“Actually, I don’t know that,” I said. “I only know what she was like with me, not what she was—”
“Listen to me, Riley. I was her dearest, oldest friend and she still wouldn’t tell me half the things that were going on with her. So the idea of her telling a woman she barely knew something that intimate is just plain silly.”
“I guess.” I felt only slightly relieved, especially with Jeannie admitting that my mother didn’t tell her everything. Maybe my mother’d had a weak moment, touched by Verniece’s pain, knowing she could say something to relieve it. Verniece was so sweet. I could understand how she might have inspired my mother to confide in her.
“Enough of that nonsense,” Jeannie said. She picked up a notepad from the piano bench where she’d set it when she first arrived at the house. “I’m going to walk through the house and make a list of what needs to be done, starting with the collections upstairs. I can’t wait for you to meet Christine,” she added. “You’re going to love her and vice versa. She really knows the value of things and ways to publicize a successful estate sale.”
“I found Daddy’s keys for the upstairs cabinets, if you need them.” I thought of the key to his RV that I’d left with Verniece. “Do you happen to know if he let someone else use his RV?” I asked.
“Heavens, no! He loved that old thing. He called it his man cave. Even I wasn’t allowed inside.”
“It’s strange,” I said. “He has a bunch of CDs in there, but they’re all bluegrass and country. When have you ever known my father to listen to bluegrass?”
“I haven’t,” she admitted, “but he knew that wasn’t my thing, so he probably just didn’t play it around me. He had very varied tastes.” She looked at me. “And we’ve already established that you didn’t know much about him, haven’t we?” It wasn’t a question; it was a dig, and the sympathy I’d felt for her moments earlier melted away. I did not like this woman! I didn’t trust her. I just didn’t. “So,” she said, taking me by the arm and leading me over to the wall of cabinets. “You get started here going through your father’s papers, and I’ll work upstairs.”
I felt steamrollered, but I also didn’t care where I started working in the house. Suzanne had warned me to keep the last three years of my father’s receipts for her to go through, but other than that, everything could be tossed. As Jeannie climbed the stairs, I sat down in front of one of the cabinets and opened the door, groaning when papers slipped from the shelves to my lap. I knew Daddy had a shredder in the upstairs office and I hoped it was heavy-duty. Taking a deep breath, I started piling the papers into a stack. I wondered if, buried somewhere in one of the ten cabinets, I might find documents related to my adoption. I hoped not.
About an hour later, I was getting bleary-eyed when I heard a sound from upstairs that made me stop my work to listen. Drawers opening and closing? Was she in his bedroom? I got up quietly and moved to the foot of the stairs. I would have thought little of the sound if she’d been slamming around up there, but there was something so sneaky in the slow, quiet sliding of the drawers … or whatever it was. Curious, I started up the stairs.
She was coming out of my father’s bedroom when I reached the top of the stairs, and she jumped when she saw me. “Oh,” she said, her hand to her throat. “You startled me!”
“I wanted to see how you were making out.” I really wanted to ask her what she’d been doing snooping through his dresser drawers, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Oh, fine,” she said, then she nodded toward the bedroom, as if she knew an explanation was needed. “I was looking for a few things I’d left here,” she said.
She’d gone upstairs with a notepad, but now a white box rested on top of it. It was the size of a small shirt box or maybe the sort a manuscript would fit in. She clutched it and the notepad to her chest.
“Did you find them?” I motioned toward the box, and she looked down at it as though she was surprised to find it in her arms.
“Yes,” she said. “Just some things of mine I’d forgotten about. Old … things I’d wanted to show him.” She laughed nervously, and I almost felt sorry for her. From the color in her cheeks, I imagined the box contained a sexy negligee or worse. I remembered Suzanne telling me about her father’s pornography and wished I could erase that thought.
“How’d you make out up here with the collections?” I asked.
“I think I know the appraisers we need to call,” she said, heading for the stairs. She didn’t let go of the box even to hold on to the handrail.
“It’s going to take me a week to clean out those cabinets,” I said from behind her on the stairs.
“I can imagine.” She’d reached the last step. “We should get those pipes appraised before turning them over to the Kyles, too. And, oh, my God”—she chuckled—“we need to get a sense of how many vinyl albums he has so I can tell Christine. Do you know if he has more squirreled away anywhere? The attic, maybe?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, though I didn’t know what, if anything, was in the attic.
We worked quietly for a short time, me sitting on the floor, Jeannie looking over the albums, but my mind was numb from hunting for the dates on medical bills and bank statements.
“I think I’ve had it for tonight,” I said, getting to my feet. “Glass of wine?”
She let out a tired breath. “Just a half,” she said. “More than that and I’ll be asleep when I drive home.”
I went into the kitchen and pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet above the dishwasher. Jeannie came into the kitchen, walking past me toward the powder room by the back door. She knew her way around this house as well as I did.
She was still in the bathroom when I carried the glasses into the living room, and I spotted her notepad and the box she’d been holding on the ledge by the pipe collection. I bit my lip, curiosity getting the better of me, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was inside that box. What if she’d stolen something? She was hurting for money and mad at my father for not leaving her more than he had, and she’d had access to his collections for a good hour upstairs.
I listened for any sounds from the powder room, but heard none. Then I moved her notepad aside and worked the cover of the box loose. The box was half filled with yellowed newspaper articles. The headline of the one on top read LISA MACPHERSON ASSUMED DROWNED IN APPARENT SUICIDE.
I let out my breath in a miserable “Oh.” Why had he felt the need to save articles about Lisa’s suicide? I ached for him and my mother. How must they have felt, knowing they’d been unable to prevent their daughter from taking her own life?
I heard the bathroom door open, but didn’t make a move to cover the box.
“Oh, Riley, no!” Jeannie rushed toward me when she walked into the room.
I lifted the box in the air and turned my back to her, and she stopped, lowering her hands to her sides. “Honey, you don’t want to do that,” she said. “There’s no good that can come from it.”
“Why did he keep these?” I asked, tipping the box down again so I could look inside. I lifted the top article about her apparent suicide, and my hand froze when I saw the next headline. The font was huge, the letters thick and black, and I stared at them, confused and disbelieving as I tried to absorb what I was seeing: ACCUSED MURDERER LISA MACPHERSON ASSUMED DEAD.