Fic: Aunt Moira Has an Idea
Title: Aunt Moira Has an Idea
Author:
storyfan
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Richard Stevenson)
Pairing/Characters: Donald/Timmy
Rating/Category: PG, M/M
Prompt: A letter from Aunt Moira
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson
Notes: Thanks to
nyteflyer for the beta, as always. All errors are mine. Story written for
smallfandomfest.
I came home to the house on Crow Street to find Timmy seated at the kitchen table, the monthly bills in a neat pile to his left, the checkbook register at his right, stamps and a pen next to his coffee cup. He was frowning over a sheet of paper I assumed was my Visa bill.
“Just pay the minimum,” I said as I draped my suit jacket on the back of my chair and got a Sam Adams from the fridge. I dropped a kiss on his bald spot and sat down opposite him. “By the way, how much is the minimum?”
“It’s not your Visa bill.” His frown deepened. “It’s a letter from Aunt Moira.”
I liked Timmy’s Aunt Moira. She was a woman of strong opinions, an awful cook, and a second mother to Timmy and me. She drove herself up from Poughkeepsie every year to plant petunias in our flower boxes, then called every week to make sure we’d watered them. She was the first person in the family to learn about Timmy’s yen for men, but she hadn’t batted an eye at the news, according to Timmy. Her only concern was that he’d end up with a Protestant. He had, but she’d forgiven me for that.
Also, she still wrote letters, unheard of in a time of impersonal electronic communications.
“What’s she want?” I tipped my beer and drained half the contents. The day had been hot, tiring, and unrewarding. I should have grabbed two beers.
“She says she’s dying.”
“Again? Tell her to take two aspirins, stop logging into WebMD and call us in the morning.”
Timmy looked at me over his reading glasses. For some reason, that look stirred feelings in me that he wouldn’t have appreciated hearing about just then.
“She says she’s serious this time. She wants us to drive down this weekend.”
“What for?”
Timmy scanned the letter. “She wants us to choose a few keepsakes.”
“Hmm. I’ve always liked that cuckoo clock in the kitchen. Can I have that?”
Timmy put down the letter and folded his hands on the table top. “One cuckoo around here is enough, Besides, it sounds like something might really be wrong.”
“She could be exaggerating. You know how the Irish are when it comes to telling a story.” I had no desire to make the 80-mile trip to Poughkeepsie. The temperatures were supposed to be in the nineties, and Timmy’s car was in the shop. That left us with my car and its faulty air conditioning. Timmy was unlikely to approve a rental, and he'd probably say the cost would have covered the a/c repair if I'd just been ambitious enough to get it fixed.
“We’re going.”
Timmy tucked the letter into its envelope and set it aside. Later on he’d put the letter in a box that contained every family communication he’d received since he was a kid. My birthday cards were read and then chucked into the recycling bin. Not so with Timmy. He said his letters were part of family history and might come in handy in a hundred years or so, if anyone cared to investigate the Strachey-Callahan branch.
“Why don’t you go? I’ve got a case I could work on this weekend.” I polished off my beer. “You could stay all night, keep the old girl company. Maybe play some gin rummy.”
“Her letter clearly requests your presence, and don’t tell me you’ve got a case. Just yesterday you were complaining that work was thin on the ground and that I’d better start pimping out rent boys.”
He had me there. “Fine. Let’s rent a car, at least. I know it’s only about eighty miles, but you know how you get when you overheat.”
He frowned again, his mind weighing comfort vs. cost. He pulled his iPhone out his shirt pocket, tapped the screen a couple of times and then agreed we might rent a car. “Avis has the best deal this weekend. Do we want a Ford or a Chevrolet?”
“How about a Rolls Royce?”
“How about you shower and change? We’re meeting the Coopers for dinner.”
I gave him what I hoped was a sexy grin. “How about washing my back?”
“Let me rent the car first. I’ll grab the lye soap and be right up.”
“It’s a date.”
*****
Our rental car gave us a good indication how the other half lived. Timmy, a bell-and-whistle man from way back, agreed satellite radio, an OnStar connection, and a rear-bumper camera could all come in handy. However, he pointed out that his Impala was paid for, as was my ancient Honda, and there was no point in buying something new. That view didn’t stop him from playing with the radio and asking the OnStar operator for directions to a place he’d visited a million times.
