Legacy of Silence Read online

  “That much I knew. She was Czech. I found out the first time she made kolaches for me and I became instantly addicted.” Miranda could almost taste the fruit-filled pastries Virginia had baked on a weekly basis. “She was a great cook but I think she also dabbled in art. Or maybe she told me she’d been an artist’s model? I’m not sure. She said she had a portrait of a child my age who had my ‘impish expression.’ But she never got around to showing it to me. I wonder if I’ll finally get to see it.”

  “She also loved music and theater,” Tim said.

  “She did. I used to perform all my dance routines for her. I have this very clear memory of reciting and acting out the poem The Highwayman when I was in sixth grade. She thought it was a Tony-winning performance.”

  Miranda blinked back tears as the memories flooded in. She had often played piano and sung while Miss Virginia sat in a rocking chair, quietly listening; then the elderly lady and the small child would sit down to formal tea. Miranda inhaled. She needed to end the conversation before the strong emotions finished it for her.

  “Dad, I just noticed the time. I’d better get a few boxes moved before the delivery guys show up with the new bed. If they can’t inch it back into the bedroom past the clutter they might pitch the frame and mattresses into the yard in disgust. Which reminds me—do I pay them today or did you already take care of the bill?”

  “It’s paid in full and you don’t need to reimburse me. I’ll let you go, but remember you’re coming over to the house next week. Farrah’s invited some folks to meet you. And before you say anything, yes, I’m well aware that you’re not up for any matchmaking dinners right now, but Farrah really wants to do this. And I’ve been asked to remind you that the Trussville Fair is in ten days. As far as I know it’s still set up like it was back when we used to go. Lots of artwork and crafts and I think some local bands are playing.”

  Miranda had winced after hearing Farrah and dinner in the same sentence but tried not to let her feelings about the get-together leak into her tone as she thanked her father and said goodbye.

  She quickly began to move boxes away from the piano, muttering “labels” to herself. She needed a system for cataloguing so she wouldn’t end up going over the same box twice as she did inventory for the estate sale. Miranda peeked inside a box that was partially open and found Virginia’s sewing basket. Her smile warring with tears, Miranda reverently lifted it out and opened it, eyeing the ancient thimbles and the twenty-odd spools of thread in various colors. She gently unwrapped a pair of perfectly preserved scissors from their bed of fine linen and just as carefully put them back.

  “No way am I selling Miss Virginia’s sewing supplies,” she said. These things had been a huge part of her friend’s life. They’d been her livelihood. Miranda remembered Virginia carefully searching to find the perfect color of thread to hem one of Miranda’s dance costumes. Even as a child, she had recognized the older woman’s pleasure in stitching that costume with expertise and love.

  Miranda set the box with the sewing goods back on top of the piano and in doing so, she upset another opened box. The contents spilled out onto the floor—more than a dozen bound notebooks.

  “Journals?” Miranda hesitated for a few moments, not sure whether she had the right to pry into Virginia’s private thoughts. When a sheet fell out of the book she was holding, she skimmed it and began to laugh. Recipes. Farrah would love this. Miranda opened the notebook at random, hoping to find ingredients and directions for tea cookies and kolaches.

  Instead, she discovered a discourse regarding the fun side of politics in the 1990s including Miss Virginia’s opinion that Bill Clinton played one mean saxophone. Miranda grinned, dropped that notebook back into the box and picked up a journal that was obviously far older.

  She sank to the floor after reading the first paragraph.

  Miss Virginia hadn’t really been a miss. She’d been the missus to a gentleman named Benjamin Auttenberg.

  May 15, 1960

  I ran into Marta Rosenberg tonight at temple. We cried when we saw one another. I did not know she had moved to Birmingham, too. She said she has been attending the temple in the Mountain Brook area. It was so good yet so painful to see her. We were last together in Terezin on that day the Russian soldiers freed us all in 1945. Marta talked of our husbands’ deaths and we cried again. She wanted to know if I had remarried and I told her that Radinski was my maiden name. I don’t want anyone to know I was Benjamin Auttenberg’s widow because I don’t want to be hounded by art dealers trying to buy his paintings. I had enough of those vultures right after the war. I told Marta I simply want peace.

