Barbara pretended she was not watching Bailey.
Maggie nodded. “About then, my mother began to talk about moving to California to be closer to my brother Richard, and then one day they told me they were putting our house up for sale. I was still living with them with the girls; it was all I could afford. Everyone just assumed I would go, too. Then Mr. and Mrs. Thielman asked me to come into his office for a talk, and he asked me if I wanted to move to Los Angeles, and I said no. He made a proposition. Why didn’t I buy the house and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast? He had trained me well; I knew everything there was to know about how to run it, and it would provide a living for me and my children as long as I wanted it to. I nearly laughed in his face. I didn’t have a penny to my name.”
Across the room Bailey muttered something unintelligible. Of course, Barbara thought, it was a metal case and the lock was probably an integral part of the frame. She wanted to call out for him to use a blowtorch.
Maggie was still talking. “Mrs. Thielman said Laurence was unhappy about their coming sale of Cliff Top and moving on, this time to Singapore. He refused to go. He was in art school in Chicago and wanted to finish, and then live on the coast and paint. She said they both understood his need to prove himself, but on the other hand he was so young, only nineteen then, that if he did manage to find a suitable apartment, he would never keep it. It would be robbed in his absence or he would spend rent money on art supplies or a trip somewhere or something else.” She smiled faintly. “Their offer was incredible. If I would let Laurence have the attic apartment, they would pay his rent in advance every year for ten years. They had already sent someone out to look over the house and see if it could be converted, and Mr. Thielman had an estimate of what it would cost. Mrs. Thielman said they would be relieved, knowing that Laurence had a home to return to, where his belongings would be safe, where he could paint, and after ten years he would be on his own.
“They made it happen. I had no credit and I couldn’t borrow the kind of money it would have taken, but they bought our house, and the next day they sold it to me. They carry the mortgage. I’ve never missed a payment, and next month Laurence has to start paying rent or get kicked out.”
“Hats off,” Frank said quietly. “You did it and you did it alone.”
“Not altogether,” she said. “The second year I was about to go under, and Papa Arno came to my rescue and loaned me money. If it hadn’t been for his and Mama Arno’s trust and faith, and Mr. and Mrs. Thielman’s belief that I could do it, it wouldn’t have worked.”
There was a loud snapping from the other side of the room. They all watched as Bailey pushed the suitcase aside and pulled the briefcase around.
A little later Frank and Maggie were discussing whether commercial art, illustrations, could be considered real art. Laurence hated doing commercial art, she said, although he was very good at it, but he refused to do more than enough to scrape by. Evidently that was a sore point in their relationship.
Just then there was another snapping noise and Bailey said, “Done.”
They hurried across the room to the desk.
“They’re unlocked,” Bailey said. “Tape’s still in place. Whose move?”
“I’ll do it,” Barbara said. No one stirred or spoke as she peeled the tape off the suitcase, then lifted the lid. Maggie gasped. Barbara let out a long low whistle. Money, stacks of money bundled in neat rows.
“Don’t touch,” Bailey said. He got a pair of latex gloves from his kit and pulled them on, then he lifted out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and riffled through it, replaced it, and pulled out a second one. “Ten thousand in the bundles.” He counted. “Two hundred fifty thousand, looks like, except one’s been tapped.” He counted that one. “Ten grand missing. Two hundred
Maggie nodded. “About then, my mother began to talk about moving to California to be closer to my brother Richard, and then one day they told me they were putting our house up for sale. I was still living with them with the girls; it was all I could afford. Everyone just assumed I would go, too. Then Mr. and Mrs. Thielman asked me to come into his office for a talk, and he asked me if I wanted to move to Los Angeles, and I said no. He made a proposition. Why didn’t I buy the house and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast? He had trained me well; I knew everything there was to know about how to run it, and it would provide a living for me and my children as long as I wanted it to. I nearly laughed in his face. I didn’t have a penny to my name.”
Across the room Bailey muttered something unintelligible. Of course, Barbara thought, it was a metal case and the lock was probably an integral part of the frame. She wanted to call out for him to use a blowtorch.
Maggie was still talking. “Mrs. Thielman said Laurence was unhappy about their coming sale of Cliff Top and moving on, this time to Singapore. He refused to go. He was in art school in Chicago and wanted to finish, and then live on the coast and paint. She said they both understood his need to prove himself, but on the other hand he was so young, only nineteen then, that if he did manage to find a suitable apartment, he would never keep it. It would be robbed in his absence or he would spend rent money on art supplies or a trip somewhere or something else.” She smiled faintly. “Their offer was incredible. If I would let Laurence have the attic apartment, they would pay his rent in advance every year for ten years. They had already sent someone out to look over the house and see if it could be converted, and Mr. Thielman had an estimate of what it would cost. Mrs. Thielman said they would be relieved, knowing that Laurence had a home to return to, where his belongings would be safe, where he could paint, and after ten years he would be on his own.
“They made it happen. I had no credit and I couldn’t borrow the kind of money it would have taken, but they bought our house, and the next day they sold it to me. They carry the mortgage. I’ve never missed a payment, and next month Laurence has to start paying rent or get kicked out.”
“Hats off,” Frank said quietly. “You did it and you did it alone.”
“Not altogether,” she said. “The second year I was about to go under, and Papa Arno came to my rescue and loaned me money. If it hadn’t been for his and Mama Arno’s trust and faith, and Mr. and Mrs. Thielman’s belief that I could do it, it wouldn’t have worked.”
There was a loud snapping from the other side of the room. They all watched as Bailey pushed the suitcase aside and pulled the briefcase around.
A little later Frank and Maggie were discussing whether commercial art, illustrations, could be considered real art. Laurence hated doing commercial art, she said, although he was very good at it, but he refused to do more than enough to scrape by. Evidently that was a sore point in their relationship.
Just then there was another snapping noise and Bailey said, “Done.”
They hurried across the room to the desk.
“They’re unlocked,” Bailey said. “Tape’s still in place. Whose move?”
“I’ll do it,” Barbara said. No one stirred or spoke as she peeled the tape off the suitcase, then lifted the lid. Maggie gasped. Barbara let out a long low whistle. Money, stacks of money bundled in neat rows.
“Don’t touch,” Bailey said. He got a pair of latex gloves from his kit and pulled them on, then he lifted out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and riffled through it, replaced it, and pulled out a second one. “Ten thousand in the bundles.” He counted. “Two hundred fifty thousand, looks like, except one’s been tapped.” He counted that one. “Ten grand missing. Two hundred
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