MacPherson's Lament

CHAPTER 5

BILL MACPHERSON SLIPPED out of his office and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker in the reception area.

“I thought you hated coffee,” said Edith, waving a packet of NutraSweet, which he declined.

Bill glanced at his office door, which he had shut behind him. “I do hate it!” he hissed. “This was an excuse to come out here. I just wanted to tell you that if there are any calls, please interrupt me. Anybody at all. Even a wrong number.”

Edith raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were conferring with a client.”

“You mean, as opposed to having a family reunion? I am. I’m trying to fill out the Petition for Dissolution of Marriage with my mother, but it’s tough going. I found myself looking forward to a call from Mr. Trowbridge. So feel free to interrupt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Edith.

Bill looked into the other office. The door was open and no one sat at the tidy oak desk. The sight did nothing to improve his disposition. “Where’s Powell? Isn’t she here yet?”

“She had a date with Harry Wooding,” said Edith solemnly.

“With who? Oh. You mean she’s at the courthouse.” Bill suddenly remembered that this was the name on the statue of a former mayor of Danville, situated on a landing of the courthouse steps. “Again? What do I have to do to see my own law partner?”

“You might try getting yourself arrested. Did you see her on the six o’clock news last night?”

“No. Was she discussing the murder case?”

“Yes. She looked real good. Had on that new linen blazer she bought at the mall, but they ran a piece on the crime before they interviewed her, and it sounded like the guy was guilty. But she’s working hard to defend him. I sure do hope they’re paying her by the hour for this case.”

“Well, maybe the publicity will generate some business. It isn’t as if we’re swamped around here.” He looked furtively at his office door. “I guess I’d better go back.” With a sigh of martyrdom, he went back to his conference. “Here I am, Mother!” he said with all the forced cheerfulness he could muster. “You’re sure you won’t have some coffee?”

Margaret MacPherson sighed. “Caffeine is bad for you,” she announced. “I never drink it anymore. You ought to get in some herbal tea instead.”

“I’ll look into it,” Bill promised. A month ago he might have argued the point, but now he thought his mother might need all the deference that he could muster. “Shall we get on with this form?” he said gently. “It’s just routine, you know, but as petitioner for the divorce, you and I have to fill in all the answers and file it with the County Circuit Court.”

On his desk was the green loose-leaf notebook entitled The Virginia Lawyer, Bill’s legal lifeline into the intricacies of his new profession. He picked up his yellow legal pad and tried to decipher what he had written. “Now, where were we?”

“We established that your father and I have both been residents of the state for more than a hundred and eighty days.”

“ ‘… preceding the filing of this petition.’ ” Bill nodded. “And we had your age and county of residence. Number three is Dad’s age, place of employment, and county of residence. I’ll fill that in.” He scribbled more notes and consulted the form again. “Date and place of marriage?”

His mother twisted her hands in her lap and looked away. “August 23, 1961. Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We eloped. My sister Amanda was furious with me. She had her heart set on a pastel-pink formal wedding, but I-well, it doesn’t matter now. Go on to the next one.”

Bill picked up the form and read aloud, “ ‘Parties ceased co-habiting as husband and wife as of (insert date here), and separated and ceased living together as husband and wife on (insert date here.)’ ” He was careful not to look up from the paper as he finished reading.

After a palpable silence, Bill’s mother said, “He moved out two weeks ago, wasn’t it? On a Saturday.”

“Uh-yes,” muttered Bill. “That’s the ceased-living-together part. I’ll need a date for the other one, too.”

“Could I have some of that coffee now?” asked Margaret MacPherson.

Nathan Kimball had spent most of the past two days boning up on Virginia real estate law and double-checking his client’s proposed purchase. While he was thus occupied with legal business, John Huff spent his time playing tourist, although what he could have found to view after the first hour was a mystery to his attorney.