  Miranda heard the sound of the delivery truck pulling up out front. She quickly grabbed a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes, then replaced the journal in its box.

  “I miss you, Virginia. And I’m so very sorry—for everything.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MIRANDA PAUSED IN the doorway of what would be her bedroom for the next month. She eyed the deliveryman who was currently kneeling on the floor with his back to her, putting the side slots of the bed frame into the footrest.

  “Excuse me? Before you get the frame done and the box springs on, would you mind moving the frame a bit to the right? I need just a little more room to vacuum what passes for a rug on that side.”

  Nothing. He ignored her and continued to click the side railing into place.

  Miranda waited for a second, unsure if he was being rude or simply didn’t feel like responding. When he moved toward the left side of the footrest without shifting the bed an inch, she coughed, and then repeated her request with a bit more volume.

  Nothing. Maybe he was listening to loud music on headphones and simply hadn’t heard her?

  She was about to lean down and tap him on the shoulder when Henry—the head deliveryman from Rocky Ridge Furniture—did the same to her. She whirled around.

  “He can’t hear you, Ms. Nolan.”

  “Music lover with super teeny headphones set on serious blast mode?” she asked.

  Henry shook his head. “Yes and no. He actually is a music lover—or I should say ‘was.’ He lost his hearing about two years ago when he was in Afghanistan.”

  Miranda was stunned. She tried to imagine what life would be without music and began feeling hemmed in by the room itself. Would complete silence mean a world walled off from the rest of humanity? She shivered. “What happened?”

  As if the man knew he was being discussed, he turned and stared—or glared—at Miranda. His shaggy brown hair fell over hazel eyes. His nose appeared to have seen a football, basketball or soccer ball bounce off it at some point in the past. The right side of his face bore numerous small scars, but they didn’t detract from the kind of quiet attractiveness worn so well by some of the movie stars of the forties and fifties—like Gregory Peck or Gary Cooper. Miranda could have sworn she’d seen him before... She was also aware of a tightening in her stomach. The same tension she always got just before going onstage. Excitement and anticipation and a touch of fear of the unknown.

  Henry started to answer Miranda’s question but was interrupted by a voice that had a strange mix of richness and a volume that seemed slightly unsure. “Before Henry gets a chance to become melodramatic or bore you with a ten-minute monologue, let me simply state that a bomb went off in Kabul where I was working as an interpreter. I made it out with limbs intact. My eardrums were not so lucky. Nor were the numerous soldiers who never made it out at all. Satisfied?”

  Miranda blinked, then calmly and slowly responded, “I suppose you read lips?”

  He shook his head. “Not with any great skill. I’m much better with signing. Most deaf folks only read about fifty percent anyway. But your curious ‘what happened’ is easy to understand. It’s an obvious question—and you have fairly decent mouth action.” He paused, then continued with a sarc
astic edge to his tone, “Most people slur and mumble, which leaves me without a clue as to what they’re yammering about. In all honesty, I don’t particularly care to know what the majority of the universe has to say. Life is better without the noise of ignorant people.”

  Miranda flinched, unsure how to respond. “I’m really sorry.”

  Apparently her mouth action was still “active” because he immediately snapped, “For what? You didn’t set the bomb.”

  Miranda bit her lower lip then tilted her chin up. “‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t meant as a personal apology. Perhaps I should have said, ‘you have my sympathy for your trouble.’ Would that suit you better?”

  He looked at her with some confusion. Apparently his lipreading skills weren’t up for snapping out a speedy response—or perhaps he simply wasn’t able to understand lengthier sentences.

  Henry grinned at Miranda. “Get him, girl! He needs someone to stand up to him. Normally, people duck their heads and leave the room when Russ tries to shame them. Of course, it may help that he probably got about four words out of what you said. He’s right. His signing is far better than his lip reading.”