We rolled into Poughkeepsie at mid-afternoon. Aunt Moira was waiting for us on her porch. It was a homey little place with a front yard that was more flowerbed than lawn. She’d once told me that dog walkers were less inclined to let their mutts shit in flowerbeds.
We got out of the car, staggering under the oppressive August humidity. I vowed to fix my air conditioning the minute I got back to Albany. Aunt Moira waved a bony arm in welcome. We hauled ourselves up the front steps and onto the porch where it might have been ten degrees cooler, making it about eighty-five. We sank down on the old-fashioned glider and kicked off our sandals.
Aunt Moira, looking as fresh and cool as the hostas under her maple tree, opened the cooler at her feet and drew out two cans of Faygo red pop. “Drink up. Nothing cools you off like a red pop.”
A beer would have suited me nicely, but I opened my can and took an obedient sip. The red pop coated my teeth, the sugar immediately getting to work on my enamel. I tried not to imagine the dental bill.
“Your flowers look wonderful,” Timmy said, placing his Faygo on the porch floor. “What did you plant this year?”
Aunt Moira took the bait, waxing on about begonias, calendula, and digitalis. You couldn’t get right down to business with Aunt Moira. While Timmy nodded and smiled, I studied her. She looked great for her age, probably anyone’s age. She was tall and thin like Timmy, but she had a lot more hair. She also looked to be in robust health.
I tried not to be annoyed. Maybe the old lady was lonely and wanted a little company. I’d have been less irked if she’d had us visit in the cool of October.
“So, what’s this about you dying?” Timmy opened the cooler and grabbed an ice cube to put on his bald spot. “You look healthy enough to me.”
She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at us. “Well, the heat’s got me a little down, but other than that, I’m doing fine.”
“You’re not dying, then.” Timmy shook his head. “You shouldn’t scare people like that.”
“Well, you could say I’m dying. In a way.”
Even Timmy was losing his patience. “In what way? You’re either dying or you’re not.”
“I was dying to talk to you both. I think that qualifies.”
Timmy leaned back on the glider and closed his eyes. For a second I thought he was going to fall asleep. “Aunt Moira,” he said, his eyes still closed, “exactly what is going on?”
Aunt Moira glanced across the street. “Let’s go inside. I don’t want the neighbors to get wind of this. They’ve got one of those listening devices you can only buy on TV.”
The house was blessedly cool and dark. She led us into the living room, motioned us to a sofa and sat down in the armchair she’d bought during the Carter administration.
“What it is is this,” she said. “Timothy, you know that when your mother died all her jewelry, including the pieces our mother left her, came to me. Maureen, as you recall, wasn’t interested in any of it and passed it to me with her blessing. Funny girl, Maureen; she even signed a paper saying I could have it.”
Timmy nodded. “I would have thought she’d at least want Mom’s wedding and engagement rings, but she said she didn’t.”
“That’s right. Have you any idea how much jewelry we’re talking about?”
Timmy glanced at me. I shrugged. I’d had a hard enough time getting Timmy through the loss of his mother to bother about her jewelry.
Aunt Moira excused herself, saying she’d be right back and not to go anywhere. She reappeared a few minutes later lugging a large plastic Craftsman toolbox. She placed the toolbox on the coffee table. “Take a look.”
It wasn’t exactly like opening a pirate’s treasure chest, but it came close. The toolbox was stuffed with velveteen jewelry cases that came from old stores whose names even I recognized. Timmy piled the cases on the table, then started opening them.
None of it was fake. Every last stone in every last necklace, brooch and bracelet was a diamond, a pearl, an emerald or something else worth more than I could earn in years. Rings and earrings, smaller but no less impressive, added to the pile of riches.
Aunt Moria must have enjoyed our slack-jawed expressions. She settled back in her chair, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than something. It’s worth a fortune and it’s dangerous for you to keep all this in the house.” Timmy glared at her. “You need to put everything in a safety-deposit box at the very least.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’m going to have it reported stolen and you’re going to take it home with you. I want you to hock the lot and give the money to some deserving charities. I’ve made a list.”
