She can’t imagine a life without music…

Even as a little girl, Miranda Nolan loved to sing and dance, especially for her reclusive neighbor, a woman who was more like a second mother. She never expected to inherit her mentor’s estate and to have to put her career as a performer on hold. Even more confusing, she’s found herself settling affairs with co-claimant Russ Gerik, an interpreter who lost his hearing in a tragic bombing and struggles to find his way in a now-silent world. Unimaginable.

As the two work together to catalog the possessions of—and understand—a woman shrouded in mystery, they forge a powerful connection. But how long can their bond last when it’s not built on trust?

“I represent another claimant.”

“Another claimant?” Miranda asked. “I thought everything was settled.”

The lawyer shook his head. “I drew up a will for Ms. Radinski right after her former lawyers drafted the old one. You were not named in the new will apart from a few odds and ends, like the piano. I have an injunction to remove you from the house.”

Miranda sank into the closest chair. “Okay… What’s the next step?”

“The locks will be changed after you leave today,” Brett said. “You and my client will do the inventory together.”

Miranda bit her lip. For a split second she contemplated flying back to Manhattan, but then she stiffened her spine. She was going to fight this.

“I didn’t think Miss Virginia had any relatives. Who’s this other claimant?”

Brett gestured behind her and Miranda turned. Russ Gerik had walked into the living room. He smiled at Miranda.

Dear Reader,

For years, I’d been fascinated by an old house on my brother’s street that was owned by an elderly lady who was considered the hermit of the neighborhood. She kept two ancient cars in the driveway no one ever saw her drive—perhaps because fifteen felines were always draped over the hood or the roof! I took that house as a starting point and created the fictitious Miss Virginia.

I’d also wanted to create a character who was physically challenged. A good friend of mine has Stargardt’s disease, which brutally affects vision. Despite being legally blind (and unable to drive in a city not known for mass transit!) she started—and still directs—the Waco Children’s Theatre.

When I realized that many people who suffer disabilities or loss of limb because of the war in Afghanistan are thought to be “less than” or just weird, I decided to have my hero lose his hearing. Russ Gerik popped into my brain and whispered, “Use me! Love me!”

Russ became one of my favorite characters, and I hope readers will feel the same about him.

Flo

Legacy of Silence

Flo Fitzpatrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FLO FITZPATRICK

was born in Washington, D.C., and spent her formative years moving across countries and oceans as an army brat. She has little memory of living in a château in France but firmly believes the Gothic setting sparked her love of romance and mystery (and mousse au chocolat!). A performer, teacher and choreographer, Flo holds degrees in dance and theater. She’s spent much of her adult life shuttling from Texas to New York and loves both states for their ability to spawn diverse and often extremely wacky characters.

Flo’s second novel, Hot Stuff, was nominated by RT Book Reviews as Best Romantic Suspense and, along with the paranormal novel Haunting Melody, has been optioned for film.

MILLS & BOON

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For Linda Haskett, the brilliant and talented creator of the Waco Children’s Theatre, who has always embodied the spirit of a child with the wisdom of a prophet—and the loving heart of a loyal friend.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“I’VE INHERITED A haunted house,” Miranda said. She surveyed the front of the Victorian home with a myriad of emotions that swung from sadness to guilt to elation.

Miranda was sitting in front of the house that was now hers—or it would be once she’d jumped through all the legal hoops. The last occupant, whom everyone referred to as “Miss Virginia,” had lived alone for the past seventy years—unless one counted the cats that had decorated the porch, fence, roof and the inside of her fire-engine-red Cadillac convertible. Word around the neighborhood was the car hadn’t been driven since it was delivered by the dealership in 1959. Miranda’s father, Tim, once told her he’d never seen it leave the driveway and no one had ever glimpsed Virginia behind the wheel. Possibly because there were always at least two cats draped around the steering wheel and ten more sunning themselves on the front hood regardless of the season.

Miranda stepped out of the SUV her dad had loaned her and glanced at her watch. She had about forty minutes before the guys from Rocky Ridge Furniture were scheduled to deliver a new bed frame and mattresses to the house where she’d be staying for at least a month—possibly a bit longer. Her first order of business would be hiring a yard service to deal with the unkempt trees and lawn. Miss Virginia had spent her final weeks in a hospital, then at home with a hospice team, and Miranda doubted that pruning or mowing had been anyone’s priority. The famous Caddy was still in the driveway, though absent of the felines. Miranda stared at the car for a few moments, blinking back tears and wondering if Virginia had even had a driver’s license.

The house itself appeared to be in great shape. Even the roof looked new, and although the shutters needed a good paint job, the windows were storm-worthy.

Dave Brennan, Virginia’s lawyer, had dropped off a key for Miranda that morning. It was time to use it. If bats with fangs flew out of the house, she’d simply pitch a tent on the front lawn until she could figure out her next move.

The key turned easily and nothing attacked her as she opened the door so she ventured in a bit farther and did a little tap dance in her sneakers on the hardwood. There was no lingering odor of big or small cats, and the switch in the front hall produced real light when she clicked it on. Not only that but those floors were in pristine condition—possibly because nothing had been moved for years.

After taking a look at the massive amount of furniture, piles of books, records and boxes, Miranda nearly turned around and headed back to the airport. Virginia must have moved all of her possessions down from the attic because Miranda had never seen even half of what was now crowding the room. One item, however, had not been moved. Miranda was thrilled to discover the old upright piano pushed against the north wall. She spent a few minutes shifting some of the lighter boxes so she could find out if the instrument was as neglected as the front yard.

Once the path was clear, she sank down onto the piano bench and lifted the lid to reveal the keys. The chord she sounded was clear, bright and absolutely in tune. The action was even the right weight. She immediately popped back to her feet and, on a hunch, opened the bench, where she discovered a pile of sheet music. Things were looking up already. Images of mornings spent in Virginia’s kitchen drinking tea followed by leisurely sessions of playing the piano began flowing through her mind. Perhaps she wouldn’t sell. Perhaps she could rent some of the bedrooms to reliable tenants (assuming such beings existed) and stay at the house, something she resolved to do more often. Or she could hire a caretaker.

Miranda resisted the impulse to start playing a musical number from Phantom of the Opera. Instead, she dug inside her purse, grabbed her mobile phone and hit Speed Dial number two.

“Hey, Dad.” Miranda didn’t wait for a hello. “Have you seen this place in the past few years?”

