Chapter 24
"Surprise of the Century"
LUTHER FINN, ATTOURNEY AT LAW, REMINDS ME OF WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT. HE ALWAYS DID.
WE'VE KNOWN EACH OTHER A LONG TIME, LUTHER AND ME. I REMEMBER SITTING IN HIS OFFICE WITH MY PARENTS WHEN I WAS A KID. MY DAD WAS STATIONED AT FORT KNOX THEN, AND I WAS CONSTANTLY UNDER HIS GLOWERING SCRUTINY, SO I DID NOT SNICKER AT LUTHER'S BULK, OR HIS PRODIGIOUS MUSTACHE; NOR WAS I RUDE IN ANY WAY. BUT I WAS TOTALLY FASCINATED BY THE CIRCUMFERENCE OF HIS GIRTH. IT WAS SERIOUSLY EMANCIPATED.
LIKE THE SLAVES AFTER THE CIVIL WAR … AND YOU CAN MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WISH …
LUTHER'S MAHOGANY DESK WAS SET APPROXIMATELY DEAD CENTER IN HIS SPACIOUS OFFICE, JUST AS IT HAD BEEN IN MY VERY YOUNG MEMORY: THREE CLIENT CHAIRS IN FRONT, BARRISTER BOOK-CASES AGAINST THE WALL BEHIND. HUGE BURGANDY LEATHER SOFA AND ARM CHAIR ACROSS THE ROOM. THERE WAS A MINI FRIDGE AND SNACK BAR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LARGE OPEN SPACE, AND PLENTY OF ROOM TO MANEUVER. GOD KNEW HE NEEDED EVERY INCH. WHEN I WAS ELEVEN, I CALLED HIM "WILLY THE WHALE", MUCH TO THE DISMAY OF MY MOTHER.
When I saw that huge man leaning out the driver's window of the big car at the airport in Lexington, all the smartass thoughts I used to have about 'Willy the Whale' came rushing back. Never mind that I was in town due to the deaths of my mother and stepfather. I felt the urge to giggle behind my laced fingers as I had done when I was eleven. I had to bite my lip to stem the impulse.
Luther Finn was much older now. He was grayer. Most of his hair had gone the way of the dinosaur, and his glasses were thicker. He hadn't lost any of the weight. In fact, he might have gained some.
For a few moments I experienced déjà vu in spades. Visions of 'then' and 'now' metamorphosed before my eyes and inside my brain.
I blinked and the room blended back into a single picture. Luther was saying something …
He was backed up against his desk. His meaty fingers were twisting together in acute embarrassment, and I came to the realization that he was apologizing to me, for Pete's sake.
"… and I'm so sorry for continuing to stare at you. I know I need to put my confusion away once and for all before you become angry with me for not minding my own business. But you are so thin, Greg. When we met at your father's funeral a few years ago, you were looking healthy and walking fairly well with a cane. I'm so sorry I can't let it go. I want you to know that anything I can possibly do to make this trip easier for you, I'll go to any lengths …"
"Luther … please. It's not as bad as it looks. A week ago I flew home from a year in Barbados. I was tired, and I hadn't eaten much, and I had a lot of things to take care of when I got back. I haven't had enough sleep, I still have some jet lag, I think … and then I found out about Mom and Thomas, and I can't seem to get beyond it. It's making me crazy, and sometimes my leg reacts to what's going on in my head.
"I flew down here on short notice, and I'm still tired and washed out. I know I look like I'm on my last legs. I feel terrible. Now I find out that this process will take a long time, and my luggage is in the trunk of my car, and my car is in the long-term lot at the Newark airport. I assure you, when I've had some time to recover and get back into some sort of circadian rhythm, I won't look like something being dragged behind a pickup truck. The leg is the leg, and there's nothing to be done about it. I'm older, and it hates me. I'm learning to work around it because I have no choice."
Luther stood and stared at me, every contour of his face lined with doubt. He looked like a fretful cherub. I gave him the full force of my most charming smile … and he picked the bullshit out of the air like he would pick a morsel of broccoli from between his teeth.
"You sound very convincing," he said. "But I know when I'm being hustled, eh?"
I sighed and nodded. He had called my bluff very easily. He probably remembered what I had been like as a kid. "Just so you know," he continued, "I know when you're bullshitting me. You are not well. I can tell that just to look at you. You will rest while you are here … and take care of yourself. I will see to it that this process will be as easy on you as possible."