Our jaws slackened even more. Timmy stuttered a few times before finding his voice. “I can’t even begin to tell you everything that’s wrong with that plan.”
I added my two cents. “If you report everything stolen we wouldn’t be able to sell it, anyway. Every jewelry store, pawn shop, and gold dealer in the tri-state area would be warned about it.”
Aunt Moira’s pressed her lips together. Timmy did the same thing when he got mad.
“Furthermore,” Timmy said. “I don’t see why you have to say it was stolen. Why not just get someone to appraise it all and then get an expert to sell it for you? You could auction it off and have plenty of money.”
“I can’t. If your cousins got wind of it they’d take me to court.”
A puzzled expression crossed Timmy’s face. “Which cousins?”
“Your mother and I had several first cousins. They would be your second cousins.” Aunt Moira glanced at the ceiling. “All together, they had six children, all of whom have been making noises about this jewelry, hinting about lawsuits. They seem to think they should have a share of it since their mothers were my mother’s sisters. Your great-aunts.”
“My father worked hard and became a wealthy man, as you know,” she said. “Mother loved jewelry, and Father was happy to give her anything she wanted. Of course, he had an eye for a bargain, too, and he wasn’t too proud to snap up things he found at estate sales and the like.”
“I don’t see what-” Timmy began.
Aunt Moira ignored his interruption. “When Mother died, her jewelry was divided between your mother and me. Your father liked to buy your mother jewelry, too, you know, and all of that came to me after she died. Everybody knows I have all of it. What they don’t know is that it’s here at the house.”
“Where it can’t stay, cousins or no cousins,” I said. “You need to have it secured before you do anything else. While Timothy and I are here we’ll help you get it valued. Then we’ll look for someone to auction it. Sotheby’s or something,” I added vaguely.
Aunt Moira looked annoyed. “I had it all planned, Donald. I was going to report it stolen and then have you come up here to investigate the theft, just to make it all look good. If the jewelry is stolen then the cousins don’t have anything to sue me for. Right? I’m sure if you took the jewelry out of state you could sell it for me. California, maybe.”
“I won’t be party to any such thing.” Timmy began stacking the jewelry boxes in the toolbox. “What in the world made you think I’d agree to help you with this … this scheme?”
“You and Donald have done it before. What about all that money you gave to that gay center?”
Timmy dropped a diamond necklace. An unpleasant memory niggled at my brain.
“What are you talking about?”
“That time Donald was given all that money and the two of you put on masks and dropped it off at that gay center. Donald told me all about it a few years ago.”
I pretended to be very interested in a sapphire brooch. A few years ago I’d had one too many Manhattans and had regaled Aunt Moira with the story of Jake Lenihan’s two-and-half million dollars. Timmy and I had foiled the Albany political machine and anonymously donated the cash to the city’s gay and lesbian center. She’d agreed to keep it quiet and she’d kept her promise - until now.
Timmy’s laser glare bore into the side of my head. “Please tell me it isn’t true. You didn’t tell my aunt about that, did you?”
“I might have, in a moment of weakness.”
“I could kill you. I really could.” He snatched the brooch from me and placed it in the toolbox, closing the lid with more force than necessary. “We were supposed to take that story to our graves.”
“You don’t have to worry.” Aunt Moira reached over and patted Timmy’s hand. “I wouldn’t tell anyone. But you see, that’s why I decided you were the best people to help me. You don’t care about the jewelry and you’ve got experience.”
We bickered back and forth for the next hour. Timmy finally called a halt when my growling stomach could no longer be ignored. The three of us went out for dinner, came home and watched a movie, then went to bed. Timmy insisted on having the toolbox in our room.
“She’s out of her mind,” he said as he stripped off his clothes. “So are you for telling her that story. What if she lets something slip?”
“She won’t.” I pulled the comforter out of the way since we had no need of it. “Let’s forget about all of it for now. Maybe one of us will dream up a way to persuade her to auction the stuff off.”
Timmy got into bed and turned on his side away from me. I would have liked to fool around a little bit, but he’d made it plain there’d be no such goings-on in his aunt’s house.
Paybacks were a bitch.