“A bit overwhelming?”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t remember it looking like a museum. It wasn’t like this the last time I came over. Of course, that was right after I graduated college and Miss Virginia didn’t want me to come inside. We had tea and kolaches on the porch.” Her voice cracked. “I am not a good person. Six years. At least I sent cards. Big whoop, right?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally, Miranda’s father asked, “Miranda, is this going to be too much? You can stay with Farrah and me until you get things sorted. I just thought this would give you some time by yourself.”

Miranda shuddered, imagining the stress of being around her father’s self-assured “I’ve owned my own successful catering business since the day I graduated college” wife of eight months. At forty-one, Farrah Nolan was only fourteen years older than Miranda—too young to be her stepmother and too old to really be a friend. Miranda dismissed that thought, musing that age had nothing to do with her feelings about the new Mrs. Timothy Nolan. Miss Virginia had been in her seventies when Miranda met her and their friendship had been instantaneous and solid.

“Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t dream of invading your space. Y’all are newlyweds, after all! The good news is the piano is in tune, so I’m a happy singer. And as you might recall, Miss Virginia was a lady with eclectic tastes—I may find riches here...or at least a live cat or two. Are you sure all this is kosher? I mean, my living here before the will has been finalized.”

“As far as I know, no one is challenging your inheritance,” her father said. “If another claimant does turn up before or during probate, Dave will handle it.” He paused before adding, “There are times I’m very glad I teach international law. I’d hate to have to tiptoe around the intricacies of estates and deal with irate relatives. The latter, thankfully, are non-existent in this case. Virginia was quite clear in her wishes. Dave told me that she left the house and all her worldly goods to you, Ms. Miranda Nolan—and added a comment about your kindness to her over the years. You must have impressed the fool out of the lady when you were a kid.” His voice caught. “I’m still grateful Virginia took over much of my nonexistent parenting.”

Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the tall but frail woman who’d treated Miranda as if she were her own child.

“It’s okay, Dad. You were going through a lot after Mom died. Miss Virginia saw a need and stepped in. She truly was family.”

Miranda glanced around the living room and sighed, envisioning the hours of work ahead of her. “I have to say, this is going to be interesting. I’m about to dive into the history of the mid-twentieth century. I’m already in awe of these antiques. You should see the clocks. I’ve been in the living room less than ten minutes and I’ve already counted two grandfather clocks, three anniversary mantel clocks and some kind of weird pendulum thing à la Edgar Allan Poe. I can’t wait for midnight when everything goes off at once.”

“Mark ’em all down, Miranda. You need to provide as much info as you can to help out the executor, who’ll be someone from the Brennan firm. Which reminds me, Dave said he’d be happy to send an appraiser or a Realtor at some point, but you might want to contact an antiques dealer if you already have someone you trust.”

Miranda tripped over a heavy box but managed to hang on to the phone. “I do know someone but unfortunately, he’s in Manhattan. That’s okay. I’ll get a better idea of who or what I need once I’ve taken a good tour of the entire house. There are probably hidden passages strewn with pots of gold. Or ghosts in every bedroom and of course the attic.”

“Scared?” Tim teased.

“Nah. It’s cool. Miss Virginia and I were good friends from the moment we met. If she pops out of the woodwork one night I’ll ask her spirit to tea—”

“She loved giving tea parties! For kids, anyway. I remember she’d invite you over and always send you home with a doggie bag full of fantastic cookies and little cakes. The woman was an amazing baker. I wonder if she was one of those culinary marvels who just sweeps into a kitchen and emerges with delicacies or if she had to dive through cookbooks and recipe files.”

“Hmm. Now that would be a treasure—finding her recipe book. Tell Farrah if anything like that turns up, I’ll give it to her. Anyway, I honestly don’t mind being here sans companionship, unless creepy critters really do inhabit the woodwork—and I do not mean Virginia’s spirit or any other non-corporeal beings. I’m talkin’ rats or mites. Or maybe I’ll trip over a feline who deserted the old Caddy in search of tuna.”

After a moment, Miranda’s father coughed and completely changed the subject. He quietly asked “Not to sound like a nosy parent, but how are you feeling about the fiasco with Grant? It’s only been a couple of days since you told me y’all broke up. Are you okay?” He paused. “Are you up to telling me what happened?”

Miranda pushed a box of books off an armchair and then sank down into the soft cushions. “I’m fine. Really. Surprisingly, I’m more than fine. The basic story is that Grant Spencer chose the occasion of our closing night party for Illumination to announce that he had wonderful news. He’s going to direct Topaz in Delirium.”

“I remember you saying something about that a few months ago. He was sweet-talking the producer every chance he got, right?”

“Oh, yeah. But apparently he took it a step further. After I’d congratulated him on getting the gig he rather casually added that he was dating Cyan Marlowe, the college-age daughter of Tyrone Marlowe, who just happens to be the producer of Topaz in Delirium.”

“Wait. Back that up.”

Miranda could hear the mirth her dad was trying to hide.

“Did you say Cyan?”

“I did.”

“As in the inkjet color that always runs out first?”

Miranda laughed. “Precisely. Daddy Marlowe is Mr. Broadway Producer Extraordinaire. It’s going to be interesting to see whose ego wins between Marlowe and Grant. Anyway, it struck me that my boyfriend was a toad—which admittedly wasn’t until after he broke up with me—but it still hit purty durn fast. I decided I’d be better off without a narcissistic, overly ambitious jerk who ruined the closing night party for me.”

“Sorry, hon. Sounds like Grant brought tackiness to a new level.”

Miranda sighed. “My only lingering question is ‘what on earth did I ever see in him beyond good looks, charm and smarts and the theater mania we had in common?’”

Her refined and genteel father produced a distinct snort. “Well, having met the man, I’d add charisma to that list. I thought he was great for you and I’m generally a decent judge of character. I guess we were both deceived.”

“Well, I’ll just be more careful next time I’m attracted to someone and try to curb my impulsive heart. But I have to admit I’m really ticked Grant’s directing Topaz—there was a great part in it for me. Ah, well. Nothing to be gained by angsting over it all. I’ll hang out here for a while, play Virginia’s lovely piano and have a marvelous time sifting through her things. Maybe get some answers as to why she hid in this place for those seventy years.”

“Now that would be a great mystery to solve. I remember hearing that she worked at one of the old department stores downtown back when they had their own tailors, but by the time we moved here she was taking in clothing at home and wouldn’t leave the house. You practically lived at Virginia’s 24/7, especially around Halloween.”