  “Russ?” Images flickered through Miranda’s mind. She suddenly remembered seeing this man on a stage sitting at an electric keyboard.

  Russ was still staring at her.

  “It just hit me. You’re Russ Gerik—right? You were with a really cool band. Very eclectic musically. Columbiana Patchwork. I saw y’all at a festival over in Gadsden about ten years ago. You were on keyboards and vocal backup and you were amazing.” She turned to Henry. “Do you sign?”

  “Since the cradle. Both my parents were deaf.” He translated her question and subsequent comments.

  Russ’s puzzled stare shifted to a look of anger oddly mixed with apathy. “Yes. Russ Gerik. Columbiana Patchwork. It’s over. So is this—conversation.”

  Miranda wanted to ask if his hearing loss was permanent. Did he have partial hearing? Was he getting any kind of medical treatment? For that matter, was he getting counseling for post-traumatic stress? But she wasn’t up for another confrontation, so she turned her back on Russ and addressed Henry. “Before I get told off again would you mind asking him to move the bed a few inches over? I’d prefer being able to vacuum back there before the dust bunnies start going on Easter egg hunts.”

  Henry smiled. “No problem.” He immediately began signing Miranda’s request. Russ shifted the bed with ease, then, with an odd smile, he signed something to Henry.

  “What did he say?”

  “Loosely translated, ‘Fine, and it’s not going to matter anyway.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No clue.”

  The doorbell rang before Miranda had a chance to ask anything else. She wove her way through boxes, chairs, floor lamps and at least three side tables before finally reaching the front of the house.

  She pulled the door open. Two young men dressed in white shirts and black trousers smiled at her. They were both extremely clean-cut blonds with blue eyes. “Miranda Nolan?” asked the taller of the two.

  “That’s me.”

  The man handed her a card as he said, “I’m Brett King. Associate at Henniger and Waltham. Sorry to do this, but I’m here to issue an injunction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The shorter man scowled. “Good grief, Brett! Think you can ease into this just a bit? Hi, Ms. Nolan. I’m Cort Farber. I’m an associate at Brennan and Driscoll, the firm handling Miss Radinski’s estate.”

  “The firm that was handling the estate,” King stated firmly

  Cort coughed. “Handling, Brett. As in present tense. Remember? We were both just in court establishing exactly that.”

  Miranda blinked. “I’m so sorry. I’m beyond confused here. Two different firms vying to be executors? Do I get to choose or something? Do y’all get commissions?”

  Cort sighed. “I wish. Look, may we come in?” He handed Miranda his card, as well.

  The cards seemed legitimate, as did the attorneys. She opened the door a bit wider and gestured toward the disaster on the right that was the living room.

  “I’m not exactly set up for business calls right now but if y’all can find a chair that isn’t covered in Miss Virginia’s belongings or cat hair, go for it.”

  “We’re not staying long so don’t worry,” Cort said. He glanced around the room. “Wow. You’ve got your work cut out for you. It’s like a high-class thrift store in here. Did you know Miss Virginia had thirteen cats in this house? She found homes for all of them before she passed away. Once she went into the hospital she knew she wasn’t going to be able to live here again.” He shook his head. “She must have had incredible persuasive powers.”

  “I hadn’t seen Miss Virginia in six years,” Miranda said, “but I can tell you she always had the ability to charm people into doing things they were originally determined not to do. Which is odd, really. She was such a hermit and— Sorry. I’m rattling on. So, what exactly is the deal here? Why do I have two firms?”

  “You don’t,” Brett quickly replied. “I represent another claimant.”

  Miranda’s jaw dropped. “Another claimant? I thought everything was settled.”

  Brett appeared a bit irritated. “This is all extremely disorganized and I apologize. I’ve been out of town for the past two weeks so I didn’t realize Ms. Radinski had passed away. My paralegal—who’s about to be canned for incompetence—didn’t call me. I drew up a will for Ms. Radinski right after Dave Brennan and Cort drafted the old one. You were not named in the new will apart from inheriting some of her possessions like the piano and a few personal odds and ends. The point is, I have an injunction removing you from living in the house.”