*****
“We need a lawyer,” Timmy said on Sunday morning over bacon and eggs. The eggs were burnt and the bacon was half raw, but I didn’t have the heart to mention that to Aunt Moira. “A lawyer can certify the jewelry belongs to you, then you don’t have to worry about the cousins.”
“But they’ll say I’m crazy for wanting to sell it and give away the money.” Aunt Moira poured herself another cup of coffee. “What if they try to have me declared incompetent? They could, you know. I’ve seen it happen to other people.”
“That’s why we need a lawyer,” I said. “He can set up an exam with a doctor who can say you’re of sound mind and body. Then you can do what you like with the jewelry. You can sell it and move to Patagonia.”
Timmy’s expression told me it was time to shut up. “Do you have a lawyer, Aunt Moira? Who took care of your will?”
“George Wilson’s boy. His name is Jerry. He took over his father’s practice about ten years ago. He drew up my will and your mother’s too.”
“I’ll call him now. We probably can’t get in to see him until tomorrow, but he can at least advise us. In the meantime, we’ve got to find a better place to hide that jewelry. In the basement, behind the furnace, maybe.”
Timmy got on the phone, apologizing to Jerry Wilson for calling him on the weekend. Aunt Moira spoke to Jerry, too, asking after his mother, and when they got off the phone they told me an appointment had been made for nine o’clock Monday morning. In the meantime, Jerry was going to get hold of a doctor who could examine Aunt Moira and swear she wasn’t nuts.
We’d intended to head home early Sunday afternoon, but now we felt like we had to stay until everything was settled, if only to keep Aunt Moira from acting on her original plan. She said she was thrilled to have us and asked what we’d like for Sunday dinner.
“Reservations,” Timmy said.
*****
We met Jerry at his office early Monday morning.
“Your mother’s and sister’s wills prove conclusively that any jewelry owned by them now belongs to you.” Jerry glanced at Timmy. “Your sister waived all rights to the jewelry, and the doctor’s statement will seal the deal.” He smiled at Aunt Moira. “It doesn’t matter what these cousins of yours say. You can dispose of the jewelry in any way you see fit.”
“I can sell it and give the money away?” To whomever I want?”
“You can bury it in the basement and forget it’s there, if you like. It doesn’t matter. I advise you to keep it in a safe-deposit box until you decide what to do. Further, you ought to have a rider on your homeowner’s insurance to cover any loss.”
“It won’t be around long enough for that,” Aunt Moira said. “The boys are going to help me sell it.”
We shook hands all around, and Aunt Moira assured Jerry that she would keep her doctor’s appointment, set for the next day. She agreed to take the jewelry to her bank, and Jerry said he’d arrange for an appraiser to take a look at the loot - in his presence, of course. All that remained was the actual sale of the jewelry, an event that would have to wait.
“I need you to promise you won’t do something crazy,” Timmy said as he drove to Aunt Moira’s house. “We can’t stay here until you sell that stuff. I’ve got to get back to work and so does Don.”
“I promise,” she said. “I guess it was a bit silly to think I could fool the police into believing someone had stolen everything.”
“A bit silly, yes,” Timmy said. “Dangerous, too. We could have been in serious trouble.”
“I know.”
She sounded chastened. I reached over the front seat and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.”
*****
We took her to the bank on Tuesday. A safety-deposit box was arranged for her, and the jewelry was tucked safely away. We had lunch, then drove her to the doctor’s appointment. Timmy and I sat in the waiting room, pretending we weren’t nervous. We had no idea what Aunt Moira would say once she got going and wondered aloud what we’d do if she wasn’t declared sane. But she and the doctor emerged from his office, chatting like old friends. Aunt Moira was told not to worry, that he’d send his report to Jerry within a few days.
I spent Tuesday evening listening to Timmy and Aunt Moira reminisce about Timmy’s parents, old friends, and Poughkeepsie in its heyday. Every now and then they apologized for excluding me from the conversation, but I told them I didn’t mind.
I didn’t, really. Every now and then I learned something new about Timmy, reminding me why I’d loved him for so many years. He could always keep me guessing, a skill he’d learned from his Aunt Moira.
We left for home the next morning. Timmy extracted yet another promise from Aunt Moira, this time to call him with new developments.