There came a sudden rap at the door.
"Come on in, Willy," Luther said.
The door opened and a very tall, well-appointed African American man walked in, nodded to me and moved over to stand stiffly beside the desk with Luther.
I parried my attention a little nervously between them. The big guy looked very formidable, and I speculated for a moment whether he and Luther were wearing wires. It seemed to me that he knew precisely when to come to the door. I shifted in the chair, squeezed my thigh and glowered.
*Who's hustling who here?*
"Greg," Luther said, "I want you to meet Willy Ortiz, who is the firm's head of security. Willy, this is Gregory House, the man I've been telling you about. He's the son of John and Blythe House and the stepson of Thomas Bell."
Ortiz raised both eyebrows and grinned. The gesture transformed him from a security guard to a running back for the Cincinnati Bengals. His dark-bronze face broke apart in the middle and I saw a row of perfect white teeth that would have done credit to Denzel Washington.
"So you're Dr. House," he said. "It's nice to finally meet you, and I'm really sorry it has to be under these circumstances." We shook hands and he stepped back again. "Mr. Finn and Mr. Loftus tried everything they could think of to get in touch with you, but every clue led to a dead end. Dr. Foreman and his staff had no idea where you might be. We were desperate enough to begin checking airlines and cruise lines and international police when you called."
"Thank you," I said, thinking to myself that the persona of Greg House had already submerged himself into Kyle Calloway by then, leaving another dead end. I let it ride. Instead: "It was a shock to find out they'd died within months of each other. The last time I spoke to Mom, they were getting ready to go on vacation to Scotland. At least they had that."
"We went in with a crew to clean the house after her funeral," Luther added, "dispose of everything perishable. We gathered their paperwork from the safe and the desk, and made up an itemized list. But only you have access to the safety deposit boxes. We decided against getting a court order. Everything is waiting for you."
"I appreciate everything you've done," I said. "Since my leg went downhill, I've turned into pretty much of a recluse. I have chronic pain, and I don't like people to witness it. I did some island hopping and tried to rest for a year. I thought I might be able to walk with my cane again, but it just hasn't happened. Now I'm home just in time to find out my mother and her husband are gone … and …"
Further words would not come; every utterance on my part felt repetitive. I turned to stare out the window.
Luther came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. "We have an idea that might work for you, Greg."
I looked up, questioning. When had they had the time? (Never mind … somehow I knew they were connected like the Secret Service to the President.)
"Suppose Willy were to fly back to Newark, pick up your car and drive it down here. Two days at the outside. And suppose, instead of checking into a hotel, you moved into your parents' house … temporarily. The utilities are still hooked up, and you would have all the privacy you need. At the same time, Willy and I would be just a phone call away if you need us. Would you like some time to think about it?"
I sighed. Shrugged.
*Ah hell … moving in with the spooks and goblins. Mom and Dad's ghosts would get to meet all my ghosts …*
I shrugged again and shook my head. "Sounds okay to me. Do either of you know if there's any of my dad's Kentucky Bourbon stashed away somewhere?"
That night, after dinner, they drove me to The House. We entered by the front door where there was only one step up. I was too tired and too sore to notice. Willy and Luther waited for me until I showered and medicated and made myself ready for bed.
Lazily I sat propped against the pillows in the housekeeper's quarters as they explained their plans for the following day. I dug the keys and parking permit for the Dynasty out of the backpak and handed them to Willy, who pocketed them in turn. He was taken aback when I told him he would be driving an old Dodge Dynasty with hand controls.
"Don't make fun of my car!" I scolded him. "It looks and runs like new." (Not a word about my suicidal smashup or Vince's beautiful repair job).
When I became drowsy, they made to leave. My crutches and backpak were left on the wheelchair that they had pulled up near the bed in case I needed it during the night. Luther would come by to make us breakfast at nine in the morning, and Willy would hop a flight to Newark. When he returned with the Dynasty, they would help me get settled in. Then we would begin sorting through the mountain of legal documents and papers to probate the wills. It would be a tiring job, requiring hours of research and comparisons, and I had a sinking feeling that Luther would be doting on me like a nursemaid.
I sighed and sank into a deep sleep. I never heard them leave.