Miranda sat straight up. “Halloween. Yes. Talk about memories.” She closed her eyes, seeing herself as a little girl, dressed in a pink tutu and ballet slippers, ringing the doorbell of this very house and receiving a warm greeting from a tall, elderly woman with exquisitely refined features. Miranda could almost smell the scent of cinnamon-flaked cocoa and the chocolate cupcakes decorated in orange icing that had been sitting on a table in the living room. She could see Miss Virginia, dressed all in black, smiling, as she ushered the ballerina, the superhero and the astronaut inside for what had been Miranda’s first Halloween mini-party.

“I was seven at the time. I remember you let the Shapiro twins be my escorts. That’s how Miss Virginia and I first met.” Miranda glanced at the corner of the room where Virginia’s tea table still stood. She could almost see the starched doilies under the plates of goodies and Virginia’s steady hand pouring homemade hot chocolate into cups for her Halloween guests. “Dad? Do you remember anything else about her life? Maybe some tidbit a neighbor let slip? I honestly don’t recall her talking about her past—she probably knew I was too young to care and most of the time I was rattling on about my dance recitals or school plays or...” Miranda swallowed hard. “What a selfish little brat I was.”

“Honey, you were young. No kid wants to hear the life story of anyone over the age of eighteen. Give yourself a break. She understood. Believe me.” He paused for a moment then continued, “I heard that she bought the house in the mid-forties—she might’ve been a war widow. Then again I never heard anyone call her anything but Miss Virginia. And she definitely wasn’t from Birmingham.”

“That much I knew. She was Czech. I found out the first time she made kolaches for me and I became instantly addicted.” Miranda could almost taste the fruit-filled pastries Virginia had baked on a weekly basis. “She was a great cook but I think she also dabbled in art. Or maybe she told me she’d been an artist’s model? I’m not sure. She said she had a portrait of a child my age who had my ‘impish expression.’ But she never got around to showing it to me. I wonder if I’ll finally get to see it.”

“She also loved music and theater,” Tim said.

“She did. I used to perform all my dance routines for her. I have this very clear memory of reciting and acting out the poem The Highwayman when I was in sixth grade. She thought it was a Tony-winning performance.”

Miranda blinked back tears as the memories flooded in. She had often played piano and sung while Miss Virginia sat in a rocking chair, quietly listening; then the elderly lady and the small child would sit down to formal tea. Miranda inhaled. She needed to end the conversation before the strong emotions finished it for her.

“Dad, I just noticed the time. I’d better get a few boxes moved before the delivery guys show up with the new bed. If they can’t inch it back into the bedroom past the clutter they might pitch the frame and mattresses into the yard in disgust. Which reminds me—do I pay them today or did you already take care of the bill?”

“It’s paid in full and you don’t need to reimburse me. I’ll let you go, but remember you’re coming over to the house next week. Farrah’s invited some folks to meet you. And before you say anything, yes, I’m well aware that you’re not up for any matchmaking dinners right now, but Farrah really wants to do this. And I’ve been asked to remind you that the Trussville Fair is in ten days. As far as I know it’s still set up like it was back when we used to go. Lots of artwork and crafts and I think some local bands are playing.”

Miranda had winced after hearing Farrah and dinner in the same sentence but tried not to let her feelings about the get-together leak into her tone as she thanked her father and said goodbye.

She quickly began to move boxes away from the piano, muttering “labels” to herself. She needed a system for cataloguing so she wouldn’t end up going over the same box twice as she did inventory for the estate sale. Miranda peeked inside a box that was partially open and found Virginia’s sewing basket. Her smile warring with tears, Miranda reverently lifted it out and opened it, eyeing the ancient thimbles and the twenty-odd spools of thread in various colors. She gently unwrapped a pair of perfectly preserved scissors from their bed of fine linen and just as carefully put them back.

“No way am I selling Miss Virginia’s sewing supplies,” she said. These things had been a huge part of her friend’s life. They’d been her livelihood. Miranda remembered Virginia carefully searching to find the perfect color of thread to hem one of Miranda’s dance costumes. Even as a child, she had recognized the older woman’s pleasure in stitching that costume with expertise and love.

Miranda set the box with the sewing goods back on top of the piano and in doing so, she upset another opened box. The contents spilled out onto the floor—more than a dozen bound notebooks.

“Journals?” Miranda hesitated for a few moments, not sure whether she had the right to pry into Virginia’s private thoughts. When a sheet fell out of the book she was holding, she skimmed it and began to laugh. Recipes. Farrah would love this. Miranda opened the notebook at random, hoping to find ingredients and directions for tea cookies and kolaches.

Instead, she discovered a discourse regarding the fun side of politics in the 1990s including Miss Virginia’s opinion that Bill Clinton played one mean saxophone. Miranda grinned, dropped that notebook back into the box and picked up a journal that was obviously far older.

She sank to the floor after reading the first paragraph.

Miss Virginia hadn’t really been a miss. She’d been the missus to a gentleman named Benjamin Auttenberg.

May 15, 1960

I ran into Marta Rosenberg tonight at temple. We cried when we saw one another. I did not know she had moved to Birmingham, too. She said she has been attending the temple in the Mountain Brook area. It was so good yet so painful to see her. We were last together in Terezin on that day the Russian soldiers freed us all in 1945. Marta talked of our husbands’ deaths and we cried again. She wanted to know if I had remarried and I told her that Radinski was my maiden name. I don’t want anyone to know I was Benjamin Auttenberg’s widow because I don’t want to be hounded by art dealers trying to buy his paintings. I had enough of those vultures right after the war. I told Marta I simply want peace.

Miranda heard the sound of the delivery truck pulling up out front. She quickly grabbed a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes, then replaced the journal in its box.

“I miss you, Virginia. And I’m so very sorry—for everything.”

CHAPTER TWO

MIRANDA PAUSED IN the doorway of what would be her bedroom for the next month. She eyed the deliveryman who was currently kneeling on the floor with his back to her, putting the side slots of the bed frame into the footrest.

“Excuse me? Before you get the frame done and the box springs on, would you mind moving the frame a bit to the right? I need just a little more room to vacuum what passes for a rug on that side.”

Nothing. He ignored her and continued to click the side railing into place.

Miranda waited for a second, unsure if he was being rude or simply didn’t feel like responding. When he moved toward the left side of the footrest without shifting the bed an inch, she coughed, and then repeated her request with a bit more volume.

Nothing. Maybe he was listening to loud music on headphones and simply hadn’t heard her?

She was about to lean down and tap him on the shoulder when Henry—the head deliveryman from Rocky Ridge Furniture—did the same to her. She whirled around.