Huff drove his rental car out to Lucktown, north of Danville, to look at a historical marker on the site of the old railroad depot. Rejecting Bill MacPherson’s suggestions of various local motels, he took rooms for himself and his attorney in an ornate Queen Anne-style bed and breakfast on the elegant section of Main Street known locally as Millionaire’s Row. He took long walks in the warm June sunshine, admiring the late Victorian houses that line Danville’s grandest old thoroughfare. In these graceful old mansions the city’s tobacco and textile barons had entertained each other-and even generated a bit of minor history. On the corner of Main and Broad streets was the birthplace of the Langhorne sisters; Nancy became Viscountess Astor, the first woman to sit in Britain’s House of Commons, and her sister Irene became the model for the Gibson Girl, created by her artist-husband, Charles Dana Gibson.

Huff spent a good bit of time in one of the oldest houses on Main Street, once the residence of William T. Sutherlin and now the Danville Museum of Fine Arts and History. For a week in April 1865, the massive gray sandstone building topped with a glass cupola had been the last capitol of the Confederacy, sheltering Jefferson Davis and his cabinet after the fall of Richmond. Huff wandered around the rooms of restored Victorian furnishings, with plaster ceiling work and its elaborately carved furniture. He told the curator that he was thinking of buying an antebellum home, and that he needed ideas on how to decorate it. However, he spent a good bit of time reading Jefferson Davis’s last speech, penned in the drawing room. And he asked if there were any local memoirs dating from the Civil War in the library upstairs. He paid scant attention to the displays of quilts and local artwork in the basement of the museum, but he was most interested in finding out whether there had been any additions to the house in modern times-and where outbuildings had stood a century before.

When Nathan Kimball returned to the bed and breakfast at four o’clock, he found Mr. Huff sitting in the chair by the window reading local-history pamphlets with the air of someone studying for an exam. He looked up as the door opened. “Well?”

Kimball, who had long given up expecting courtesy from his client, ignored the brusqueness of the salutation. “Everything seems to check out,” he said, loosening his tie as he sat down on the bed. “Though, of course, if you were relying on bank financing, they’d want to do everything about three times, just to make sure. Still, I’ve looked over MacPherson’s paperwork-title search, the terms of the deed, and so on. The house was left as a trust for the widows and daughters of Confederate veterans, but there was a clause stating that the board-that is, the residents and their attorney-could dispose of the house if it was no longer needed for its original purpose. I think it’s safe to assume that there won’t be any more widows or daughters turning up at this late date.”

“Not after a hundred and thirty-odd years,” Huff agreed.

“I mentioned that we were thinking of offering a million two, and he said he’d talk to his clients, but that he thought that they’d wait for other offers in that case. Apparently they have received other responses to their ad.”

Huff narrowed his eyes. “On whose authority did you offer them less than the asking price?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d mind,” stammered Kimball. “I thought I might save you some money, since the sellers seem to be in a hurry, and you once said you expected a discount for cash.”

“Tell MacPherson we’ll meet their price. But we want to close tomorrow.”

The walk from the law office to the police station took A. P. Hill up Loyal Street, past an old tobacco warehouse that was once Confederate Prison No. 6. Sometimes she would linger, looking at the old building, remembering the harrowing account she had read of conditions in Danville’s military prisons. Today, though, her thoughts were on the more modern version of prison in Danville: the jail in which Tug Mosier awaited trial, unable to make bail.

She had examined the police reports about the murder of Misti Hale, but the results seemed inconclusive. They had been unable to locate any of Tug’s drinking buddies from the evening in question, and no witnesses saw him or anyone else enter his home that night. Misti Hale had been strangled, and there was no physical evidence-hairs, fingerprints, or anything else-to identify her killer. The evidence against Tug Mosier was circumstantial, but as she had learned in law school, many a man has been hanged on circumstantial evidence. (Well, been electrocuted, then, since this was Virginia.) If the prosecutor could find a motive or convince a jury that he had planned the crime in advance, he could be convicted of capital murder. In theory, Powell Hill did not disapprove of the death penalty, but in practice, she didn’t want to feel eternally responsible if her client paid the extreme penalty because her defense was not adequate.