After breakfast the following morning, Luther and I shared the probate files across the kitchen table between us. Piles and piles of files and files. One of them was so thick that it looked like a manuscript for a novel by Stephen King. Paging through it, I discovered that it was a huge document with a complete listing of assets from the estate, and their estimated value. Nothing had been overlooked; even down to the food in the chest freezer in the basement and canned and jarred goods still in the kitchen pantry. There was even a list of items declared perishable and thrown away.
*Holy shit!*
It took about three hours of undivided concentration just to sort everything into categories. The house was full of mementoes accumulated over many years of Mom and Dad's marriage, and even more stuff added to it when she and Thomas Bell married and he added his numerous possessions to the whole.
About halfway through, I began to realize the extent of their resources, and why Luther had been so frantic to get in touch with me. He'd been left with an entire double-estate lying in limbo. His firm would have had to spend time searching for even the most distant relatives of both families, which might have taken months, and eaten up much of the assets. It would have been a nightmare. No wonder he was so glad to see me, and why he was treating me with kid gloves. He needed me to live long enough to relieve him of all that fucking responsibility. It was funny in a way, but ultimately sad in the long run.
When we had finally gone through the entire pile of lists and affidavits and legal rigamarole, and Luther had briefed me on all the hoops I must jump through to collect my rightful inheritance, I 'affixed my signature' a hundred times. At least it seemed that way. Luther stuffed the intimidating stack of papers into his huge briefcase to file later, as proof that I had read them, understood them and accepted them.
(Hahahahahaha …) I "understood" nothing! Not a freakin' word.
He slid a legal-size manila envelope across the desk. In it were savings passbooks, now transferred to my name. There were three individual retirement accounts and three Roth IRAs. Four automobile titles, deeds to three cemetery plots, a deed to eighteen acres of woodland in upper New York State, a past-due bill from the funeral home in Lexington, one from the cemetery, a bill from Finn, Gladsburg, Stein and Loftus, and the deed to the house in which we were sitting. I was beginning to feel a bit like John D. Rockefeller, Jr.
I thought of Alan Rance Packard, Jr. and had to smile in fond remembrance. Packy would have laughed his ass off at the irony …
I was into something much more intricate than I'd ever imagined. I always knew my parents were frugal and seldom spent their money foolishly, and I knew that Thomas Bell was a man of great means. What I didn't know, however, was the fact that together they had amassed a legacy far beyond my wildest imagination. Not that I'd ever have asked questions or pried into their affairs. I made a good living of my own and couldn't have cared less about their means of managing theirs …
… and then Dad died and Mom had the house and all their accumulated paraphernalia from all over the globe … and Thomas Bell came along … well, maybe not 'came along', since he was already there … but … Jesus Mighty!
And so on and et cetera and ad infinitum …
Amid all the sadness and regret at their passing, there was a riotous amount of macabre humor running around in my head. The ridiculousness of it all; the legal rigamarole and tongue-twisting sentences that made my hair hurt and my teeth itch. I couldn't bring myself to expend the effort to translate it to any semblance of comprehensible phrasing … and I cared even less. So I set that secret switch that everyone has in their heads, and turned it off.
Finally, most of it was signed and legal and stuffed into the Pony Express pouch, so to speak. There was another document on the table in front of me providing for transfer of utilities and other miscellaneous items that would accrue after the inheritance had been transferred to the heir and the grace period had passed. I signed it, agreeing to pay any outstanding accumulations.
*Why the hell not!? Not like I can't afford it …*
The statements of value transferred to my name caused my jaw to drop when I read the amounts. The house had been appraised at $950,000 and the land in New York at $120,000. The furniture and major appliances were worth another $25,000 on the used market. (At auction they would likely bring more, Luther said.) Mom owned some Victorian and antique jewelry that had been passed down from her family, plus some pieces of her own. It was worth more than $200,000. Guns, military artifacts, tools, maintenance equipment and antiques I never knew existed, added up to $162,000. Thomas had a stamp collection to which he contributed from time to time, and kept in a separate safety deposit box. At current market value it was worth over $250,000. The rest of his estate, over and above my mother's, had been appraised at just over a half-million bucks.
*Ahhhhhhh …*
In addition, four vehicles were in the garage in the basement: Dad's silver Dodge Ram 1500, Thomas' Porsche Panamera, Mom's Toyota Avalon, and a well-preserved Willys Jeep, circa 1940 that I had never seen. They were low mileage (except for the Jeep) and the total value was almost $200,000, depending on the current market.