“He can’t hear you, Ms. Nolan.”

“Music lover with super teeny headphones set on serious blast mode?” she asked.

Henry shook his head. “Yes and no. He actually is a music lover—or I should say ‘was.’ He lost his hearing about two years ago when he was in Afghanistan.”

Miranda was stunned. She tried to imagine what life would be without music and began feeling hemmed in by the room itself. Would complete silence mean a world walled off from the rest of humanity? She shivered. “What happened?”

As if the man knew he was being discussed, he turned and stared—or glared—at Miranda. His shaggy brown hair fell over hazel eyes. His nose appeared to have seen a football, basketball or soccer ball bounce off it at some point in the past. The right side of his face bore numerous small scars, but they didn’t detract from the kind of quiet attractiveness worn so well by some of the movie stars of the forties and fifties—like Gregory Peck or Gary Cooper. Miranda could have sworn she’d seen him before... She was also aware of a tightening in her stomach. The same tension she always got just before going onstage. Excitement and anticipation and a touch of fear of the unknown.

Henry started to answer Miranda’s question but was interrupted by a voice that had a strange mix of richness and a volume that seemed slightly unsure. “Before Henry gets a chance to become melodramatic or bore you with a ten-minute monologue, let me simply state that a bomb went off in Kabul where I was working as an interpreter. I made it out with limbs intact. My eardrums were not so lucky. Nor were the numerous soldiers who never made it out at all. Satisfied?”

Miranda blinked, then calmly and slowly responded, “I suppose you read lips?”

He shook his head. “Not with any great skill. I’m much better with signing. Most deaf folks only read about fifty percent anyway. But your curious ‘what happened’ is easy to understand. It’s an obvious question—and you have fairly decent mouth action.” He paused, then continued with a sarcastic edge to his tone, “Most people slur and mumble, which leaves me without a clue as to what they’re yammering about. In all honesty, I don’t particularly care to know what the majority of the universe has to say. Life is better without the noise of ignorant people.”

Miranda flinched, unsure how to respond. “I’m really sorry.”

Apparently her mouth action was still “active” because he immediately snapped, “For what? You didn’t set the bomb.”

Miranda bit her lower lip then tilted her chin up. “‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t meant as a personal apology. Perhaps I should have said, ‘you have my sympathy for your trouble.’ Would that suit you better?”

He looked at her with some confusion. Apparently his lipreading skills weren’t up for snapping out a speedy response—or perhaps he simply wasn’t able to understand lengthier sentences.

Henry grinned at Miranda. “Get him, girl! He needs someone to stand up to him. Normally, people duck their heads and leave the room when Russ tries to shame them. Of course, it may help that he probably got about four words out of what you said. He’s right. His signing is far better than his lip reading.”

“Russ?” Images flickered through Miranda’s mind. She suddenly remembered seeing this man on a stage sitting at an electric keyboard.

Russ was still staring at her.

“It just hit me. You’re Russ Gerik—right? You were with a really cool band. Very eclectic musically. Columbiana Patchwork. I saw y’all at a festival over in Gadsden about ten years ago. You were on keyboards and vocal backup and you were amazing.” She turned to Henry. “Do you sign?”

“Since the cradle. Both my parents were deaf.” He translated her question and subsequent comments.

Russ’s puzzled stare shifted to a look of anger oddly mixed with apathy. “Yes. Russ Gerik. Columbiana Patchwork. It’s over. So is this—conversation.”

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

“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.

“Hi, Grant.”

“Miranda.”

Wendy glanced from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

Miranda nodded. “We do.” She hurriedly added, “We actually just finished doing a show together, although it was my impression that Grant was about to start directing Topaz in Delirium.”

Grant’s color changed from red to white to red again “I am. But it’s stalled for who knows how long, so I’m free.”

“Ah.” Why is it I can come up with terrific lines for a superspy, but “ah” is the only thing that drips out of my mouth when I want to be brilliant? She trusted that her improvisational skills would kick in again once she and Grant were given the basics of the next scene.

They did. She and Grant were used to playing opposite one another on stage and both were professional enough not to let any personal issues sneak into their performances. Wendy seemed pleased again, as did the suits. An hour later, Miranda finished calling out goodbyes and began briskly walking down Eighth Avenue to meet her agent.

“Miranda!”

She turned. “Grant.”

“I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I was worried about you after our talk during the Illumination party...uh, a couple of weeks ago. You kind of disappeared.”

Miranda looked directly into Grant’s pale blue eyes. “It was less than a week, Grant. And I didn’t disappear. I flew down to Birmingham, and now I’m here. I fly back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are you going back down to Alabama? I thought your stepmother drove you crazy.”

“She does.”

“So why are you heading back?”

“Why are you being nosy?”

He inhaled sharply. “Whoa! That was rude.”

“No. It was honest. If you must know, I’m doing inventory on the estate of a good friend who recently passed away. And, I’m meeting Brooks in about twenty minutes, so I see no reason to hang out in the street making small talk. Good luck with getting a part in this movie and I trust you wish me the same.”

“Oh.”

“Bye.”

She whirled around and briskly crossed West Forty-Sixth Street at Eighth then headed down Ninth Avenue. She was absurdly pleased that Grant’s last word had been a mere “Oh.” So much more vacuous than “Ah,” which at least signaled the speaker was thinking of something brilliant to say.

Miranda arrived at China Tan’s with seventeen minutes to spare. She ducked into her favorite art gallery, A. J. Rinaldi’s, which was conveniently located next to the restaurant.

“Miranda, great to see you!” the manager exclaimed before enveloping her in a huge hug.

“Hey, Jason. You, too! I know, I know, it’s been ages but I’ve been working nonstop and just haven’t had the chance to come by.” She loved A. J. Rinaldi’s. The gallery sold enough high-end artwork to pay for its midtown address, but the manager, Jason Devere, and the other employees were friendly and just as willing to help clients choose one of the less costly pieces

The staff was not only friendly, they were knowledgeable. After Miranda finishing oohing and aahing over a sculpture she knew she’d never be able to afford, lightning struck. “While I’m here, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever heard of an artist named Benjamin Auttenberg? He was imprisoned in Terezin, the concentration camp in the Czech Republic. He died there in 1945.”

“Auttenberg?” Jason’s interest was apparent. “Talk about a blast from the past. I haven’t heard anyone mention Auttenberg in years. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding him—as there is with most of the artists who were imprisoned.”

“Please tell me.”