Tug Mosier’s past did not help matters either. As his attorney, Powell could not present him to a jury as an upstanding citizen who had accidentally fallen under suspicion of a crime through no fault of his own. Mosier was an eleventh-grade dropout whose checkered job record seldom showed anything lasting longer than a year or paying more than minimum wage. He came from a broken home and had run away from his grandmother’s care by the time he was fifteen. The grandmother had been dead for years now, and apparently there was no one else who cared what happened to Tug Mosier.

He had a string of run-ins with the law that stretched all the way back to junior high school: throwing bricks off the overpass and trying to hit passing cars. From there he progressed to drunk driving, assault charges for barroom fights, and an occasional larceny or bad-check charge. He had served time in various county jails, but never in prison. All in all, his criminal record presented a picture of an irresponsible man lacking in ambition and self-control, one with a penchant for violence-just the sort of man who could have killed Misti Hale in a drunken argument. Worst of all, Tug Mosier was not even proclaiming his innocence; all he could offer was a reasonable doubt about his own guilt. Powell Hill wondered if she could persuade a jury to give him the benefit of that doubt, considering his record.

The television news story last night hadn’t helped, either. The news team had begun with a shot of an unshaven Tug Mosier, dressed in jeans and an undershirt, leering at the camera. Then they had cut to an interview with the grieving family of Misti Hale. They looked as worthy and upstanding as the Waltons, expressing their sorrow in dignified tones. Misti had been the wayward daughter of a well-liked local pediatrician. Dr. Hale’s colleagues, friends, and former patients would naturally be outraged by the murder of his pretty daughter. Powell could imagine the television audience chanting: Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! The story made headlines in the morning paper, too. She wondered if there was anybody left in Danville who didn’t think that Tug Mosier was a human pit bull.

A. P. Hill had walked another half block before that thought came around again, and this time she really considered its implications. Would there be local prejudice in the case? Enough to jeopardize her client’s right to a fair trial? She decided that before she went back to talk to Tug, she’d better go to the courthouse and find a Silverback. She had to find out how to go about getting a change of venue for Tug Mosier’s murder trial.

Bill MacPherson was up to his ears in tedious paperwork and silence was worth four dollars a minute, so naturally the phone rang. The trill of the bell so close to his ear annoyed him so much that he snatched it up at once, forgetting about Edith in the outer office.

“Hello! MacPherson and Hill.”

“Is that you, Bill?” The drawling tones of an elderly voice froze Bill as he sat gripping the phone. “I just had a little question. Thought I’d put you on it.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he managed to say. “How are you, Mr. Trowbridge?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.” I’ll bet you can, thought Bill. “Well, here’s my question. Have you got a pencil handy to jot this down?”

“Ready when you are,” said Bill, striving to keep a note of impatience out of his voice.

“Well, I was just wondering. I was watching a cop show on television last night. Suppose a policeman arrested a guy who had a fake ID. Say he was calling himself Fred Jones when his real name was Bob Brown. So the arrest papers and everything will be made out in the phony name. Can the guy go all the way through the trial and sentencing and then produce identification to say who he really is, then claim that the charges don’t apply to him because he was misidentified? Can he tell them to go find somebody named Fred Jones and put him in jail? Can he do that?”

Bill blinked. “No. We didn’t cover that in law school, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t work. You may be able to outsmart the state, but not as easily as that. I suppose you want me to check on it formally, though.”

“Sure, I’d like to know exactly why it wouldn’t work. You could look it up.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” Bill sighed. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll call you back.”

“That’s fine,” said Trowbridge cheerfully. “You know, this is a lot of fun. It’s one of the best presents the wife has ever come up with.”

What did she give you last year? thought Bill. A thumbscrew? Aloud he said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Trowbridge. Goodbye.”

The next time the phone rang, about two minutes later, Bill had no trouble remembering to let Edith answer it. Seconds later she appeared in the doorway. “Nathan Kimball for you,” she said. “Good luck.”

