online Page A

I asked.
    Before he could answer, Hunter spoke, “Mr. Markham arrived a minute ago. Mr. Ross will be getting impatient.” He opened the outer door and unfurled an enormous black umbrella.
    â€œI’ll come with you,” Markham moved to follow me out the door.
    Hunter barred his way. “Mr. Ross’s business is with Mrs. Cairns alone. He won’t be happy to see you here. He might start asking questions.”
    Whatever threat was implied in that statement was sufficient to make Markham back down.
    â€œI’ll wait here then,” he muttered. He leaned against the wall of mail boxes, his eyes on his feet. I was going to let him into the lobby where he could perch on one of the orange naugahyde chairs the superintendent kept forgetting to dust, but had no time to unlock the door for him.
    â€œThis way, Ma’am.” Hunter’s pressure on my elbow steered me out and across the sidewalk. The door opened and I was pushed politely but firmly into the back seat. Hunter remained outside, his back to the car, the umbrella casting a deep shade over him.
    So this was what the inside of a limousine looked like. The long seat was upholstered in gray leather; gray carpeting covered the floors, walls, and ceiling. Under the tinted window that divided the front of the car from the back was a long console flanked by two smaller leather seats, both facing backwards. The console held a telephone, a small television, and a silver tray with a cut glass decanter which looked nearly full of amber liquid, probably scotch whiskey, and two glasses. A round silver bowl held a pot pourri of dried roses whose scent vied with the pervasive odor of Vicks Vaporub. All the comforts of home, I thought. When I sat, my rubber raincoat squeaked against the leather.
    Mr. Ross coughed. In spite of the warm spring rain, he was still bundled in his fur-collared coat and hat. A long plaid scarf had been wrapped around his neck so that only his eyes and the tip of his nose peeked forth. The way he sat hunched over his cane reminded me irresistibly of Alistair Sims as Scrooge. I wondered what role I had to play: Tiny Tim, or the beggar girl in the snow.
    â€œMrs. Cairns,” he nodded at me, “good of you to come down to see me. I find it difficult getting in and out of the car. Rheumatism.” He thumped his stick on the floor.
    â€œI was sorry that Mrs. Baker didn’t have a funeral. I would have liked to say good-bye to her.”
    â€œShe had requested that there be no funeral. Under the circumstances, it was best that everything was kept quiet.”
    â€œI would have liked to go.”
    He shifted uneasily in his place. “I brought this over foryou. It’s what you’re waiting for, I imagine.”
    He lifted one hand from his stick and reached over to the console, aiming for a yellow legal size envelope next to the tray. It was too far; I was afraid he’d topple over.
    â€œI’ll get it,” I murmured.
    He sank back.
    The envelope was thick with papers. My name was written on it in the shaky, cursive script that I’d last seen on my aunt’s invitation.
    â€œIt’s from Beatrice,” the old man said. “The deed is in there, and a map, and the key. It’s all yours.”
    â€œI don’t have to sign anything?”
    He shook his head. “The proper enquiries have been made. You are who you say you are. Who I know you are.”
    I felt the hard ridges of the key under my fingers. Family property: I wondered if there would be pictures there. That reminded me. “Mr. Ross, did my aunt have children of her own? Do I have any cousins?”
    â€œNo concern of yours,” he snapped. “The place is yours and everything in it.”
    â€œI’d really like to know,” I pleaded. “All those pictures in her house: what’s happened to them? And all her things?”
    He blew out his breath. “Questions, questions. Worse than an old