“Well, you already know that Auttenberg was a Czech artist. I believe he and his family lived in Prague before the war, which wasn’t far from Terezin. His works had begun to sell not long before he ended up in the camp, along with his wife and child. Rumors have floated for years that he continued to paint while he was at Terezin. The only thing that’s certain is that he was killed in the camp just before it was liberated. I’ve heard from some dealers that a few of his paintings ended up in the hands of private collectors. And of course, there were the Nazi generals who were forced to hand over a piece or two after the war, although those were actually the works he’d done back in Prague. They were stolen directly from his home before it was burned to the ground. The most interesting rumor is that his wife transported his Terezin artwork to America, but Mrs. Auttenberg was never located.”

“Until now,” Miranda muttered.

“Meaning?”

“You may need to take a trip to Birmingham, Alabama, sometime in the near future.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve supposedly inherited a house from Miss Virginia Radinski. I use the term supposedly because there’s an issue regarding her will—make that two wills.” A vision of Russ Gerik immediately flashed through her mind, followed by an anticipatory tingle. She’d be working with him once she was back in Birmingham.... She determinedly brought her focus back. “Anyway, I found out three days ago that Virginia wasn’t a miss. She’s the widow of Benjamin Auttenberg.”

Jason appeared astonished.

“Seriously? This is amazing! It would be even more amazing if you found any of his works there. Have you spotted anything interesting?”

Miranda shook her head. “Haven’t had a chance to take a look at any art that isn’t already on the wall and what I’ve seen was by artists I know aren’t Auttenberg. In the brief time I was in the house, I spotted one Renoir print and two seriographed Tarkays.”

Jason grinned. “I’d call that interesting. Two?”

Miranda smiled. “Two very fine Tarkays, which are hanging in Virginia’s living room. Even if I don’t get the house, I’m hoping the judge will decide those prints go to me. I haven’t yet hit the attic, so there might be something hidden away in a secret panel or guarded by a presence from beyond. One never knows.”

Jason sighed. “It would be worth dealing with ghosts and goblins. If you truly have inherited her possessions there’d be a pretty price in an original Auttenberg. Or if you’re not inclined to sell, you’d still have a piece you’d enjoy owning the rest of your life. Auttenberg is a great fit for your taste.”

“Well, if I do find anything—and it’s actually mine—I’ll give you a call before I make any decisions. Thanks for all the info.” She inclined her head toward the front door, where a middle-aged couple with determined expressions glared at Miranda and Jason. “Looks like you have real live paying customers.”

Jason glanced at the entrance. “I do. They’re here for that pricey sculpture you admired. If they like it, I’ll be able to afford my apartment for at least a year on my commission alone.”

They grinned at each other, and Miranda gave Jason a quick hug. “I’m outta here anyway. Meeting Brooks next door.”

Brooks was waiting for her at a small booth in the middle of China Tan’s. Dishes of rice, spicy bean curd, walnut chicken, veggies, crab rangoons, egg rolls and wontons with peanut sauce were already on the table.

Brooks quickly kissed her cheek. “I’ve ordered for us both. Hope you don’t mind. I have a meeting in an hour.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You know what I like and I’m starving, so I’m a happy woman.”

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?” Miranda filled her plate, poured peanut sauce over everything but the egg rolls, took a bite of wonton and sighed with sheer pleasure.

“Audition, Miranda. Remember? The one you left about thirty minutes ago?”

“It was lovely. I was lovely. The only non-lovely part was running into Grant. He’s up for the role of a suave spy agency director who gets shot in the first reel.”

“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

“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.”

Dave nodded. “Look, I haven’t met this Russell Gerik but if you’re at all uncomfortable looking through Virginia’s possessions with him, let me know and I’ll send over some eager paralegals or even new associates who’d be more than happy to play chaperone and hoist a box or two in order to impress me.” He gestured at Cort, who was seated across from them.

“Is he hiring me out again?” Cort snickered. “Honestly, it makes me feel so cheap.”

“I think you’re safe.” Miranda grinned. “I’ve only met Mr. Gerik once, but I didn’t get the impression I’d be working with the big bad wolf. He wasn’t exactly laying on the charm but he wasn’t howling at me, either. And I have to admit I’m looking forward to learning more about Miss Virginia.”

“What else did you find in that journal?” Brett asked.

Miranda didn’t want to use Miss Virginia’s past as dinner party conversation, but she had to say something. She politely answered, “I did find out she was married to an artist. That’s about it.”

Farrah apparently had no problem with discussing the details of Virginia’s life. She raised her voice slightly so the rest of her guests could hear. “His name was Benjamin Auttenberg? Have y’all ever heard of him?”

There were negative head shakes from all the guests. Miranda closed her eyes and wondered whether she should gag her stepmother with a napkin or an apron.

“Who was he?” George asked.

Miranda tried to find a way out of providing any more information, but Farrah jumped in with, “According to an art dealer Miranda talked with when she was in Manhattan, Auttenberg was on his way to becoming quite a name in the art world before he was sent to the concentration camp. This dealer also said that there are rumors some of his works still exist and if any were found, they’d be worth a fortune.”

Miranda flinched. She quickly began to describe some of the other items she’d seen at the house, including a wooden bird whistle, numerous wind chimes, an Amish pie safe that had been hidden under never-worn coats and Miranda’s favorite—a picnic basket that screamed church social circa 1912.

“I think those qualify as odds and ends, so they could be legally mine, even if Mr. King’s client wins the house. Although, I don’t know where I’d put them when I get back to New York.” Miranda smiled. “My apartment is teensy.”

“You could always stay here, you know,” Dave suggested. “Birmingham isn’t a cultural wasteland and you’d be near your dad, which would make him very happy.”

“Well, I do have a pretty good career going up north. But it’s a thought. I could always keep the house as a refuge from big-city insanity. Then again, I happen to love big-city city insanity—most of the time. Right now I’m so tired I don’t care where I land.”

* * *

MIRANDA REMEMBERED THOSE words when she arrived at Virginia’s house later that night to meet Russ and the poor paralegal who’d been tasked with opening the door and either staying for the inventory session or coming back in a couple of hours to lock up again. Miranda hadn’t lied—she was exhausted. Dave had been a pleasant dinner companion and she was grateful for his attempts to steer Farrah off topics that often slid toward the embarrassing, but she hadn’t been thrilled with most of the other guests. Half of the bachelors had treated her as though she were a new species of plant life because she’d been on Broadway. The other half were so busy trying to sell her their services they didn’t care what she did for a living—as long as she spent her earnings with them. And Miranda was still disgusted that Farrah had blithely talked about Miss Virginia as though she’d been some reality-TV star.

