“Well, how have you been?” asked Tommy, casting about for safe topics of inquiry.
“All right, I guess. There’s not much to do around here, though. And the public library is most deficient in the sciences.”
Tommy endeavored to look sympathetic. Then, noticing the boxes of herbal tea, he said, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the library, but I can recommend another place for you to grocery-shop. Did you know that a health-food place has opened in the old gristmill?”
The stranger looked interested. “No kidding! Macrobiotic stuff?”
“Er… probably,” said Tommy, who wouldn’t have shopped there at gunpoint. “Kelp and trail mix and that sort of thing. It’s called Earthlings. You should check them out.”
“Thanks, I will.” Tommy had intended for that to be the end of the encounter, but the young man steadied the tea boxes, making no attempt to move on. “Listen, there’s something I need to ask you.” He cast furtive glances up and down the aisle of the supermarket. “Just a quick question, really. Do you think you could answer it off the top of your head-without having to consult files in your office, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Tommy, eyeing his frozen food with some concern. “I could try.”
“It’s about my great-aunt Augusta’s will. You looked into the matter a couple of years ago when my sister Eileen-just before she-”
Tommy managed to suppress a smile of triumph. He had it! Charles Chandler! A bit more scruffy and gaunt than he remembered, but the family resemblance had struck him at last. “Yes, Charles,” he said smoothly. “I do recall that instance. What would you like to know about the will?”
“I wondered about the wording. You know, the circumstances required to inherit.”
“It was strange, wasn’t it?” said Tommy, nodding. “A classic case of the vindictive will. Some people love to take parting shots. Apparently your great-aunt had married against her family’s wishes and her fortune derived from that action.”
Charles blinked. “I guess you could say that. I heard that her husband died and she invested his money in California real estate. It’s all in trust now, though.”
“Yes. Apparently she wanted to remind the family that affairs had turned out for the best, despite their opinions to the contrary. Never mind that most of those who opposed her marriage had predeceased her.”
“Well, her brother-that’s my grandfather-is still around. But he hasn’t changed his mind, either.”
“Anyway, according to the terms of her will, she, being childless, left the money to whichever of her great-nieces or nephews should marry first.”
“Marry first,” said Charles. “Not just get engaged?”
“Correct. Remember, your sister was formally engaged before her unfortunate passing.” Tommy preferred not to utter the word death-just as he managed to avoid most of the other one-syllable expressions of Anglo-Saxon derivation. It was a natural inclination, fortified by his training in the law. “Remember that her fiancé did not receive the bequest.”
Charles nodded. “True. Okay, so you have to be legally married. No stipulations other than that?”
“I’d have to double-check, but I think the answer is no.”
“How much is the estate worth now?”
“Now that I would have to look up,” said Tommy, edging toward his grocery cart. “But considering what has happened to California real estate in recent years, I’d say well over a million. Yes, that’s safe to say. I think you could sell a doghouse in Los Angeles for that.”
Charles grabbed the attorney’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Thanks!” he cried. “You’ve been a great help!”
“No, not at all. You’re entitled to know.” Tommy could hear the self-justification in his own voice, as if he were denying responsibility for the outcome of this discussion.
Tommy Simmons wheeled his cart toward the checkout counters with the inexorable feeling that while he may have been helpful to Charles Chandler, he had also just been a great nuisance to somebody else. He wondered who would suffer from Charles’s newfound discovery.
Although the wedding of Elizabeth MacPherson was still more than ten days away, the atmosphere on the Chandler premises had begun to take on that charged quality indicative of approaching thunderstorms. Both Amanda and Mildred, the housekeeper, had taken to following the other occupants about with hand-held vacuum cleaners; the carpeting was clammy from frenzied applications of rug shampoo; and the smell of Murphy’s Oil Soap lingered in the air.
Moreover, despite all attempts to convey to Amanda their sincere and complete indifference to the impending occasion, the male Chandlers were endlessly regaled with the minutiae of the plans concerning the decorations, the reception, and the costumes of the participants, themselves included.
In desperation Dr. Robert Chandler had invented the necessity to rewrite chapter seven of his book on the whim of his editor, who was conveniently away on vacation in Nassau, unaware that he had been cast as the villain of the charade. The fugitive author had taken refuge in his study, ostensibly to complete this vital task, with strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, and his wife supposed him to be toiling away before the silent word processor in thrall to a deadline. He was careful to keep the television volume turned low and to hide his cache of Louis L’Amour novels behind the filing cabinet in case of unannounced visits from the wedding terrorists.
The doctor’s companion in exile was Valerian, an imposing Maine Coon Cat, whose shaggy and shedding dark coat had thrown him into disfavor with the current regime. After having been driven from the sofa, the armchair, and even the carpeted staircase by cleaning fanatics, the feline emperor had demanded asylum by scratching on the door of the doctor’s study and meowing piteous complaints about his ill-treatment. All eighteen pounds of him were now comatose and sprawled across the book galleys as he recuperated from the fatigue of an interrupted nap. His fellow refugee napped in the chesterfield chair by the window.
When someone tapped softly at the door of the study, Dr. Chandler awoke with a start-and with just enough presence of mind to thrust his paperback between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair. Valerian did not twitch so much as an eyelid.
“Come in!” called Dr. Chandler, scrambling to get to his desk. Unfortunately, his manuscript was buried under an avalanche of cat, so he endeavored to look busy with a yellow legal pad.
“Robert, I thought you might like some coffee,” said his wife, appearing in the doorway with two cups and a plate of cookies on a newly polished silver tray. The tray and the fact that the cups were from a set of antique Bavarian china, usually kept in the bow-fronted display cabinet, were other signs of the rampant formality occasioned by the wedding. “I see you plan to join me, dear,” said Dr. Chandler, eyeing the second coffee cup. “How thoughtful.”
The invasion having been accomplished with the utmost civility, Amanda set the tray on the glass-topped table and settled into the chesterfield chair with the air of one who is about to preside at a meeting. “How is your chapter coming?” she asked, handing him the plate of cookies.
“Oh, tolerably,” he replied, glancing nervously at the cat. “It’s painstaking work, you know.”
“No. I cannot think why anyone would want to write a book. It pays very little and people only seem to read them in order to express unkind opinions about them.” She shrugged. “Really, why bother? But you go right ahead with your little hobby. I just wanted to tell you how things were progressing with the wedding.”