She said she’d write instead.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Author:
storyfan
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Richard Stevenson)
Pairing/Characters: Donald/Timmy
Rating/Category: PG, M/M
Prompt: A letter from Aunt Moira
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson
Notes: Thanks to
nyteflyer for the beta, as always. All errors are mine. Story written for
smallfandomfest.
I came home to the house on Crow Street to find Timmy seated at the kitchen table, the monthly bills in a neat pile to his left, the checkbook register at his right, stamps and a pen next to his coffee cup. He was frowning over a sheet of paper I assumed was my Visa bill.
“Just pay the minimum,” I said as I draped my suit jacket on the back of my chair and got a Sam Adams from the fridge. I dropped a kiss on his bald spot and sat down opposite him. “By the way, how much is the minimum?”
“It’s not your Visa bill.” His frown deepened. “It’s a letter from Aunt Moira.”
I liked Timmy’s Aunt Moira. She was a woman of strong opinions, an awful cook, and a second mother to Timmy and me. She drove herself up from Poughkeepsie every year to plant petunias in our flower boxes, then called every week to make sure we’d watered them. She was the first person in the family to learn about Timmy’s yen for men, but she hadn’t batted an eye at the news, according to Timmy. Her only concern was that he’d end up with a Protestant. He had, but she’d forgiven me for that.
Also, she still wrote letters, unheard of in a time of impersonal electronic communications.
“What’s she want?” I tipped my beer and drained half the contents. The day had been hot, tiring, and unrewarding. I should have grabbed two beers.
“She says she’s dying.”
“Again? Tell her to take two aspirins, stop logging into WebMD and call us in the morning.”
Timmy looked at me over his reading glasses. For some reason, that look stirred feelings in me that he wouldn’t have appreciated hearing about just then.
“She says she’s serious this time. She wants us to drive down this weekend.”
“What for?”
Timmy scanned the letter. “She wants us to choose a few keepsakes.”
“Hmm. I’ve always liked that cuckoo clock in the kitchen. Can I have that?”
Timmy put down the letter and folded his hands on the table top. “One cuckoo around here is enough, Besides, it sounds like something might really be wrong.”
“She could be exaggerating. You know how the Irish are when it comes to telling a story.” I had no desire to make the 80-mile trip to Poughkeepsie. The temperatures were supposed to be in the nineties, and Timmy’s car was in the shop. That left us with my car and its faulty air conditioning. Timmy was unlikely to approve a rental, and he'd probably say the cost would have covered the a/c repair if I'd just been ambitious enough to get it fixed.
“We’re going.”
Timmy tucked the letter into its envelope and set it aside. Later on he’d put the letter in a box that contained every family communication he’d received since he was a kid. My birthday cards were read and then chucked into the recycling bin. Not so with Timmy. He said his letters were part of family history and might come in handy in a hundred years or so, if anyone cared to investigate the Strachey-Callahan branch.
“Why don’t you go? I’ve got a case I could work on this weekend.” I polished off my beer. “You could stay all night, keep the old girl company. Maybe play some gin rummy.”
“Her letter clearly requests your presence, and don’t tell me you’ve got a case. Just yesterday you were complaining that work was thin on the ground and that I’d better start pimping out rent boys.”
He had me there. “Fine. Let’s rent a car, at least. I know it’s only about eighty miles, but you know how you get when you overheat.”
He frowned again, his mind weighing comfort vs. cost. He pulled his iPhone out his shirt pocket, tapped the screen a couple of times and then agreed we might rent a car. “Avis has the best deal this weekend. Do we want a Ford or a Chevrolet?”
“How about a Rolls Royce?”
“How about you shower and change? We’re meeting the Coopers for dinner.”
I gave him what I hoped was a sexy grin. “How about washing my back?”
“Let me rent the car first. I’ll grab the lye soap and be right up.”
“It’s a date.”
*****
Our rental car gave us a good indication how the other half lived. Timmy, a bell-and-whistle man from way back, agreed satellite radio, an OnStar connection, and a rear-bumper camera could all come in handy. However, he pointed out that his Impala was paid for, as was my ancient Honda, and there was no point in buying something new. That view didn’t stop him from playing with the radio and asking the OnStar operator for directions to a place he’d visited a million times.