At least all the guests had left shortly after dinner. Farrah had even tactfully retreated to the kitchen to clean up so Tim and Miranda could have a father/daughter chat. They’d missed out on those when Miranda had been a child. Tim had been so devastated by his wife’s death he’d often ignored his daughter, burying himself in his work. Then it had been Miranda’s turn, performing nonstop starting her freshman year at college.

Miranda turned the corner onto Miss Virginia’s street and immediately realized that her night wasn’t going to be spent dealing with Russ Gerik and a bunch of boxes. Three police cars lined the curb outside of Virginia’s house. Miranda slowed her dad’s car and parked two doors down. Russ was standing in the yard, accompanied by a large canine who appeared to be enjoying the night air.

One of the policemen waved at her. He politely waited until she’d crossed the lawn and joined him near the entrance of the house before asking, “Are you Ms. Nolan?”

“Yes. I’m Miranda.”

“Great. Please stay out here, miss. Officer Hernandez will join you while we search inside.”

CHAPTER FIVE

OFFICER HERNANDEZ LOOKED as though he’d be more at home running touchdowns than babysitting frightened crime victims, but he greeted her with a cheery “Nice night...but not for this, right?”

Miranda took the first calm breath since she’d seen the lights flashing on top of police cars. She managed a smile, then glanced at Russ, who was sitting on the curb calmly scratching the dog behind its ears.

“I’m assuming someone broke in?” Miranda asked. Her voice shook just a little.

“You’re assuming right,” he replied. “Thankfully no one was home. Things can be replaced, but people? Not so much.”

Officer Hernandez continued to make small talk, asking Miranda if Miss Virginia’s old car—which still sat in the driveway—had been driven in years, what her favorite musical groups were and finishing with the all-important, “Auburn or Alabama?”

Miranda smiled. “I’ll never tell. I’ve watched too many feuds break out over the answer.”

Miranda was not surprised to learn her first impression had been right. Hernandez had played football for Auburn the year before he entered the police academy.

“What position did you play?”

“Wide receiver.”

“Wait, I know you! I mean, I’ve seen you play. What’s your first name?”

“Ted.”

“Ted as in Ted Touchdown Hernandez? That’s you, right?”

He nodded.

“Wow. You were awesome. Weren’t you going to go pro?” she asked. “Or is that a sensitive subject?”

“Nah. It’s fine. Everybody in the state was betting on whether I’d be picked up by the Cowboys or the Falcons. They both wanted me. Sadly my shoulder didn’t cooperate with the master plan. It got knocked out of whack too many times that final season and the bowl game finished me off.”

“Were you disappointed?”

Hernandez smiled. “At first. But I love being a cop. I get to help people, my employment expectancy is longer, my brains and bones might stay intact—and my mama is proud.” He paused, then shook his head. “I’m also one of those people who believes we get signs from the universe telling us what we really need to be doing.” He shot her a sharp glance. “You can tell me to back off, but I could swear there was a note in your voice when you asked about disappointments. Wrestling with your own decisions, perhaps?”

“You, Officer Hernandez, are an insightful soul. I’m not sure I’d even call it wrestling at this point, but let’s just say I’m starting to wonder what to do if this house becomes mine.”

Before Miranda had a chance to confide her concerns, the two officers who’d entered the house waved and motioned for Hernandez, Miranda and Russ to join them. Russ hadn’t said a word to either Miranda or Hernandez and Miranda suddenly felt frightened again, but for Russ. He appeared calm, but he might have been terrified. Russ wasn’t stupid. What if he’d been inside, unable to hear? She shuddered, stopping herself from traveling down that road. And where the heck was the paralegal?

“We can go in now,” Hernandez said. “If you’re up to it?”

Miranda straightened her shoulders. “I’m okay.”

Hernandez glanced back at Russ and signed, You?

Russ answered, “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The trio headed inside the house, but Miranda paused at the doorway. “How did the burglar get in? Do y’all know?”

Hernandez checked the lock, then signed as he spoke. “This lock could have been opened by a ten-year-old with a credit card. You guys need to rekey. Get a strong deadbolt.”

“I thought the lawyers had changed the locks.”

Hernandez shrugged. “Well, if they did, they went for cheap.”

“The paralegal put the key under the geraniums pot next to the front door,” Russ said. “He left a message on my phone telling me where to look. Apparently, he had better things to do. So, even a decent lock wouldn’t have mattered.”

A quick interrogation began, initiated by a tall, bald-headed cop who identified himself as Officer Burroughs and introduced his partner as Officer Williams. Miranda gave her name and her reason for going to a house she didn’t yet own at 9:00 p.m. Russ stayed silent although Hernandez had signed Burroughs’s questions.

After Miranda explained about the two wills and the scheduling problems, Burroughs laughed. “The judge was Winston Rayborn, right?”

“Yep. I gather he’s known for coming up with interesting Solomon-like solutions?”

All three officers nodded and grinned. Burroughs added, “For someone fondly referred to as a nutcase.”

“So, I assume you never had cause to bust open the lock to the attic?” Officer Williams asked.

“No! Seriously? It’s broken?”

Williams nodded. “We found a window open on the right side of the attic. It looks like your intruder left through the window and shimmied right down the old sweet gum tree that’s about to take over the roof.” He pointed and added absently, “That thing needs a good pruning.”

Burroughs pulled out a notebook. “Do you think you’d be able to tell if anything’s missing?”

Miranda held back the laugh she feared would lead to hysterics. “Missing? Have y’all seen the rooms downstairs? I have no idea what some thief might have taken.”

Hernandez turned to Russ and signed, How about you? Any ideas on what might be missing?

Russ shook his head. “From what I remember, the attic has some old Hanukkah items, rocking chairs, about fifty very small lamps and a couple of old mannequins that still had dresses on them. There were some trunks, too, but they were locked pretty tight so if they’re not broken then I’d imagine no one else got into them. I didn’t see anything else in plain sight and I have no idea if Virginia stored anything valuable up there.” He paused then added. “I’d imagine the thief was hoping to find an original Auttenberg.”

Officer Burroughs raised an eyebrow. “What’s an Auttenberg?”

Russ explained to the policemen that Virginia had been married to the late artist Benjamin Auttenberg and that his works were worth a fortune, assuming any had survived. Miranda felt a knife twist in her stomach. How had Russ known about Virginia’s marital status? Because she told him, you dummy. She trusted him more than she trusted you.

