Legacy of Silence. Flo Fitzpatrick
“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.”
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