“We all have our burdens, Gail,” Karen said, her breathing shallow as she shuffled the envelopes. “Your father spent every spare dollar on that garage. Thirty years of it. Nothing left for the house.”
“He was proud of his work,” I said, pausing before each sentence. “He wanted the Shelby to stay in the family.”
“Proud of metal,” she whispered, her fingers returning to her earrings. “Just old metal.”
“Walter is coming at nine-thirty,” I said. “He wants to look through the workshop for the will.”
“The will is in the lawyer’s office,” Karen said, her breathless voice quickening. “He doesn’t need to look in the workshop.”
“Walter thinks Arthur had a copy out there,” I said, pausing to look at her. “He said my father liked to keep a duplicate of everything.”
“Your father kept too many things,” she said, her fingers adjusting the pearl on her left ear. “Boxes of old receipts. Parts that didn’t fit any car we ever owned.”
She stood up quickly, her chair scraping against the linoleum. She walked toward the hallway, her slippers clicking against the floorboards, leaving her coffee untouched on the table.
I stood by the window for a moment, looking out at the gray morning, before picking up my coat.
The sharp smell of motor oil and damp leaves hit me the moment Walter opened the side door of the detached workshop at half past nine.
Walter, my father’s lifelong friend and estate lawyer, stepped inside and began inspecting the dusty wooden shelves that lined the back wall.
I searched the workbench, lifting empty grease tins and old rags, hoping to find the spare set of keys.
Walter took off his reading glasses and began polishing them with the wide end of his silk tie. “Arthur was always meticulous about his filing, Gail, yet I cannot locate his recent papers.”
