The way to the cottage lead through the village of Chippewa Falls. The self-effacing little shops of my youth had been razed and replaced with the garish homogenization of chain stores and fast-food restaurants. I stopped for provisions at a surviving grocery store and drove on.
The modest lakeside cottage my grandfather built was as I remembered, overlaid with the patina of pine needle neglect that a vacant home gets in the woods. I did a quick walk through, noticing some mouse droppings. The electricity had been turned back on for me and I plugged in laptop and hot spot phone and caught up. There was a message from a local lawyer asking if he could stop by the next day, I confirmed the meeting, my litigious antennae quivering.
Then I called my brother.
“Sammy, me. The place is pretty much as you would remember it, just a little neglected since uncle Pete hadn’t lived here for a year.”
“Hey John. So you made it back there. Listen, thanks again. The other seven cousins I know appreciate having a licensed lawyer handling uncle Pete’s estate.”
He was gentle enough not to mention that I could also handle things because I was without a job.
“Yeah, it’s a shame none of us are willing to take on the place. Although, it would be a masochistic love affair– the bones of the cottage seem sound but it needs a lot of prettifying.”
“There’s a couple of us who’ll cringe at a big repair bill.”
I laughed. “Getting agreement on paying for improvements will be like negotiating with the North Koreans. Still, the place has to be habitable for us to sell it.”
Sammy paused. “Not to sound greedy, but what’s your guess on the value of the overall estate?”
“House and investments a little over four million. Less a hundred thousand in expenses and my executor’s fee.”
“That lets me pay for a couple college educations. Are you still doing okay, bro?”
“As good as it gets.” Which was a lie, because I was still frequently Jonsing.
After we hung up, I went down to the lake. The water was higher than I remembered, and preseason cold. I changed into my bathing suit, found a fusty smelling but apparently clean towel and went for a swim.
I retreated after fifteen minutes. My forties body and fifty-five-degree water weren’t copasetic. There was a full-length mirror on the upstairs landing, and I shucked my bathing suit and stared at myself. A little gaunt from bad eating habits and too much coke, but hopefully salvageable.
Dinner was a quick pasta al forno and salad. As I got ready for bed I noticed a light on two cottages down the beach. The old Fayerweather place. Somebody else was here too early.
That next morning two different contractors came out to the cottage to give it a look see and begin to calculate cost of repairs. It was depressing. They both gave initial indications in the fat five figures.
Then I went back into town to buy the groceries I’d forgotten and to verify with the town clerk about the existence of a deed and the lack of a mortgage. I allowed myself a draft beer at the glorified corner tavern, reaffirming that the local brew was still piss. There was a guy in a corner booth who looked like my old dealer. I tried to ignore him.
Once back on Mullet Beach I drive two cottages further along from ours, got out of the car, and knocked on the back door. A woman opened it and stared at me dubiously. “Yes?”
I knew her. “Maureen? Maureen Fayerweather?” We’d been close and I was tickled to see her.
“Yes?” In a flat tone.
“It’s John Reynolds. From just down the beach. We used to play together.”
“Johnny?” She looked me over, then grinned. “You are, aren’t you. A little balder, but maybe intact.”
I was also studying her. Her teenage pudgy had slimmed down to an angular shapely. She wore no makeup and her hair was in a bun, and she looked wholesomely good.
“We should catch up. Come on in, I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
I did. The Fayerweather ‘cottage’ really belonged in an upscale gated community– five bedrooms, four bathrooms, layered amenities. I’d had one of these but was still impressed. “You’ve made some improvements.”
She laughed. “Not me, my oldest brother who’s moved into a glorified assisted living place. I’m either a squatter or a caretaker depending on who you’re talking to.”
“So you live here year-round?”
“It’s rent free and I can work from anywhere, so I’m a slowly acclimating townie.”
Neither of us was wearing a wedding ring. I remembered a self-revealing game we used to play. “I’ll tell you about me if you tell me about you.”
Her lips puckered. “Do you want the cocktail party spin drift or the dirty secrets?”
“Gory details please.”
“I’ve had bad taste in men. Twice married, twice divorced. No children fortunately.” She shifted her position in her chair. “I picked up a BA and an MFA from the U of Michigan, and eventually set up a graphic design company that I sold about three years ago. Right now, I free-lance.”
I nodded. “I developed a couple bad habits that pushed my wife toward another man. I’ve never remarried.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t blame her.” I paused. “I did love her though. Anyway, BA and law degree, a career in one of the big business representation firms, then very early retirement.”
“Oh, health issues?”
I hesitated, but it was no secret. “I was the figurehead that got jettisoned in a corporate storm made worse by my using toot. Handsomely rewarded for going away.”
Her down turned lips were appealing. “I may have overused a bit myself. More coffee?”
“No thanks.” We exchanged some reminiscences and phone numbers and I left. Advocatus loci was waiting for me at our cottage. He had that lean and hungry look Shakespeare warns us about.
“John Reynolds? I’m Frank Andrews, the legal representative for Andrea Boudreaux.
“Bourdeaux who?”
“Ms. Boudreaux was the constant companion and confidant of the late Peter Charlton, and is suing for her deserved portion of his estate. Here are the papers I’m required to provide you.”
I had a brief full body inner jangling, then steadied down. “Mr. Andrews, I should tell you that there’s no mention of her in the will.”
“We have documentation and verification of their relationship and Mr. Charlton’s intent. for Ms. Boudreaux.
Andrews clearly had no idea what I’d been like to deal with as a lawyer, so I just smiled and accepted the papers without counter threats. Suffice it that my whispered corporate nickname had been Junkyard as in dog. After he left, I went in and read the paperwork. He’d made mistakes in the filing that I could use, but first things first.
As executor I had no choice but to notify the beneficiaries of the claim against the estate and what steps I would take to evaluate and perhaps contest it. Most of the steps, anyway. I sent off the email and awaited the electronic hand wringing to follow.
Then I made a call. “Al? Me. I’d like to use your expertise to investigate two Michigan locals. Interested?...
“I hoped you would be. Subject one is an Andrea Boudreaux. Subject two, her lawyer, is a mope named Frank Andrews. I’ll send you specifics on both. She was companion caregiver for a deceased relative of mine. I need to know everything about her, right down to when she farted in church as a child. In addition to all the dirt I need to know about her relationship with my uncle, abusive, loving, whatever….
“That’s extortionate, but if you get results, I’ll pay it. You can reach me at this number. Thanks Al.”
I whipped up a quick Croque Madame, ate it, and walked down to the Fayerweather cottage. Maureen’s car was there, and she responded to my second knock.
“Hi, now that we’re reintroduced, I’m hoping to draw on your local knowledge.”
She smiled but didn’t invite me in. “If I can, I’m not completely bonded with the locals.”
“I’m in a quandary. Uncle Pete’s companion apparently was Andrea Boudreaux. She’s claiming they were close and demanding a portion of the estate, although there’s nothing in the will about her. If she’s correct, I have to weigh going outside the terms of the will. If she’s not, I should fight it. How well did you know her?”
Maureen’s lips were pursed. She hesitated, then spoke measuredly. “I knew Pete pretty well. He was one of those rambunctious old men I feel comfortable around. But Andrea I know only by gossip. She’s been married three times I’m told and did well out of every divorce. That’s unkind, maybe, but I think true.”
about the author
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had about 7000 stories and poems published, and fourteen books. He's on the review board at Scribes Micro, and is the idle figurehead at Scribes Micro.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
No comments:
Post a Comment