Bill motioned for her to stay. “Yes?” he said into the phone. “Yes, this is he… All right… Yes, I understand… Tomorrow? But that’s a lot of paperwork… I see. Well, if you put it that way. I suppose we could-I’ll tell my clients and call you back. Ten minutes or so… Good. Until then.” He hung up the phone with a bemused smile. “You want the good news, Edith, or the bad news?”

“Give me the good news,” said Edith. “It’ll make a nice change.”

“Mr. Huff has decided to buy the Home for Confederate Women. His lawyers have okayed the deal, and he’s willing to pay the asking price without any quibbling.” Bill looked smug. “I mentioned that there had been other inquiries.”

“You mean the old guy who wanted to see it if we’d trade it for $65,000 and a trailer at Virginia Beach?”

“Well, it was an offer of sorts,” said Bill.

“Okay. The good news is Mr. Huff will buy the house for the asking price. And the bad news is-what? He wants to pay it in Confederate money?” asked Edith.

“No. The bad news is that we have to close the deal tomorrow.”

Edith sneered. “That’s impossible. When my brother bought his house, it liked to have taken forever.”

“That was because he needed bank financing,” Bill told her. “Mortgages do take forever. But if Mr. Huff is paying cash-well, not cash, but transferring funds from his bank to ours, without borrowing any money from anyone-then all we have to do is the paperwork.”

“That must be the bad news,” said Edith. “That’s a lot of documents to generate in one day’s time. I suppose you’ll be wanting me to cancel my evening’s plans and work overtime.”

“I really need you,” said Bill. “But we’ll be able to afford to pay you overtime from our commission from the sale of the house.”

“Well, that’s good. It’s nice to know that I could afford to eat if I ever had the time. I’d better get started on it. Have you called the old ladies yet?”

“That’s my next move,” said Bill, reaching for the phone. “Just think! I’ve finished my first case. Won’t Powell be pleased?”

“You bet. And astonished, too,” said Edith, strolling back to her desk.

It’s amazing how much time lawyers spend on the phone, Bill thought as he dialed the Home for Confederate Women. Gab and write letters. After four rings, the receiver was picked up, and Bill heard Flora Dabney’s voice. “Miss Dabney! Bill MacPherson here. I have wonderful news! Mr. Huff wants to buy your house. Tomorrow!”

Five minutes later Bill was standing in front of Edith’s desk, with an expression of utter dismay.

Edith looked up from her computer terminal. “Well? She hasn’t changed her mind about selling, has she?”

“No,” said Bill, perching on the edge of the desk. “It’s not as bad as that. It’s just that she says they can’t come to the office tomorrow. Apparently, one of them has a doctor’s appointment, and another one isn’t feeling well enough to leave the house. I explained to her that Mr. Huff wants to finalize the sale tomorrow.”

“And what did she say?”

“She wants me to handle the whole thing.”

“Don’t they want to meet this fellow who’s buying their house?”

“Apparently not. We finally decided that I would draw up a power of attorney form and go over there now and get it signed. Then at the closing tomorrow, I’ll sign the papers on their behalf.”

“Who gets the money, then?”

“Mr. Huff gives me a cashier’s check or wires the funds or whatever, and it gets deposited in the firm’s trust account. Then I deduct our commission, and pay the rest to Miss Dabney and her housemates. So that won’t change.”

“Did you remember to call Mr. Kimball and tell him that tomorrow is all set?”

“Yeah, just now,” said Bill. “I also asked him about defendants who use phony names, but he was no help.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just another one of Mr. Trowbridge’s questions. I’d better get going now if I want to get all this done. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Want me to bring back a pizza?”

“Are you buying?”

“Yes,” said Bill. “Company expenses.”

“Then bring back two pizzas,” said Edith. “I’ll need all my strength to complete this paperwork.”

