Читать книгу Legacy of Silence - Flo Fitzpatrick - Страница 11

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 sarcastic 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 Gerik had entered the living room and was standing beside the piano as though it were his. He smiled at Miranda.