We rolled into Poughkeepsie at mid-afternoon. Aunt Moira was waiting for us on her porch. It was a homey little place with a front yard that was more flowerbed than lawn. She’d once told me that dog walkers were less inclined to let their mutts shit in flowerbeds.
We got out of the car, staggering under the oppressive August humidity. I vowed to fix my air conditioning the minute I got back to Albany. Aunt Moira waved a bony arm in welcome. We hauled ourselves up the front steps and onto the porch where it might have been ten degrees cooler, making it about eighty-five. We sank down on the old-fashioned glider and kicked off our sandals.
Aunt Moira, looking as fresh and cool as the hostas under her maple tree, opened the cooler at her feet and drew out two cans of Faygo red pop. “Drink up. Nothing cools you off like a red pop.”
A beer would have suited me nicely, but I opened my can and took an obedient sip. The red pop coated my teeth, the sugar immediately getting to work on my enamel. I tried not to imagine the dental bill.
“Your flowers look wonderful,” Timmy said, placing his Faygo on the porch floor. “What did you plant this year?”
Aunt Moira took the bait, waxing on about begonias, calendula, and digitalis. You couldn’t get right down to business with Aunt Moira. While Timmy nodded and smiled, I studied her. She looked great for her age, probably anyone’s age. She was tall and thin like Timmy, but she had a lot more hair. She also looked to be in robust health.
I tried not to be annoyed. Maybe the old lady was lonely and wanted a little company. I’d have been less irked if she’d had us visit in the cool of October.
“So, what’s this about you dying?” Timmy opened the cooler and grabbed an ice cube to put on his bald spot. “You look healthy enough to me.”
She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at us. “Well, the heat’s got me a little down, but other than that, I’m doing fine.”
“You’re not dying, then.” Timmy shook his head. “You shouldn’t scare people like that.”
“Well, you could say I’m dying. In a way.”
Even Timmy was losing his patience. “In what way? You’re either dying or you’re not.”
“I was dying to talk to you both. I think that qualifies.”
Timmy leaned back on the glider and closed his eyes. For a second I thought he was going to fall asleep. “Aunt Moira,” he said, his eyes still closed, “exactly what is going on?”
Aunt Moira glanced across the street. “Let’s go inside. I don’t want the neighbors to get wind of this. They’ve got one of those listening devices you can only buy on TV.”
The house was blessedly cool and dark. She led us into the living room, motioned us to a sofa and sat down in the armchair she’d bought during the Carter administration.
“What it is is this,” she said. “Timothy, you know that when your mother died all her jewelry, including the pieces our mother left her, came to me. Maureen, as you recall, wasn’t interested in any of it and passed it to me with her blessing. Funny girl, Maureen; she even signed a paper saying I could have it.”
Timmy nodded. “I would have thought she’d at least want Mom’s wedding and engagement rings, but she said she didn’t.”
“That’s right. Have you any idea how much jewelry we’re talking about?”
Timmy glanced at me. I shrugged. I’d had a hard enough time getting Timmy through the loss of his mother to bother about her jewelry.
Aunt Moira excused herself, saying she’d be right back and not to go anywhere. She reappeared a few minutes later lugging a large plastic Craftsman toolbox. She placed the toolbox on the coffee table. “Take a look.”
It wasn’t exactly like opening a pirate’s treasure chest, but it came close. The toolbox was stuffed with velveteen jewelry cases that came from old stores whose names even I recognized. Timmy piled the cases on the table, then started opening them.
None of it was fake. Every last stone in every last necklace, brooch and bracelet was a diamond, a pearl, an emerald or something else worth more than I could earn in years. Rings and earrings, smaller but no less impressive, added to the pile of riches.
Aunt Moria must have enjoyed our slack-jawed expressions. She settled back in her chair, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than something. It’s worth a fortune and it’s dangerous for you to keep all this in the house.” Timmy glared at her. “You need to put everything in a safety-deposit box at the very least.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’m going to have it reported stolen and you’re going to take it home with you. I want you to hock the lot and give the money to some deserving charities. I’ve made a list.”
