“And what did she say?”
“She wants me to handle the whole thing.”
“Don’t they want to meet this fellow who’s buying their house?”
“Apparently not. We finally decided that I would draw up a power of attorney form and go over there now and get it signed. Then at the closing tomorrow, I’ll sign the papers on their behalf.”
“Who gets the money, then?”
“Mr. Huff gives me a cashier’s check or wires the funds or whatever, and it gets deposited in the firm’s trust account. Then I deduct our commission, and pay the rest to Miss Dabney and her housemates. So that won’t change.”
“Did you remember to call Mr. Kimball and tell him that tomorrow is all set?”
“Yeah, just now,” said Bill. “I also asked him about defendants who use phony names, but he was no help.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Just another one of Mr. Trowbridge’s questions. I’d better get going now if I want to get all this done. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Want me to bring back a pizza?”
“Are you buying?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “Company expenses.”
“Then bring back two pizzas,” said Edith. “I’ll need all my strength to complete this paperwork.”
After a frantic scramble through the reference books, Bill managed to find the power-of-attorney instructions, type them up on his computer, and produce a presentable-looking printout to take with him to the Home for Confederate Women. As he drove out Highway 58 toward the old mansion, he tried to remember everything he knew about real estate transactions, just to make sure that he wasn’t overlooking anything. It seemed simple enough. He’d be glad to get this case out of the way; perhaps then he could get a more interesting one. He was a little jealous of his partner’s newfound importance as the defender of an accused murderer. And what was Bill doing? Paperwork in a divorce and answering stupid questions for Calvin Trowbridge. He would also be glad to finalize the house sale because, as unexciting as it was, it would be his first case, successfully completed; then he could feel that he was really a lawyer.
He turned down the quiet country road that led to the white-columned mansion, enjoying the country scenery, golden in the late afternoon sun, and thinking how pleasant it was that his first lawyerly duty should be an act of benevolent service for a group of sweet, helpless old ladies.
In the mahogany dining room Flora Dabney had assembled the other residents of the home for a conference. She explained to them that Bill MacPherson (“That nice young man!”) had succeeded in finding a buyer for the house, and that the sale would take place tomorrow. “I thought it best for us not to attend personally,” she said. “So I’ve asked Bill to come out here and bring a power-of-attorney form for us to sign. That way he can represent us at the actual closing, and we need not be present.”
Ellen Morrison looked up with a worried frown. “But how will we be paid? Can we trust this lawyer?”
“He’s very young, dear,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of defrauding helpless old ladies.”
“There was a Union general called McPherson in the War,” Lydia Bridgeford pointed out. Her interest in genealogy occasionally spilled over into other people’s antecedents.
“I believe they spell it differently,” said Flora Dabney. “At any rate, the buyer is paying cash, so the money should be ours within the week. Of course that means we shall have to move out rather quickly. I’m sure the gentleman will want to take possession without delay.”
Julia Hotchkiss watched silently from her wheelchair with a bag of Fig Newtons wrapped in her lap robe. She waited for signs of refreshments, and when none were forthcoming, she eased a cookie out of the folds of the blanket and, when she thought no one was looking, stuffed it in her cheek.
“The important thing is that the money be safe,” said Ellen Morrison. “I lived through the Great Depression once, and I don’t mean to live hand to mouth ever again. I’ve been seeing in the paper about these banks going under and whatnot, and I just don’t know that I trust them.”
Flora Dabney and Dolly Smith looked at each other. “That’s quite true, Ellen,” Flora said after a moment’s pause. “It is important that the money be safe, because at our age we are not likely to come by much more of it. I discussed that very point with Mary Lee when we first decided to go through with this.”
“Yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I knew just who to ask. You know that nice young fellow who comes by to take me to church? He’s in banking. So about a month ago I asked him what would be a really safe place to put money, and of course he said that his bank was as secure as they come. But I laughed and said that I had been watching a television program, and that the people on the show made a lot of money in a shady way, and they did something else with it.” She blushed. “I’m afraid I fibbed about the TV program, but it was in a good cause.”
“Well?” said Dolly Smith impatiently. “What did he say?”
“At first he talked about money laundering. I never could make head nor tails of his explanation-so I said I didn’t think that was it. Finally, as we were pulling into the church parking lot, he laughed-in that superior way men have-and he said, ‘Well, Miss Mary, you could always stash your ill-gotten gains in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. They won’t tell anybody who’s got what.’ ”
“What in the world are the Cayman Islands?” asked Anna Douglas from the doorway. As usual, she was late for the meeting.
“They’re in the Caribbean,” said Mary Lee. “Not that it matters, because you don’t have to go there, although I’m sure they’re very nice. All I had to do was telephone a bank there and ask to set up an account, and I sent them a check.”
“For how much?” asked Lydia Bridgeford. “We can’t spare much.”
“Sixty-five dollars,” said Mary Lee. “Half of that was Flora’s. We bought a money order at the 7-Eleven and sent it in.”
“In your name?” asked Ellen. “But what if something happens to you? How will we get the money?”
“All you need is the account number and the paperwork. They explained it all to me. You just use the number for transactions. Besides, I opened the account in a different name altogether. Mrs. James Ewell Brown Stuart.”
Lydia Bridgeford nodded approvingly. “Jeb Stuart, eh? I expect he’d rather like that. After all, he was born in the next county over, so he is rather a neighbor of ours.”
“Except of course that he’s dead,” said Mary Lee Pendleton.
“At Yellow Tavern in 1864,” sighed Flora, who had rather a thing about the late general.
“I’d hardly have opened an account for him if he
“Well, perhaps not,” said Dolly Smith.
“You want me to do what with the money?” asked Bill MacPherson, staring at the circle of smiling pink faces.
“It’s very simple,” Flora Dabney assured him. “I expect you haven’t done that sort of transaction before, but there’s really nothing to worry about. You simply instruct your bank to wire it to this account number at
“But why do you want the money wired to a Caribbean island?” wailed Bill.
“We thought we might go there,” said Dolly Smith. “My doctor said it might help my arthritis.”
“But why deposit the money there? They take traveler’s checks in the Caymans.”
Flora Dabney smiled. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing. Will you promise not to laugh if we confide in you?”
Bill nodded.
“Well, it’s just that we felt a little funny about selling
“My dear papa never believed in banks after ’29,” said Ellen Morrison. “And I believe most of them are controlled out of New York, which just goes to show you.”
