Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 by MacPherson's Lament Page A

in a better position to answer any questions he might have about the property? I’ve only been in the house once. What if I get lost?”
    Flora Dabney’s laugh was a silvery peal from a bygone belle. “Lost? Why, I just know that a clever young man like you couldn’t possibly do a silly thing like that. And you probably know all those amazing things about wiring and plumbing that we are just mystified by. You’ll do a splendid job of showing the Northern gentleman around. And don’t you worry about having us old ladies underfoot. The eight of us will all go out to tea that afternoon, so we won’t be in your way one little bit. Now phone Mr. Huff back and tell him that Wednesday will be perfectly fine.”
    â€œBut what if he wants to buy the house? What if he wants to make an offer? Don’t you want to meet him?”
    â€œWhy, no, Bill,” said Flora Dabney. “It isn’tnecessary for us to meet the gentleman. We all trust your judgment.”
    At the sound of the dial tone Bill replaced the phone and began to paw through the papers on his desk in seach of something to do. Amidst a stack of notes on Trowbridge questions, he found another pink memo with a message to himself in the angular handwriting of A. P. Hill.
Title Search!
the memo read.
    Vaguely Bill remembered the conversation in which he had discussed the house sale with his busy law partner. Obviously she hadn’t trusted him to remember her advice, which was just as well, because in fact the task had slipped his mind. Pocketing the square of paper, Bill strolled out into the reception area, where Edith was counting the paper clips.
    â€œI have an important job for you,” he announced in the hearty tones of one who hopes to be convincing.
    â€œGo get your own hot dog,” said Edith without looking up from her task.
    â€œNo, this is a legal assignment,” Bill insisted. “I need you to go to the courthouse and look up the deed to a house. It’s called a title search. It’s the sort of thing that legal secretaries do, while attorneys devote themselves to more technical matters.”
    â€œOkay,” said Edith.
“You
count the paper clips.”
    â€œThis will be time-consuming, but not difficult,”said Bill, wisely choosing to ignore her comments. In fact, Bill had never done a real title search, although they had certainly studied the art in law school until he thought he would go mad from boredom. Carefully he explained the procedure to Edith: how to look in the deed books, how to follow the chain of ownership back from one property transaction to another. “This will probably be very simple,” he assured her. “The house has belonged to the Confederate widows and daughters since the turn of the century. Just photocopy all the relevant pages and bring them back here, and I’ll check over them.”
    Edith held out her hand. “I’ll need dimes and quarters for the copy machine.”
    Bill fished out a handful of change from his pants pocket. There went lunch, he thought. After jotting down the salient points of the assignment on a yellow legal pad, Bill sent Edith off to the courthouse. Then he phoned John Huff with the good news: he could fly down on Wednesday and view the house.
    Â Â Â The office of John Huff was an elegant lair of oak paneling and green leather, but in his own mind, Nathan Kimball referred to it as the Roach Motel, and he secretly dreaded every visit he was forced to make to his client’s inner sanctum. Kimball did not, of course, share these misgivings with the senior partners ofFremont, Shields, & Banks, because he was a very junior member of the law firm, and especially because John Huff was a wealthy and valued client. Mr. Huff did not, as far as Nathan Kimball could tell, spend his time evicting widows and orphans and tying village maidens to railroad tracks, but he looked as though he might. There was something of