Our jaws slackened even more. Timmy stuttered a few times before finding his voice. “I can’t even begin to tell you everything that’s wrong with that plan.”
I added my two cents. “If you report everything stolen we wouldn’t be able to sell it, anyway. Every jewelry store, pawn shop, and gold dealer in the tri-state area would be warned about it.”
Aunt Moira’s pressed her lips together. Timmy did the same thing when he got mad.
“Furthermore,” Timmy said. “I don’t see why you have to say it was stolen. Why not just get someone to appraise it all and then get an expert to sell it for you? You could auction it off and have plenty of money.”
“I can’t. If your cousins got wind of it they’d take me to court.”
A puzzled expression crossed Timmy’s face. “Which cousins?”
“Your mother and I had several first cousins. They would be your second cousins.” Aunt Moira glanced at the ceiling. “All together, they had six children, all of whom have been making noises about this jewelry, hinting about lawsuits. They seem to think they should have a share of it since their mothers were my mother’s sisters. Your great-aunts.”
“My father worked hard and became a wealthy man, as you know,” she said. “Mother loved jewelry, and Father was happy to give her anything she wanted. Of course, he had an eye for a bargain, too, and he wasn’t too proud to snap up things he found at estate sales and the like.”
“I don’t see what-” Timmy began.
Aunt Moira ignored his interruption. “When Mother died, her jewelry was divided between your mother and me. Your father liked to buy your mother jewelry, too, you know, and all of that came to me after she died. Everybody knows I have all of it. What they don’t know is that it’s here at the house.”
“Where it can’t stay, cousins or no cousins,” I said. “You need to have it secured before you do anything else. While Timothy and I are here we’ll help you get it valued. Then we’ll look for someone to auction it. Sotheby’s or something,” I added vaguely.
Aunt Moira looked annoyed. “I had it all planned, Donald. I was going to report it stolen and then have you come up here to investigate the theft, just to make it all look good. If the jewelry is stolen then the cousins don’t have anything to sue me for. Right? I’m sure if you took the jewelry out of state you could sell it for me. California, maybe.”
“I won’t be party to any such thing.” Timmy began stacking the jewelry boxes in the toolbox. “What in the world made you think I’d agree to help you with this … this scheme?”
“You and Donald have done it before. What about all that money you gave to that gay center?”
Timmy dropped a diamond necklace. An unpleasant memory niggled at my brain.
“What are you talking about?”
“That time Donald was given all that money and the two of you put on masks and dropped it off at that gay center. Donald told me all about it a few years ago.”
I pretended to be very interested in a sapphire brooch. A few years ago I’d had one too many Manhattans and had regaled Aunt Moira with the story of Jake Lenihan’s two-and-half million dollars. Timmy and I had foiled the Albany political machine and anonymously donated the cash to the city’s gay and lesbian center. She’d agreed to keep it quiet and she’d kept her promise - until now.
Timmy’s laser glare bore into the side of my head. “Please tell me it isn’t true. You didn’t tell my aunt about that, did you?”
“I might have, in a moment of weakness.”
“I could kill you. I really could.” He snatched the brooch from me and placed it in the toolbox, closing the lid with more force than necessary. “We were supposed to take that story to our graves.”
“You don’t have to worry.” Aunt Moira reached over and patted Timmy’s hand. “I wouldn’t tell anyone. But you see, that’s why I decided you were the best people to help me. You don’t care about the jewelry and you’ve got experience.”
We bickered back and forth for the next hour. Timmy finally called a halt when my growling stomach could no longer be ignored. The three of us went out for dinner, came home and watched a movie, then went to bed. Timmy insisted on having the toolbox in our room.
“She’s out of her mind,” he said as he stripped off his clothes. “So are you for telling her that story. What if she lets something slip?”
“She won’t.” I pulled the comforter out of the way since we had no need of it. “Let’s forget about all of it for now. Maybe one of us will dream up a way to persuade her to auction the stuff off.”
Timmy got into bed and turned on his side away from me. I would have liked to fool around a little bit, but he’d made it plain there’d be no such goings-on in his aunt’s house.
Paybacks were a bitch.
