“At least seven or eight hundred, if not more,” he readily agreed.
“Instead of giving it directly to the shelter where everything will probably get broken and scattered, you might want to let him sell it and then donate the money to the shelter in your wife’s name. That way they could buy toys and books that are more appropriate for small children.”
“You’re right,” he sighed. “Candace never let any little ones play with it. Not even Dee. She always said it was hers and she was going to be selfish with it.”
Most people, my friend Jamie included, seemed to think that Candace had cared more about power than money, but I was sensing a woman who certainly cared about the things money could buy, beginning with this expensive dollhouse. Yes, it had been a present from her husband, but she had bought herself a lot of presents these past two years. A new car, a fancy house, and a hedonistic custom-built bathroom with three shower heads to spray herself with hot water, our country’s “greatest achievement.”
Hot water? Give me a break.
“I’ll help you load the van,” I told Will. I figured that if the dollhouse was at his warehouse, I had a better chance of sneaking that flash drive back into the little kitchen than if it stayed here until Will moved everything.
On the drive back through Dobbs, Will was excited about the contents of Candace’s house. “The only thing Bradshaw wants to keep is a Thomas Day chest that belonged to a nineteenth-century great-great-grandfather. I think he plans to donate it to the Museum of History. Candace took several other important pieces when they separated, but he doesn’t want to keep them even though they’ve been in the family three or four generations. Says he lived without them these last few years and they might as well go somewhere else now that Dee’s gone and his line has come to an end.”
“It’s so sad,” I said, thinking how unlikely this was to happen in our family anytime soon.
“Sad for him, good for me,” said Will.
He’s really not as heartless as he sounds, but he does tend to view events through the lens of self- interest.
“I’ll have inquiries from Philadelphia to Atlanta when I get the word out about what I’m selling. With a little luck, I can finally hire a full-time assistant.”
“Mr. Bradshaw have any idea why Dee was killed?”
“No, but one odd thing. Whoever shot her didn’t take any of the jewelry—and Candace and Dee both had some nice pieces—but they did take her laptop.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Bradshaw said that the SBI agents who searched the house specifically asked him if Dee had one and he said she did. When we took a closer look at her room, I saw the cord on her bed. It’s still plugged into the wall socket, but the laptop itself is gone.”
To me, that could only mean that the killer knew Dee had Candace’s flash drive. I could almost see Dee finding it in the dollhouse, taking a quick look at the contents on her own computer, and realizing that the data was potential dynamite. With all the foolhardiness of youth, had Dee hidden the drive and then gotten in touch with her killer, not realizing the danger? Her computer was gone, so no way to know if the contact was by e-mail or cell phone.
Who did she call that night?
Who had called her?
Will dropped me at the courthouse, saying he’d see me later.
“Later?”
“Dwight said y’all were coming to Jackson’s game this evening. You forget?”
“Oh, right.”
Will’s son is eighteen and plays shortstop on their high school varsity team. Jackson’s so good that he’s won a baseball scholarship to Florida State next fall, so if we want to see him play without having to travel all around the southeast, these last few months are it.
As I started up the courthouse steps, I met my cousin John Claude Lee, who was on his way back to his office, a much-remodeled 1867 white clapboard a half block away that had served the firm of Lee and Stephenson since the nineteen-twenties.
“Ah, Deborah. Good,” he said. “I have the draft of your wills if you want to pick them up.”
“That was quick,” I said. I’d only called him yesterday morning after talking over the main points with Dwight.
“Everything to each other with Cal the residual beneficiary? Nothing complicated there.”
John Claude has had snow-white hair from my earliest memory of him. He’s sedate and dignified and one of the most thoroughly ethical attorneys I’ve ever known, with a dry sense of humor and an old-fashioned set of manners. He offered his arm to me, and as we walked over to his office, he took the outside edge of the sidewalk in case any carriages should try to spatter mud on my long petticoats and high-button shoes. Never mind that there have been no carriages or mud puddles on the streets of Dobbs in fifty years, and that it hadn’t rained in over a week.
“Well, hey, stranger,” said Sherry Cobb, the firm’s office manager, when we entered the reception area. Small and dark-haired, she flashed me a smile that was genuinely welcoming.
For a moment, a wave of regretful nostalgia swept over me, even though Sherry used to drive me up the wall with her bossiness and incessant chatter when I was in practice here. Except for a year in the DA’s office, this had been my home from the time I passed the bar till I was appointed to the bench, and a lot of good memories were housed in these rooms.
Now she handed me the draft of the wills and gave John Claude a list of the calls he needed to return.
He kissed my cheek with a cousinly sweetness and said, “Now you let me know if there are any changes you
