Howard Opened His Appointment Journal At The Kitchen Table

Howard Tully answered his door with the will page already in his hand.

Mara had sent him a copy before I arrived. He had printed it, put on his reading glasses, and circled the date in red.

At seventy-six, he was a tall white man whose white hair stood up at the back. His shirt was tucked in so tightly that I wondered how he sat down.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Please."

"At ten or after ten?"

I checked the wall clock.

"It's ten now."

"Nine fifty-eight. That clock runs fast."

He set out two cups.

On his kitchen table lay a narrow green book. Across its cover he had written the year, his name, and APPOINTMENTS. Each word had its own ruled box.

"I kept these for myself," he said. "Not as some official duty. People forgot when they came. They forgot what they brought. I preferred evidence."

He opened to March 11.

At ten in the morning, he had written: Elena Peralta. Will. Cinema office.

Someone looking only at that line might have stopped.

Under it, in smaller writing, stood: CANCELED MARCH 7. Elena in Savannah through March 14. Reschedule after return.

"She called you?" I asked.

"Dulce called. Elena was having treatment there, staying with a cousin. Your niece canceled the visit."

I felt the chair's hard edge beneath my hands.

"Dulce told you where she was."

"Yes."

"Could the signing have happened later that day?"

"I never met her that day. Or signed this page on any other day."

He tapped the copy.

"That looks like my stamp. The signature looks like mine, too. But I didn't put either there."

He did not speak louder. His lips became a straight line.

I called Mara on speaker. She asked him to describe the book, when he made entries, and where he kept it.

"Kitchen drawer, under the warranties," he said. "My wife said nobody needed a history of canceled appointments."

Mara asked him to preserve the whole book, including its cover and blank pages.

"Don't let anyone carry it away without a receipt," she said.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Ms. Voss."

"Neither was my client. I still remind him."

Howard looked at me and nodded. We both liked her more.

He agreed to sign a sworn statement and appear in court. Then he asked who was buying the Mariner.

He had retired that summer and surrendered his working supplies for secure disposal. This green book had stayed because it was his own appointment record. He showed me the surrounding weeks, crowded with canceled visits, lunch plans, and reminders to buy filters. March 11 was one ordinary page among them. He had not written it to help me win anything.

"Warren Bledsoe."

Howard took off his glasses.

"Warren and I have eaten breakfast together every Thursday for eleven years."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry yet. He may have nothing to do with this."

He paused.

"But he called last month asking if I kept old stamp samples. Said he needed one to compare a property paper. I told him his closing lawyer could ask me directly. Nobody did."

Mara asked him to write that down, too. She warned us against guessing what it meant.

On my way out, Howard touched my elbow.

"Elena paid for my granddaughter's school pictures when my son lost work. Don't think breakfast buys my silence."

At home, I called our cousin in Savannah. With Mara's help, we began arranging statements and records that could place Elena there. We would use the court process for records we could not obtain ourselves.

Then I drove to the cinema to check the roof.

My key entered the alley lock but would not turn.

A shiny new cylinder sat where the old brass one had been.

Through the glass by the box office, I saw Dulce beside two men carrying plastic crates. One crate held the small swell-shade motor I had removed for service.

I knocked.

She opened the door six inches.

"You can't come in without an appointment."

"That motor belongs with the organ."

"They're only clearing loose equipment."

"Tell them to put it down."

For once, she heard something in my voice that stopped her.

One man set the crate on the floor. The other raised his phone and asked whether they would still be paid.

"Your niece said everything was hers," he told me.

"There is a dispute. Please leave the organ equipment where it is."

I photographed the crate from the sidewalk. Then I photographed the lock.

Dulce pulled the door shut.

My phone buzzed while I was calling Mara.

It was a message from Bledsoe, sent to both of us.

The message said the organ would be disconnected at seven the next morning, to prepare the property for closing.

Below it was a work order with a contractor's name and a $3,200 deposit marked PAID.