After a frantic scramble through the reference books, Bill managed to find the power-of-attorney instructions, type them up on his computer, and produce a presentable-looking printout to take with him to the Home for Confederate Women. As he drove out Highway 58 toward the old mansion, he tried to remember everything he knew about real estate transactions, just to make sure that he wasn’t overlooking anything. It seemed simple enough. He’d be glad to get this case out of the way; perhaps then he could get a more interesting one. He was a little jealous of his partner’s newfound importance as the defender of an accused murderer. And what was Bill doing? Paperwork in a divorce and answering stupid questions for Calvin Trowbridge. He would also be glad to finalize the house sale because, as unexciting as it was, it would be his first case, successfully completed; then he could feel that he was really a lawyer.

He turned down the quiet country road that led to the white-columned mansion, enjoying the country scenery, golden in the late afternoon sun, and thinking how pleasant it was that his first lawyerly duty should be an act of benevolent service for a group of sweet, helpless old ladies.

In the mahogany dining room Flora Dabney had assembled the other residents of the home for a conference. She explained to them that Bill MacPherson (“That nice young man!”) had succeeded in finding a buyer for the house, and that the sale would take place tomorrow. “I thought it best for us not to attend personally,” she said. “So I’ve asked Bill to come out here and bring a power-of-attorney form for us to sign. That way he can represent us at the actual closing, and we need not be present.”

Ellen Morrison looked up with a worried frown. “But how will we be paid? Can we trust this lawyer?”

“He’s very young, dear,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of defrauding helpless old ladies.”

“There was a Union general called McPherson in the War,” Lydia Bridgeford pointed out. Her interest in genealogy occasionally spilled over into other people’s antecedents.

“I believe they spell it differently,” said Flora Dabney. “At any rate, the buyer is paying cash, so the money should be ours within the week. Of course that means we shall have to move out rather quickly. I’m sure the gentleman will want to take possession without delay.”

Julia Hotchkiss watched silently from her wheelchair with a bag of Fig Newtons wrapped in her lap robe. She waited for signs of refreshments, and when none were forthcoming, she eased a cookie out of the folds of the blanket and, when she thought no one was looking, stuffed it in her cheek.

“The important thing is that the money be safe,” said Ellen Morrison. “I lived through the Great Depression once, and I don’t mean to live hand to mouth ever again. I’ve been seeing in the paper about these banks going under and whatnot, and I just don’t know that I trust them.”

Flora Dabney and Dolly Smith looked at each other. “That’s quite true, Ellen,” Flora said after a moment’s pause. “It is important that the money be safe, because at our age we are not likely to come by much more of it. I discussed that very point with Mary Lee when we first decided to go through with this.”

“Yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “I knew just who to ask. You know that nice young fellow who comes by to take me to church? He’s in banking. So about a month ago I asked him what would be a really safe place to put money, and of course he said that his bank was as secure as they come. But I laughed and said that I had been watching a television program, and that the people on the show made a lot of money in a shady way, and they did something else with it.” She blushed. “I’m afraid I fibbed about the TV program, but it was in a good cause.”

“Well?” said Dolly Smith impatiently. “What did he say?”

“At first he talked about money laundering. I never could make head nor tails of his explanation-so I said I didn’t think that was it. Finally, as we were pulling into the church parking lot, he laughed-in that superior way men have-and he said, ‘Well, Miss Mary, you could always stash your ill-gotten gains in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. They won’t tell anybody who’s got what.’ ”

“What in the world are the Cayman Islands?” asked Anna Douglas from the doorway. As usual, she was late for the meeting.

“They’re in the Caribbean,” said Mary Lee. “Not that it matters, because you don’t have to go there, although I’m sure they’re very nice. All I had to do was telephone a bank there and ask to set up an account, and I sent them a check.”

“For how much?” asked Lydia Bridgeford. “We can’t spare much.”

“Sixty-five dollars,” said Mary Lee. “Half of that was Flora’s. We bought a money order at the 7-Eleven and sent it in.”

“In your name?” asked Ellen. “But what if something happens to you? How will we get the money?”

“All you need is the account number and the paperwork. They explained it all to me. You just use the number for transactions. Besides, I opened the account in a different name altogether. Mrs. James Ewell Brown Stuart.”