  Miranda sank down into the closest chair. “Okay... This is just...terrific. I don’t get a whiff of this until I’m moving in? Couldn’t someone have contacted me while I was still in Manhattan so I could have saved a trip?” She sighed. “Oh, never mind. So, what’s the next step?”

  Cort shot Brett a glance that was less than friendly. “We’re so sorry about the bad timing. Dave thought we’d have this straightened out before you flew down. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Now, what Brett failed to mention is that our firm has no intention of allowing this second will to stand. Dave and I are challenging its validity. I was here with him the day Miss Virginia signed the will naming you her sole heir—”

  “Cort, you’re stalling,” Brett said. “Get on with it.”

  “If you’ll quit interrupting and let me get a full sentence out, it would help! Ms. Nolan, the Brennan firm is contesting this so-called new will. You can’t live here for the time being, but you’ll still be cataloguing the possessions. The catch is you have to do the inventory with the second claimant. I personally think it’s ridiculous, but Judge Winston Rayborn, the nutcase who issued the injunction, thinks this is a fair and reasonable solution.”

  “The locks will be changed after you leave today,” Brett added. “The keys will be provided to you and my client once you’ve made arrangements for doing the inventory. Paralegals from our offices will pick the keys up each time you finish. That way no one can sneak back in. It’s tricky and annoying but that’s the judge’s ruling.”

  Miranda bit her lip. She’d gone from inheritor to homeless to accused thief, all within the past ten minutes. For a split second she contemplated flying right back to Manhattan, but her spine stiffened and she realized she was going to fight this. She wanted Virginia’s house.

  Cort gave her a reassuring wink. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going to deal with this and you’ll be living here in no time.”

  Miranda finally had enough presence of mind to say, “I didn’t think Miss Virginia had any relatives. Who’s this pesky other claimant?”

  Brett gestured behind her. Miranda turned. Russ G
erik had entered the living room and was standing beside the piano as though it were his. He smiled at Miranda.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “BROOKS, YOU ARE the most incredible agent in the history of show business, but this is nuts! I just got here,” Miranda groaned. “On the other hand here didn’t end up being where I thought it was.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “Never mind. I’m currently at my Dad’s—which means I’m also at Farrah’s—instead of sleeping in my brand-new bed at Virginia’s house. Two days so far.” She shuddered. “She’s trying to teach me to cook.”

  Brooks howled. “I’d buy tickets to see Ms. Miranda Nolan in the kitchen! But this is more important. I swear. So book a flight and get up here—like yesterday. You’re perfect for this role. Wendy Konstanza is casting and she specifically requested that you read for the part of Miami Montreville, superspy. I gather she caught your stellar performance in Illumination and was impressed. And Miranda, this is a one shot deal. They’re not doing callbacks. You’re looking at a major film and consequently a major career booster. You won’t need a house in Birmingham—you can buy an apartment in Manhattan if this comes through.”

  Miranda was still reeling from the news that one of the best casting directors in the business wanted her to audition. “Konstanza asked for me? Really?”

  “She did. So quit whining, take a red-eye and be ready to knock ’em dead Thursday. I’m emailing you sides and as much character analysis as the skimpy sheet provided,” Brooks Tanner practically growled into the phone. “Someday I’m going to revolutionize the entire industry by demanding that in-depth casting breakdowns become the norm.”

  Miranda chuckled. “Dream on, darlin’ dream on. Agents from the days of vaudeville have tried and failed. Okay. I’m already online. I’ll see what I can find for cheap flights and get there tomorrow sometime. Give me the details and maybe we can squeeze in a little agent/actress coffee while I’m in town. Wait. Scratch that. Let’s make it a meal at China Tan’s. I need hot ’n’ spicy anything with peanut sauce on it.” She chuckled. “And a fortune cookie reading, Nice Job! Movie Yours!”