Leon looked past her at the empty car.
“Oh, she’s here. She’ll be back in a moment. Perhaps she took a walk.”
Leon looked perplexed. The night was cold and damp, the woods dark and forbidding.
Susan briefly pressed her lips together. “She probably heard an owl. It’s easy to lose her when she hears an owl.”
At that moment, an owl hooted.
“Owls.” He nodded in agreement. “Lots of owls in December.”
“She has good hearing.” Susan turned and called out. “Bailey Ruth, come in and meet Leon.” For good measure, unseen by Leon, she added an imperative jerk of her thumb.
Susan meant well, but I regretted that she was bandying my name about. If anyone cared enough, my name could be found in the family plot along with Bobby Mac’s on a column dedicated to our memory. Bobby Mac loved the inscription:
I whispered in her ear. “Not Bailey Ruth. When I come in, introduce me as Ms. Loy.” I’d appropriated Myrna Loy’s name when I made cameo appearances as a policewoman during my previous adven-mission in Adelaide. What harm could it do to recall her once again? I’d be sure and tell her the next time I saw her. She and William Powell have continued to star on the truly Great White Way as Nick and Nora Charles. With Asta, of course.
I waited until the door closed behind Leon and Susan. I swirled into being and opened the door. My smile was apologetic. “Sorry,” I called. “A great horned owl. Those distinctive low hoos, six of them and the last two louder. I couldn’t resist looking for him.”
Leon’s look was thoughtful. “Mighty dark in the woods.”
I patted the pocket of the mink coat. “I never go out without my flashlight.”
Susan was all charm. “Leon, this is Ms. Loy, a dear friend”—she gave me a quick wink of one eye—“who’s visiting over Christmas.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miz Loy.” Leon ducked his head in my direction. He took our coats and hung them from a wooden coat tree near the door.
A yellow-and-blue macaw in a bronze cage next to a worn leather couch spoke in a cracked falsetto. “Christmas is the merriest time of the year.” He whistled a bar of “Jingle Bells.”
“Oh, you’re a handsome fellow.” Susan was admiring.
“Ladies, this is Archibald. You hush now, Archie.”
The macaw lifted his wings. “Speak when spoken to.”
Leon spread an apologetic hand. “I’m afraid Archie’s manners are rusty. We’re two old bachelors together.”
Archie chattered while Leon brought coffee in ceramic mugs and a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies. He served one to Archie, who munched in satisfaction.
Susan and I sat on the couch and Leon sat in an old and obviously comfortable easy chair with its back to the stairs.
Susan put down the coffee mug. “I came tonight”—her tone was sober, her look questioning—“to ask for your help.”
Leon leaned forward, planted gnarled hands on the knees of his faded Levi’s. “You tell me what you want, Miz Flynn. It’s as good as done.”
The parrot watched us with bright dark eyes. Leon’s living room was small but neat as a workman’s toolbox, magazines in a red wooden rack, the maple side table by the leather couch empty except for a branding-iron lamp. A worn Bible lay open on a shiny maple table next to Leon’s chair. A pair of glasses rested on the pages.
Susan opened her purse and retrieved the letter. She pulled out the sheet and handed it to Leon. “Please read this.”
Leon picked up the glasses from atop the Bible. He adjusted them on his beaked nose and painstakingly read, his lips silently forming the words. He looked at Susan and tapped the top of the sheet. “This here says it’s your will.”
Susan nodded. “I wrote it tonight and I want you to witness it for me when I sign it. Will you do that?”
“Sure enough.” But his face was puzzled. “You always handled everything right well, Miz Flynn. The ranch and the oil leases and the bank. I’ve heard people can write out what they want done with their things and the court will see to it. But Miz Welch, who lives over Tecumseh way, got crossways with her daughter and wrote out a paper leaving her place to a slick-talking lease broker and the judge he said there was undue influence and her daughter got everything. Seems like in today’s world”—he picked his words carefully—“everybody’s mighty big on doing things by the book. I’ll be glad to sign whatever you want, but I’m thinking you maybe ought to get a lawyer to fix it up right. Put it into one of those computers.”
Susan reached out and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, Leon. My lawyer will see to everything. And besides,” she laughed, “I’m not disinheriting family like Mrs. Welch. Instead, everything will go to my grandson.”
“Yes’m.” He nodded in approval. “That’s the way it should be. Let me see.” He placed the sheet on the table and patted the pocket of his flannel shirt. “I got a pen somewhere.”
Susan opened her purse. She pulled out a gold-plated pen. She cut her eyes toward me in amused acknowledgment and murmured, “Everything as needed.” She came to her feet, lithe and youthful, and moved to the little maple side table. She bent down to sign and date the will, then pushed the paper to Leon. Susan watched as he carefully wrote his name. “Please put the date, too.”
As Leon finished, tension drained from Susan. “Thank you, Leon.” When she held the precious paper, her smile was tremulous. “We have to go now, but I will always be grateful for your help.”