*Sheee-itt!
As it turned out, Luther explained, there were two other savings accounts and another retirement account located at another bank, with a total value of a half-million dollars.
I was getting a headache.
Mentally adding up everything, watching the numbers blast off toward the moon, I looked across at Luther Finn, whose 'William Howard Taft' belly was jiggling as he chuckled at the blank look on my face. My leg was beating an achy accompanying rhythm in time with my blood pressure. This was getting ridiculous.
"Oh. My. God! They were millionaires. How did they do it? I had no idea."
"Yup," Luther grunted. "They were. Your father and Mr. Bell were canny investors. I believe they were wealthier than even they realized. They put their money in the bank every month and the interest built. As you will notice, there are two passbooks that haven't been touched in years. I think they forgot about them. And now you will reap the benefits, dear boy."
He drew a deep breath and continued to smile at me with the giddy sort of expression one might see on the face of a Koala Bear cub. "Is there anything of the common assets you can think of that you definitely want to keep? Such as the vehicles? Furnishings? Antiques or tools and the like?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and attempted to talk. All that came out was a flurry of barely distinguishable words that made no sense, even to me. Luther was laughing out loud, a merry, jolly sound that had me smiling in spite of myself. "You think this is hilarious, don't you?!" I grumbled.
"Yeah," he said between chuckles. "I do. You're mortified. You're also afraid this is a dream. Your face is pale as a ghost, and you don't act like any other brand-new millionaire I've ever met. I hope you don't mind if I enjoy your bewilderment for a few more moments ..."
"Nah … I don't mind. You're good for what ails me, Luther. You make me feel messed up in a good way when I'm around you. I appreciate it."
"I thank you, my boy. Likewise. And you didn't answer my question."
"What question?"
"What is it among all this accumulation that you would wish to keep?"
*Oh yeah …*
"Well … I think I want the family portraits and photo albums for sure. Mom's piano and her wedding and engagement rings … and Dad's wedding ring. I'd like to keep them in my sock drawer … when I get a sock drawer again somewhere. Maybe Thomas's too.
"And there's someone back on Barbados who could make good use of Dad's pickup truck. Maybe I'll find some odds and ends later, but that's all I can think off right now."
"And that's all?" Luther asked incredulously.
"Yeah, I think so. The rest of it can be liquidated … like an estate sale or something along that line. Could your firm handle that? I know nothing about this stuff, and you do. Could you do it?"
"Willy Ortiz has vast experience in liquidating property. He would be the man you want. He has already departed for Newark, so you can ask him tomorrow when he gets here with your car. Now it is time for us to do a walk-through of your folks' house. Are you up for it? Is your leg up for it?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I think so. But I can't do steps, so we're kind of limited to one floor. It will be good to get out of this chair awhile though. My arse has gone numb …"
We did the walk-through. There were boxes and boxes of boxes full of boxes. Odd pieces of furniture piled upon one another. Two beds in the guest bedroom upended … and more boxes jammed into boxes. There wasn't much laying out that we could actually count or go through. We looked over the ground floor quickly and returned to the kitchen.
*What a freakin' mess this is gonna be!*
"Could you drink a cup of coffee, Greg?"
"Huh? Oh … I sure could. May I impose on you to bring my backpak out of the bedroom? My leg hurts like hell, and it's time I took some meds before it gets worse …"
He paled. "I'm sorry. I was thoughtless about that. Of course I'll go get it. Hang on …" He was flustered about not having thought about retrieving medicine that was my responsibility. I'd have to talk to him about that. Reminding me of my absent-mindedness was not up to him.
When he returned with the backpak, I dug out my Vicodin and took two pills. He watched me throw back my head and dog-swallow them. "Are you in a lot of pain, Greg?"
"Yeah … but some of it is coming from the jumble of stuff churning around in my head right now. As I said, sometimes one thing feeds off another. As soon as my head stops spinning from the events of the past few days, the better my leg will behave. Hopefully. Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
He was still frowning. From smiling cherub to fretful grandfather; Luther was a bundle of emotion today just as I was. (And I hated like hell for my feelings to show on my face.)
"It's better, Luther. The pills are starting to work". (Liar!)
"Okay," he said. "Now how about that pot of coffee?"
"You have my vote," I said.
And we laughed. But it was strained.
*Mom is dead …*
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