Free Carolina Mist by Mariah Stewart

grand-niece, Leila Abigail McKenna —and looked up at the lawyer to catch him studying her.
    “Mr. Tillman, there’s a reference here to a safe deposit box.”
    “I have the key.” He held an envelope out to her.
    “And several bank accounts.” She held her breath, hoping against hope there’d be money in one of them.
    “The bank statements are right here.” He pushed the papers face-up across the desktop.
    Trying not to appear overly eager, Abby glanced through the statements slowly.
    “As you can see,” he told her, “there was very little cash, once the debts against the estate—the funeral expenses and taxes on the property—were paid out.”
    The sum remaining would barely put oil in the furnace. She bit her lip, hoping to hide her disappointment, then asked, “Has your fee been paid?”
    “Yes.” He nodded. “The executor’s fee was deducted and paid by the bank. If you would sign here”—he pointed to a form—“and again here, here, and here, I can have a check for the remaining funds issued to you.”
    She took the pen he offered her and signed line after line. “Well, then, that’s it.” He smiled. “You are now officially the owner of Number Thirty-five Cove Road. How does it feel to be a property owner?”
    “Overwhelming.” She tried to return his smile, but it seemed to her that her mouth had instinctively twisted into a kind of grimace.
    “What are your plans for the place, might I ask?” Tillman glanced at his watch, then rose from his chair to indicate their business had concluded.
    “Well, I’m not certain.” She gathered her purse and the envelope containing her copies of the various papers she had signed. “I was thinking … that is, I was wondering…”
    “Something I might help you with?” he inquired with studied courtesy.
    “Well, I’m not certain that I will be staying in Primrose indefinitely.”
    “Ah, I see.” He leaned back thoughtfully against the desk, his arms folding over his chest. “Would you be thinking of, at some point, putting the house up for sale?”
    “Possibly.” She nodded. “Very possibly.”
    “Then you would need the services of someone who could perhaps appraise the house, determine its value.”
    “Yes.”
    Tillman scribbled on a notepad, then handed her the paper on which he’d written a name and phone number.
    “Artie Snow’s the man you want to see,” he told Abby as he escorted her through the doorway and down the hall, where the thick floral fragrance lingered. “Knows every piece of property in Primrose. Lived here all his life. If he can’t put a proper number on that house, no one can.”
    “Thank you. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
    He nodded a greeting at the woman sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs in the lobby, telling her, “I’ll be with you in a moment, Carolanne. Now, Miz McKenna, you have any questions, you need any advice, you give me a call, hear?” He took her hand and gave it a perfunctory pump.
    “I’ll do that.” Abby smiled as she passed through the door he held open for her.
    “By the way”—he remained in the doorway—“where will Miz Matthews be going? When you sell the house?”
    “Well … ” Abby struggled for a response.
    Perfectly reading her sheepish expression, Tillman nodded knowingly. “I see. Shame, isn’t it? Belle’s the last of her kind, sure enough she is. And after all these years in Primrose… well, it’ll be a sad day when Belle Matthews leaves town. Guess it can’t be helped. Now, you need any assistance tracking down her people, you give me a ring.” He said this last sadly, as if offering to volunteer to perform an odious albeit necessary duty.
    Like cleaning latrines, Abby told herself as she walked down the sidewalk and across the street toward the bank, the safe deposit box key clutched in her right hand.

 
     
     
     
     
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    “ L et’s just see what we have hidden in here,” Abby murmured as she fitted the key into the small lock on