Legacy of Silence. Flo Fitzpatrick
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.”
“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