*****
“We need a lawyer,” Timmy said on Sunday morning over bacon and eggs. The eggs were burnt and the bacon was half raw, but I didn’t have the heart to mention that to Aunt Moira. “A lawyer can certify the jewelry belongs to you, then you don’t have to worry about the cousins.”
“But they’ll say I’m crazy for wanting to sell it and give away the money.” Aunt Moira poured herself another cup of coffee. “What if they try to have me declared incompetent? They could, you know. I’ve seen it happen to other people.”
“That’s why we need a lawyer,” I said. “He can set up an exam with a doctor who can say you’re of sound mind and body. Then you can do what you like with the jewelry. You can sell it and move to Patagonia.”
Timmy’s expression told me it was time to shut up. “Do you have a lawyer, Aunt Moira? Who took care of your will?”
“George Wilson’s boy. His name is Jerry. He took over his father’s practice about ten years ago. He drew up my will and your mother’s too.”
“I’ll call him now. We probably can’t get in to see him until tomorrow, but he can at least advise us. In the meantime, we’ve got to find a better place to hide that jewelry. In the basement, behind the furnace, maybe.”
Timmy got on the phone, apologizing to Jerry Wilson for calling him on the weekend. Aunt Moira spoke to Jerry, too, asking after his mother, and when they got off the phone they told me an appointment had been made for nine o’clock Monday morning. In the meantime, Jerry was going to get hold of a doctor who could examine Aunt Moira and swear she wasn’t nuts.
We’d intended to head home early Sunday afternoon, but now we felt like we had to stay until everything was settled, if only to keep Aunt Moira from acting on her original plan. She said she was thrilled to have us and asked what we’d like for Sunday dinner.
“Reservations,” Timmy said.
*****
We met Jerry at his office early Monday morning.
“Your mother’s and sister’s wills prove conclusively that any jewelry owned by them now belongs to you.” Jerry glanced at Timmy. “Your sister waived all rights to the jewelry, and the doctor’s statement will seal the deal.” He smiled at Aunt Moira. “It doesn’t matter what these cousins of yours say. You can dispose of the jewelry in any way you see fit.”
“I can sell it and give the money away?” To whomever I want?”
“You can bury it in the basement and forget it’s there, if you like. It doesn’t matter. I advise you to keep it in a safe-deposit box until you decide what to do. Further, you ought to have a rider on your homeowner’s insurance to cover any loss.”
“It won’t be around long enough for that,” Aunt Moira said. “The boys are going to help me sell it.”
We shook hands all around, and Aunt Moira assured Jerry that she would keep her doctor’s appointment, set for the next day. She agreed to take the jewelry to her bank, and Jerry said he’d arrange for an appraiser to take a look at the loot - in his presence, of course. All that remained was the actual sale of the jewelry, an event that would have to wait.
“I need you to promise you won’t do something crazy,” Timmy said as he drove to Aunt Moira’s house. “We can’t stay here until you sell that stuff. I’ve got to get back to work and so does Don.”
“I promise,” she said. “I guess it was a bit silly to think I could fool the police into believing someone had stolen everything.”
“A bit silly, yes,” Timmy said. “Dangerous, too. We could have been in serious trouble.”
“I know.”
She sounded chastened. I reached over the front seat and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.”
*****
We took her to the bank on Tuesday. A safety-deposit box was arranged for her, and the jewelry was tucked safely away. We had lunch, then drove her to the doctor’s appointment. Timmy and I sat in the waiting room, pretending we weren’t nervous. We had no idea what Aunt Moira would say once she got going and wondered aloud what we’d do if she wasn’t declared sane. But she and the doctor emerged from his office, chatting like old friends. Aunt Moira was told not to worry, that he’d send his report to Jerry within a few days.
I spent Tuesday evening listening to Timmy and Aunt Moira reminisce about Timmy’s parents, old friends, and Poughkeepsie in its heyday. Every now and then they apologized for excluding me from the conversation, but I told them I didn’t mind.
I didn’t, really. Every now and then I learned something new about Timmy, reminding me why I’d loved him for so many years. He could always keep me guessing, a skill he’d learned from his Aunt Moira.
We left for home the next morning. Timmy extracted yet another promise from Aunt Moira, this time to call him with new developments.
She said she’d write instead.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*