She smiled at Brett. “Assuming she ends up the winner.”
The response came from George Miller, who’d managed to plant himself behind Miranda. “A good one. The market is bouncing back, and that house is a gem. Two-story, four bedrooms, three baths, a huge living room plus a parlor, which we now call a bonus room. There’s a usable attic, gorgeous trees all around the property and a deck in the back that only needs a little sealant to get it into shape. There’s even a storm cellar. I’d suggest an estate sale first...”
George glanced at Brett, which made Miranda wonder what the Realtor knew about the two wills.
“Whoever inherits, that is. You know, I’d imagine there’s a ton of antiques in that place,” George continued. “I’ve heard the piano alone is worth several thousand. Do you or Gerik have an appraiser yet?”
The lust in his voice made Miranda queasy. She spoke up before George could continue his verbal tour of the Radinski property. “I’m sure we can find one when the time comes. Now—no offense, y’all—can we change the subject? This all seems rather ghoulish to me since Miss Virginia has been dead less than a month. And from the very little I’ve read in her journal, she did not have a pleasant life.”
“What do you mean?” Cort asked.
“Oh.” Miranda immediately wished she’d kept silent but said, “Well...to begin with, she was in a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Her husband was killed there. Horrible.”
Tim winced. “No wonder she was so reclusive and seemed to prefer the company of children. Most of them don’t learn how to hate until they reach adolescence.”
“That’s a gloomy thought,” Dave said.
“It is, isn’t it?” Tim glanced at his daughter. “I feel woefully ignorant. I honestly didn’t know there were camps in the Czech Republic.”
Miranda nodded. “You’re not the only one who was clueless. I didn’t, either. I looked up Terezin online after I saw the name in her journal. It was very close to Prague, and it housed a lot of artists and musicians. Sounds almost nice, doesn’t it? Yet the death rate at that place was...” She swallowed. “So many talented people who lost their lives...” She smiled wanly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this up. Miss Virginia’s spirit seems to be accompanying me everywhere.”
Farrah quickly became the good hostess. “Well, let’s hope her spirit leads you to some of her old recipe books. Tim has told me about the baked goods she used to share with everyone in that neighborhood. If you could find her kolache recipe I’d be the only caterer in the city who could deliver authentic Czech pastries.” She smiled. “I know there’s no way you’ll attempt to bake them.” Her tone changed almost imperceptibly, but Miranda swore she caught a whiff of superiority as Farrah added, “Miranda is the world’s worst cook. I’m hoping to get her to the point where she doesn’t have to exist on takeout once she’s back in Manhattan.”
Miranda gritted her teeth but casually said, “Might as well give that up as a lost cause. My schedule is usually too wacky for me to attempt making home-cooked meals. But Farrah, you’ll be pleased to know that I already found one recipe book in the short time I was in Virginia’s house. I’ll do my best to make sure you get it, even if I have to beg Russ Gerik to sell it to me. At any rate, I definitely don’t have use for it apart from reading, salivating and remembering devouring some of those goodies years ago.”
Farrah frowned. The men didn’t seem to notice any tension and began discussing Birmingham’s best restaurants. The debate over which local barbecue joint served the juiciest ribs and the closest to homemade biscuits was still raging when Farrah announced that dinner was ready and asked the guests to be seated in the formal dining room.
Dave Brennan offered Miranda his arm and led the way to the table. He pulled out a chair for her and quietly said, “Farrah Myers Nolan is a very fine chef and her catering business is taking Birmingham by storm. She appears to truly adore your father. That being said, she doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with a grown stepdaughter. My wife, Nancy, could certainly give her a few tips on mothering. I credit her with raising all five of our kids to be reasonably productive members of society who still feel free to come to us for advice and support. The most important thing—what Farrah needs to learn—is that you shouldn’t push.”
Miranda sank back against her chair. When Dave took his own seat next to her, she whispered, “Feel free to repeat that advice to my dad so he can deter Farrah from planning further ‘let’s find a date for Miranda’ parties. I’m not interested. Right now, I want to focus on doing the inventory with Mr. Gerik.”
Dave nodded. “Look, I haven’t met this Russell Gerik but if you’re at all uncomfortable looking through Virginia’s possessions with him, let me know and I’ll send over some eager paralegals or even new associates who’d be more than happy to play chaperone and hoist a box or two in order to impress me.” He gestured at Cort, who was seated across from them.
“Is he hiring me out again?” Cort snickered. “Honestly, it makes me feel so cheap.”
“I think you’re safe.” Miranda grinned. “I’ve only met Mr. Gerik once, but I didn’t get the impression I’d be working with the big bad wolf. He wasn’t exactly laying on the charm but he wasn’t howling at me, either. And I have to admit I’m looking forward to learning more about Miss Virginia.”
“What else did you find in that journal?” Brett asked.
Miranda didn’t want to use Miss Virginia’s past as dinner party conversation, but she had to say something. She politely answered, “I did find out she was married to an artist. That’s about it.”
Farrah apparently had no problem with discussing the details of Virginia’s life. She raised her voice slightly so the rest of her guests could hear. “His name was Benjamin Auttenberg? Have y’all ever heard of him?”
There were negative head shakes from all the guests. Miranda closed her eyes and wondered whether she should gag her stepmother with a napkin or an apron.
“Who was he?” George asked.
Miranda tried to find a way out of providing any more information, but Farrah jumped in with, “According to an art dealer Miranda talked with when she was in Manhattan, Auttenberg was on his way to becoming quite a name in the art world before he was sent to the concentration camp. This dealer also said that there are rumors some of his works still exist and if any were found, they’d be worth a fortune.”
Miranda flinched. She quickly began to describe some of the other items she’d seen at the house, including a wooden bird whistle, numerous wind chimes, an Amish pie safe that had been hidden under never-worn coats and Miranda’s favorite—a picnic basket that screamed church social circa 1912.
“I think those qualify as odds and ends, so they could be legally mine, even if Mr. King’s client wins the house. Although, I don’t know where I’d put them when I get back to New York.” Miranda smiled. “My apartment is teensy.”
“You could always stay here, you know,” Dave suggested. “Birmingham isn’t a cultural wasteland and you’d be near your dad, which would make him very happy.”
“Well, I do have a pretty good career going up north. But it’s a thought. I could always keep the house as a refuge from big-city insanity. Then again, I happen to love big-city city insanity—most of the time. Right now I’m so tired I don’t care where