The officers promised to do all they could to find the intruder, but they weren’t optimistic since no one had a clue whether or not anything was missing. The only thing tampered with—the broken padlock on the attic door—had been wiped clean of all fingerprints. Rounding up all the wannabe felons in Jefferson County wasn’t an option. Ted Hernandez suggested that Miranda or Russ call their respective lawyers first thing the next morning and ask for better locks and an alarm service. He gave Miranda a friendly hug, shook Russ’s hand, told them to call if they found anything useful and then followed his fellow officers out the front entrance.

“Well, should we get to work?”

She whirled around. Russ and his grinning canine were staring at her. She crouched and began petting the dog, who immediately reciprocated with moist kisses. Miranda glanced up at Russ.

“Can I have a minute to breathe? I’m still nervous knowing this house was broken into.”

“Too fast! Plus, you seem to be mumbling,” Russ growled. “Hand gestures would be nice. Word has it you’re a good actress. You might consider facing me directly and doing a little pantomime.”

She straightened up. “Sorry.” She repeated her statement and pointed to the house miming someone smashing windows or jimmying the door, then put her hands to her face in an imitation of the child in the movie Home Alone. Finally she put both hands over her heart and began to pant.

She wasn’t sure how much Russ had understood since he stared at her without speaking for a good thirty seconds.

“I got about three words,” he said. “Basically you’re scared.”

She nodded. For a few moments there was silence. Finally Miranda gestured down at the medium-size yellow and tan canine, who appeared to be a mix of Labrador, shepherd and some sort of terrier.

“Name?”

A reluctant smile crossed Russ’s attractive features and Miranda’s heart began pounding harder than it had when she first realized someone had broken into Miss Virginia’s house. “You’ll appreciate this, I’m sure. Miranda, meet Prospero. Spero for short.”

“A lover of the Bard? Or just The Tempest?” She mimed the burst of a storm as best she could while slowly asking the question.

Russ obviously understood either the lip movement or her actions.

“Both. And Spero the dog truly is a magician in many respects.”

Miranda wanted to ask if Spero was a service dog but wasn’t sure if that would be offensive. As if Russ had read her mind he said, “Spero’s trained to help me manage my hearing loss.”

Russ reached down and patted the dog on his head. Spero’s tail thumped wildly in response. The dog began to excitedly nuzzle Miranda’s knee in an unabashed attempt to receive more affection. She gave it readily, squatting back down and hugging him. Just the act of feeling warm fur and inhaling the faint doggie odor made her feel safe and comfortable.

She looked up into Russ’s hazel eyes. “What kind is he?”

Russ’s small smile grew a bit broader. “No one knows. Including his vet.”

“Well, he’s a sweetie.”

“He is.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Miranda moved first by giving a thumbs-up and pointing to the house, which she hoped he’d figure out meant, Are you up for this? Inventory? Tonight?

“I’d give that a yes if you mean am I ready to work. We’re here. We might as well get started. The sooner we finish this, the better.”

He held the door open for her. Or, Miranda thought with amusement, for Spero, who trotted ahead of Miranda and made himself at home on the nearest chair.

Russ pulled a notebook out of his backpack, then grabbed the nearest box, opened it and began to write.

It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SIX

MIRANDA AND RUSS spent the next forty minutes opening boxes, taking quick peeks inside, then labeling the outsides with the stickies Miranda had brought. Russ jotted notes regarding larger items such as furniture and mirrors and oddities like the umbrella stand and the hat rack filled with Fedoras from the 1940s.

Then there was what Miranda considered the most incongruous item for a ninety-five-year-old former seamstress to own. Miranda started laughing when she uncovered a state-of-the-art laptop computer from under an antique quilt covered in cat hair. Russ was buried nearly waist deep into a box so she tapped him on the shoulder.

“What?” he growled.

“Look! I had no idea she was this high-tech.” She stopped. There was no way Russ was going to lip-read that last comment, so Miranda lifted the computer to where Russ could see it. “Cool, huh!”

The corners of Russ’s mouth turned up just long enough for Miranda to take advantage of the slight thaw in his icy attitude. He even responded. “Virginia was an avid online shopper. I believe she was on a first-name basis with customer service at the three largest booksellers.”

Miranda smiled. He might well shut her down in an instant but she had to try. “How did you meet Virginia?” she asked, attempting to find actions that would fit the question. She reached out to shake his hand as though greeting someone.

Russ grasped her hand in his and a shock zapped through her body. The kind of electric tingle one gets after scraping one’s feet on carpet. Except that they were both standing on hardwood. Russ immediately dropped her hand as though he’d felt it, too. His next words started tumbling out like random clothes from a dryer.

“I...she...we met...” He paused and took a deep breath. “I was giving an afternoon lecture at her synagogue. Five years ago. The topic was the nature of linguistics, which was my specialty when I taught at Samford. Ironic, considering my current circumstances.” He closed his eyes for a brief second then continued. “Anyway, Miss Virginia introduced herself at the reception afterward. We immediately hit it off. She asked very insightful and intriguing questions about the politics of language and culture. We spent a good hour talking until the rabbi was ready to close down. She asked if we could go somewhere for coffee or tea and continue the discussion.” He looked at Miranda. “She explained that she didn’t get out much. She wasn’t able to drive at night, cabs were expensive and she said she’d always been a ‘stay at home’ person.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Miranda muttered. “Can we say one step from agoraphobia?”

“What?”

She waved her hand in the air and shook her head. “Nothing. Go on?”

“Our tea turned into dinner and that dinner turned into regular visits. I’d come over here sometimes after I’d taught my classes. Or if there was an event I thought I could encourage her to attend, like a concert or play or a showing at a gallery, I’d drive.” A broad smile suddenly brightened his face and Miranda’s pulse quickened. “I practically converted to the Jewish faith since I drove her to quite a few Friday-night services at the temple.”

Miranda grinned, remembering the day she’d met Cort and told him that Virginia had been able to charm the few people she allowed into her life into doing just about anything she wanted.

“We got to be friends,” Russ said. “Good friends.”

Miranda couldn’t stop herself. “But still—why you?”

“What?”

She pointed to him and then waved her hand around to indicate the whole house. “Why you?”

“Oh. You want to know why Virginia wrote the second will replacing you and making me her heir?”

Miranda grimaced but nodded. “Well, yeah.”

