Free Frame 232 by Wil Mara

have some investments, which you are aware of. I know you’ve been managing them for the last few months, since your mama gave you control over her assets.”
    Sheila remembered the conversation, one of the last they’d had in the house. Her mother struggled to get from her bedroom on the first floor   —which had originally been a sitting room until she could no longer climb the stairs   —to the kitchen. They’d always had money discussions at the kitchen table for some reason. And there, with that accursed oxygen mask strapped to her face, her mother had announced, in atypically straightforward manner, that Sheila was being given control of all her worldly possessions. “You’re going to get all of it in the end anyway,” she said. “What’s the difference?”
    “Does this look right to you?” Moore asked, passing over a summary sheet. Sheila studied it briefly and saw that the bottom-line figure matched the one she’d calculated recently. Midrange five digits.
    “Yes, this is correct.”
    “Good. As for the house, I’m sure you also know that the mortgage has been paid in full.”
    “In November of ’92.”
    One of the proudest days of her parents’ lives. Her father had been the first one in his family to own land in America. He was only the second generation born here, his grandparents having come from Europe in the late 1800s. He and Margaret had scrimped, scratched, saved, and sacrificed to cover each payment. When the day finally came to make the last one, he put on his best suit and personally brought the check to the bank. When he left, he was walking on a cloud. The happy couple treated themselves to dinner that night, then a new car   —another first in Baker history.
    “And you probably realize the house has appreciated considerably since it was first purchased.”
    “Yes, I figured as much.” Sheila was uncomfortable talking about this. It was her parents’ home, not hers. She grew up in it, and she had plenty of happy memories. But the idea of profiting from their deaths was difficult to stomach. She knew her parents would want her to have the money and to use it for the betterment of her own life. Still . . .
    “Do you think you’d like to sell the property?” Moore asked.
    “Hmm? Oh, maybe. I don’t know yet.”
    “Well, don’t sit on it too long. You still have to pay the taxes, and they’re pretty heavy now. This area has really built up in the last twenty years.”
    “I know.”
    “If you sell the property, you could put the money into those gyms of yours.” Moore smiled. “You appear to be doing quite well with them already.”
    “Thanks. We’ll see.”
    “Right now, the house is nothing but a cash drain.”
    “I know. I’ll figure something out.”
    “I’d be happy to help you with whatever you decide,” he went on. “I have some experience with investments and wouldn’t want to see you tread those waters without a guide.”
    “Okay.”
    She was ready to change the subject again. She looked down at the little notepad she’d brought along. It had a list of things they needed to go over   —terms of the will, the stocks and bonds, the house, the remaining debts. It appeared as though everything had been covered. She glanced at her watch and realized nearly an hour had passed. It seemed more like ten minutes. She had no desire to get back to the house   —the next project was sorting through Mom’s things. That would be painful.
    There were plenty of papers for Sheila to sign, which she did after reviewing each one briefly. Nothing new, nothing suspicious. Moore had done an immaculate job of protecting her family from legal nonsense. As she wrote her name over and over, she wondered what the odds were of finding a lawyer of his quality back home in Dearborn, someone she could trust implicitly.
    After she signed the last sheet, she handed it back and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.” She got up and slipped her bagover her shoulder. “Mr. Moore,