“Well, I’m no expert either, but between the two of us, we might be able to wing it.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Don’t be silly. God knows I owe you, after all the work you’ve done around here. But how can he start selling her stuff? Doesn’t he have to wait for probate?”
I felt like I was becoming an expert in the ways of estate settlement.
“Apparently the house was titled in both their names, so it automatically rolls over to Birch. She never changed her will, so everything else goes to him, too.”
• • •
When I got to Harriet’s house, the only vehicle there was Angus’s Ford F-150 pickup. I parked behind him on the street, ran over to the passenger side, and hopped into the cab, just as I’d done so many times before on our picking adventures.
“What’s up, Daisy Duke?” Even though it was a big truck, Angus seemed to fill it up with his shock of white hair and mountain man physique. His meaty hands rested on the base of the steering wheel, and he wore his usual plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots.
I grinned at him. “Not much, Burger Boy.”
“Kunes is running late. He’s on his way.”
This past summer, Angus had been wrongly accused of a murder, and I’d done my best to get him acquitted. He hadn’t been much help in his own defense, appearing confused, belligerent, and frankly, like he was losing his marbles.
It turned out he was suffering from a brain tumor, which thankfully was benign. Since the surgery and his prison experience, Angus had radically changed his lifestyle. He was still a big guy, but now that he wasn’t drinking, he’d slimmed down and looked younger than his sixty-something years. His cheeks were no longer ruddy from Irish whiskey, but healthy and tanned, and the beer belly was almost gone.
“Thanks for coming, kid. Want some?” He held out a plastic baggie of wheat crackers and carrot sticks. This snack would have consisted of a couple of chili cheese dogs, a large order of fries, and some beef jerky a few months ago.
“No thanks. I’ll wait until I get home.”
“Joe cooking one of his gourmet feasts?”
“Expect so.”
“You’re a spoiled brat, you know that?” Angus punched me gently in the shoulder and shook his head. “My Betty’s taking a knitting class tonight. I hardly ever see her anymore.”
Betty Backstead, always dependent on her husband to take care of everything, had found a measure of independence during his incarceration.
I rubbed at my shoulder and hoped he hadn’t left a bruise.
He pointed a carrot stick at the view through the windshield of townhomes clustered around the golf course. “You know, I remember when all this was farmland. Shame that so much of the open space is gone now.”
In Bucks County, many of the old farms had been sold off for redevelopment. The builders had moved in and offered the farmers what must have seemed like a fortune and an opportunity to leave a hard life of relentless work behind.
At least this one had had some green sensibility in its development. The township had negotiated for a park preserve of fifty acres out of the three hundred.
As we waited, I brought him up to speed on the circumstances of Harriet’s death, the fervent interest in my dollhouse, and how Serrano considered Birch Kunes to be his number one suspect.
Angus grunted. “Speaking of Kunes, where the hell is he?”