His eyes suddenly pierced hers. “Perhaps she felt the house should go to someone who was there for her instead of someone who couldn’t be bothered to visit for six years. Someone who didn’t even make it down for the funeral.”

Russ’s statement held no malice. Just cold facts that hit her the way a frozen drink causes a brain freeze. She swallowed. She started to protest that she hadn’t known about Virginia’s death until after the memorial service. But that excuse sounded feeble even to herself.

Miranda turned around and headed for Virginia’s kitchen. Russ didn’t follow. She attempted to remove cups and saucers from the cabinets in an effort to keep from crying, but her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid she’d drop the non-shatterproof antiques.

She stiffened. “Stop it, Miranda. You were working nonstop for six years. You sent letters. You called every chance you could. You were not an evil person.” She wasn’t going to let Russ get into her head, even if his statement had hurt her like a claw hammer ripping off a bandage. She took a few moments to do some deep breathing and then returned to the living room. Forcing a serenity she didn’t feel, she grabbed a box at random and sank to the floor. She almost put it back with the other boxes when she realized it was loaded with notebooks.

Two of the books turned out to be filled with recipes. Great. Something else to remind her that she often acted like a brat around Farrah and that she’d hurt her father by not attending their wedding the year before, because, naturally, she’d been working. She’d just been cast in Illumination and couldn’t fly down for one night. Pile on that guilt, girl.

She tried to keep her expression neutral as she methodically printed the dates of the books onto labels. After about ten minutes she glanced up. Russ was staring at her.

What now? Is he going to tell me Virginia not only changed the will but warned him to make sure all the cats were safe before I entered so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn them into tennis strings?

“What?” she asked, thankful he couldn’t hear the combined quiver and anger behind the one word.

He shoved a journal at her. “You might want to read this.”

She glanced at the first page and blinked back tears. Virginia had carefully noted the names and the date right below a photo that depicted three children.

November 1, 1994

Amber Shapiro, age twelve. Jillian Shapiro, age twelve. Miranda Nolan, age seven.

Last night I met someone who will be a special friend. She is the same age as my precious son the year he was murdered in the camps. She knocked on my door with two other children, all of them dressed in their Halloween costumes. I invited them in for pastries and hot chocolate and to meet other children in the neighborhood. Americans are odd in this way. Children meet in their schools, sometimes in their churches, but often do not know their own neighbors. This night I was amused to see the mix of costumes. There were spacemen and superheroes and witches and blue creatures they called Smurfs. There were goblins and other characters from cartoon shows. But this little girl stood out because she and her ballerina costume were both so pretty.

She came inside with her older friends but instead of joining the children who were eating cookies she walked up to me with no fear and said, “Want to see me do a pirouette? That’s French for spin. I have to warn you, it’s not very good yet but I can do one without falling down.”

I told her I would love to see her pirouette. She very carefully set down her bag of Halloween treats and solemnly got into position. When she finished, she curtsied and I applauded and truthfully said she was wonderful!

“Do you want to be a ballerina when you grow up?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. First off, I’m going to be too tall. I love ballet but I also love to sing and act. I’m going to be a triple threat.”

Miranda couldn’t help but smile even as her heart constricted. More than twenty years had passed and she remembered that night with absolute clarity. She positioned herself so her back was comfortably resting against the sofa, then closed her eyes. She could hear Virginia’s gentle voice, a voice that had retained a slight accent even after fifty years in America.

“Triple threat? My, my! That sounds quite scary but very important. What is your name, young lady?”

“Miranda Nolan. What’s yours?”

“People call me Miss Virginia.”

“That’s pretty. It’s also a state. I learned that in school. Its capital is Richmond but I visited Williamsburg last year with my dad and it was neat. We had the best gingerbread ever and we watched these guys making lutes and violins. I want to go back someday.”

“What grade are you in, Miranda?” Virginia had asked.

“Second. We’re learning cursive and I’m terrible. But I’m going to be a Native American princess for our Thanksgiving play at school.” Miranda still recalled how upset she’d been when she told Virginia, “My teacher wants me to do a dance to ‘This Land is Your Land.’”

“Are you worried you can’t do it?”

Miranda had been scornful. “Oh, no! I can do it. It’s a really easy dance! It’s just... Well, Native American princesses didn’t do ballet back then and that song wasn’t written until the 1940s. I looked it up. I’m not stupid just because I’m seven.”

Virginia’s composure had never broken although now, as an adult, Miranda realized the elderly lady had doubtless needed to stifle a laugh or two over Miranda’s serious attempt to resolve her dilemma—the desire to perform versus anachronisms and reality. Virginia had quietly steered the young Miranda into a solution that helped set Miranda’s career in theater in motion.

“This is a fantasy play, Miranda. It is not historically accurate. After all, I do not think the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe sat down to a turkey dinner with stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry jelly and pumpkin pie with whipped cream.”

Miranda had giggled. “Bet they would’ve liked that more than eels and gooseberries! My teacher said that’s what they probably ate. Icky!”

Before she and Virginia could continue the conversation, one of Miranda’s friends had called out, urging Miranda to try a cupcake. Miranda had again curtsied with the grace of a budding ballerina, then thanked Miss Virginia and run to join her friends.

Miranda opened her eyes and continued to read the journal.

As they were leaving I asked if I could take a picture. Miranda and the twins all posed for me in their costumes. Amber and Jillian went outside, but Miranda stopped and again carefully set her bag on the floor. She hugged me.

“Will you come to my Thanksgiving play, Miss Virginia?”

“I will. But only if you come back and perhaps show me a preview of your wonderful dance.”

Miranda beamed at me. Her young blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll do more than that. I promise to come and visit and show you my dances from my studio, too. And sing if you’ll play the piano. I’m taking lessons but I’m not very good. My teacher says my talent is in my feet and voice, not my hands.”

Miranda couldn’t stop herself. She glanced up at Russ even though her eyes were now moist. She’d kept that promise to Virginia—to come entertain her neighbor throughout her own childhood. High school had slowed down the visits but Miranda had still dropped by to sing or dance or ask Virginia to run lines with her. During Miranda’s years in college the visits became far fewer and once Miranda moved to New York, they’d stopped completely. Miranda’s failure to make it home and see the woman who’d been like a mother must have hurt. No wonder Virginia had made Russ her family.

Russ was still staring at her but his expression seemed to have softened slightly. He appeared puzzled.

Miranda squared her shoulders. She rose and handed the journal back to Russ. She didn’t know how to sign but she figured this was an easy phrase. She tapped her watch.

“Time to go.”

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