“At the courthouse,” said Edith. “She’s got another case. Guy accused of writing bad checks. I said, ‘Could we get him to pay us in cash, you reckon?’ But she was not amused.”
“He’s one of Powell’s indigent clients, so I think the state will be footing the bill,” Bill pointed out. “Besides, we’re not supposed to think he’s guilty.”
“Uh-huh.” Edith did not sound convinced. “Maybe you’re not. I have to see that the bills get paid, and I balance the books for this firm. By the way, you got a message this morning. Do you feel up to taking it yet?”
“Depends. Is it Mr. Trowbridge with another crazy question?”
“No. It’s somebody calling about that house ad you had me run in all those newspapers up north. He sounded interested.” She held out a pink message slip. “Try not to sound too eager, though. In real estate deals it makes people suspicious.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Bill. He ambled off to his office to earn his keep.
He was pleased that a response to his ad had come so quickly, but he wasn’t really surprised. It was a wonderful house. He had gone by to visit it at the first of last week, and it really was a period piece. (As were its inhabitants, he thought.) The white colonial house with Corinthian columns and a circular portico was in need of minor repairs-new shutters, perhaps, and a coat of paint-but its interior of hardwood floors and high-ceilinged rooms rich with carving was in perfect condition, lovingly cared for by its house-proud occupants. From the sweeping oak staircase in the front hall to the dormer rooms in the well-swept attic, the house was wonderful. Bill wished he could buy it himself, but the asking price of one million, five hundred thousand was well beyond his means. In fact, he would be hard-pressed to afford the paint for the shutters at his current income level.
Still, he supposed that someone living in the exorbitant urban sprawl between New York and Boston might consider one point five million a bargain price for six thousand square feet of historic house on three acres of oak- shaded lawns.
Bill decided that he wouldn’t have any trouble conveying his enthusiasm for the property, which was just as well, because he thought that the conditions of sale verged on eccentric. They’re little old ladies, he reminded himself. At their age, they’re entitled to be a little strange. They were certainly charming when he visited them, though, dishing out slices of homemade chocolate cake with pecans and fussing over him as if he were a visiting prince. He wanted to sell their house for them as swiftly and profitably as possible so that they could retire to their suburban nursing home carefree and financially secure. The transaction would do wonders for his financial position as well. If it hadn’t been for his bank’s overdraft protection plan, Bill could easily have been another of his partner’s bad-check cases.
Mentally ticking off the bills he could pay with his five percent commission, Bill dialed the phone number on the message slip.
Ten minutes later, in a considerably brighter mood, Bill placed another call, this one to Miss Flora Dabney at the Home for Confederate Women. By the time he heard her silvery voice on the other end of the line he was almost humming, his back problems and his parents’ strife neatly banished from his thoughts. “Miss Flora? This is Bill MacPherson, your attorney, and I have good news.”
“Has someone responded to your ad? So soon?”
“I just spoke to him and he’s very interested in the house. His name is John Huff. He lives in Connecticut, but he’d like to acquire a house in Virginia.”
Flora Dabney did not seem overly thrilled by the news. After a brief pause she said, “Did you tell Mr. Huff our terms, Bill?”
“Certified check? Yep. I explained that you wanted a quick sale, and that you didn’t want the transaction tied up in bank-loan red tape. Mr. Huff said that there wouldn’t be any problem about financing. I think he’s loaded. He’d like to fly down and view the house. Would Wednesday afternoon suit you, Miss Flora? I promised I’d call back and let him know.”
After a protracted silence, Flora Dabney said, “I suppose Wednesday would be all right. Will you be available that afternoon, Bill?”
“Yes, of course,” said Bill, whose afternoons were usually spent doing crossword puzzles. “I thought I’d meet Mr. Huff at the airport and bring him out to the house. What time would you like us to arrive?”
There was another longish pause at the other end of the telephone. “Bill,” Flora Dabney said at last, “we want you to show Mr. Huff the house. We’ll leave the key in the mailbox for you.”
“You want me-” Bill stared at the phone as if it had misquoted Flora Dabney.
“Yes. You show the house. We think that would be best. This house has been home to us for many years now, and naturally we feel a bit emotional about having to part with it, even though we have agreed that it’s for the best. Still, I don’t think any of us are up to the task of showing our beloved house to a stranger. Did he sound like a Northerner to you, Bill?”
“I guess so,” said Bill, who hadn’t given the matter any thought until now. “But don’t you think you’d be in a better position to answer any questions he might have about the property? I’ve only been in the house once. What if I get lost?”
Flora Dabney’s laugh was a silvery peal from a bygone belle. “Lost? Why, I just know that a clever young man like you couldn’t possibly do a silly thing like that. And you probably know all those amazing things about wiring and plumbing that we are just mystified by. You’ll do a splendid job of showing the Northern gentleman around. And don’t you worry about having us old ladies underfoot. The eight of us will all go out to tea that afternoon, so we won’t be in your way one little bit. Now phone Mr. Huff back and tell him that Wednesday will be perfectly fine.”
“But what if he wants to buy the house? What if he wants to make an offer? Don’t you want to meet him?”
“Why, no, Bill,” said Flora Dabney. “It isn’t necessary for us to meet the gentleman. We all trust your judgment.”
At the sound of the dial tone Bill replaced the phone and began to paw through the papers on his desk in seach of something to do. Amidst a stack of notes on Trowbridge questions, he found another pink memo with a message to himself in the angular handwriting of A. P. Hill.
Vaguely Bill remembered the conversation in which he had discussed the house sale with his busy law partner. Obviously she hadn’t trusted him to remember her advice, which was just as well, because in fact the task had slipped his mind. Pocketing the square of paper, Bill strolled out into the reception area, where Edith was counting the paper clips.
“I have an important job for you,” he announced in the hearty tones of one who hopes to be convincing.
“Go get your own hot dog,” said Edith without looking up from her task.
“No, this is a legal assignment,” Bill insisted. “I need you to go to the courthouse and look up the deed to a house. It’s called a title search. It’s the sort of thing that legal secretaries do, while attorneys devote themselves to more technical matters.”
“Okay,” said Edith.
“This will be time-consuming, but not difficult,” said Bill, wisely choosing to ignore her comments. In fact, Bill had never done a real title search, although they had certainly studied the art in law school until he thought he would go mad from boredom. Carefully he explained the procedure to Edith: how to look in the deed books, how to follow the chain of ownership back from one property transaction to another. “This will probably be very simple,” he assured her. “The house has belonged to the Confederate widows and daughters since the turn of the century. Just photocopy all the relevant pages and bring them back here, and I’ll check over them.”
Edith held out her hand. “I’ll need dimes and quarters for the copy machine.”
Bill fished out a handful of change from his pants pocket. There went lunch, he thought. After jotting down the salient points of the assignment on a yellow legal pad, Bill sent Edith off to the courthouse. Then he phoned John Huff with the good news: he could fly down on Wednesday and view the house.
The office of John Huff was an elegant lair of oak paneling and green leather, but in his own mind, Nathan Kimball referred to it as the Roach Motel, and he secretly dreaded every visit he was forced to make to his client’s inner sanctum. Kimball did not, of course, share these misgivings with the senior partners of Fremont, Shields,