Lydia Bridgeford nodded approvingly. “Jeb Stuart, eh? I expect he’d rather like that. After all, he was born in the next county over, so he is rather a neighbor of ours.”

“Except of course that he’s dead,” said Mary Lee Pendleton.

“At Yellow Tavern in 1864,” sighed Flora, who had rather a thing about the late general.

“I’d hardly have opened an account for him if he weren’t dead,” snapped Mary Lee. “The whole point is that we have to hang on to this money. It’s all we’ve got for our old age.”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Dolly Smith.

“You want me to do what with the money?” asked Bill MacPherson, staring at the circle of smiling pink faces.

“It’s very simple,” Flora Dabney assured him. “I expect you haven’t done that sort of transaction before, but there’s really nothing to worry about. You simply instruct your bank to wire it to this account number at our bank, which happens to be in the Cayman Islands.”

“But why do you want the money wired to a Caribbean island?” wailed Bill.

“We thought we might go there,” said Dolly Smith. “My doctor said it might help my arthritis.”

“But why deposit the money there? They take traveler’s checks in the Caymans.”

Flora Dabney smiled. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing. Will you promise not to laugh if we confide in you?”

Bill nodded.

“Well, it’s just that we felt a little funny about selling Confederate property and putting the money in a U.S. bank. I know that when I first hired you I said that the war was over, but some of the ladies here still feel strongly about it. Very strongly.”

“My dear papa never believed in banks after ’29,” said Ellen Morrison. “And I believe most of them are controlled out of New York, which just goes to show you.”

“And since there is no longer a Confederacy, we decided to send the money out of the country altogether.”

Bill stared at his clients. Surely they were joking. “But what if you want to use some of it? To buy groceries and things!”

“In that case,” said Flora, “we might find it necessary to transfer some of it back. But for now you must allow us our little gesture. Now here’s the account number. Don’t lose it.”

“Wasn’t there something else you wanted?” asked Anna Douglas. “I’m late for bridge club.”

“Oh, the power of attorney,” said Bill, recalling his original errand. “I drew up a form authorizing me to act on your behalf in the selling of the property. I need each of you to sign on these lines.” He pointed out the appropriate place on the document, and produced the pen his parents had given him for graduation. One by one the ladies signed their names, passing the pen from hand to hand: Flora Dabney, Mary Lee Pendleton, Ellen Morrison, Lydia Bridgeford, Anna Douglas, and Dolly Hawks Smith. Julia Hotchkiss had to be persuaded to sign by the offer of another package of cookies, but in the end she scrawled her name below Jenny Allan’s tentative script, and the form was complete.

“I guess that’s it,” said Bill, putting the paper back in his briefcase. “Tomorrow Mr. Huff will come to my office, and we’ll sign the deed. After that you’ll have two weeks to vacate the house. Will that be sufficient?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton with her serene smile. “We have already decided to go to Oakmont, that lovely retirement community just outside town. They have charming little apartments and a dining hall and people to check on you if you need anything. We’ll still be together.”

Flora Dabney patted his arm. “And you must come out and see us. Perhaps you could come to tea in a month or so, when we’re settled.”

“Thank you,” said Bill. “I’ll try to do that.”

“And you won’t forget about depositing the money, will you?” asked Ellen Morrison.

“It will go straight from the firm’s trust account to you. Less my commission, of course. I’m one of the honest lawyers,” said Bill.

They all laughed merrily.

Forty-five minutes later Bill returned to the office with two large pizzas balanced on the top of his briefcase. “How’s it going?” he called to Edith. “Any problems?”

“Maybe one,” said Edith, clearing space on her desk for the pizzas. “Did you get the old ladies to sign that power-of-attorney form?”

“I sure did,” said Bill. “See? Eight signatures.”

“Uh-huh.” Edith frowned as she examined the form. “Did you remember to have a notary present?”

“Oh, shit!”

“Shall I take that as a no?”

Bill sat down and put his head in his hands. “I completely forgot,” he groaned. “I was so busy rushing around, trying to get back here and finish the rest of this paperwork and buy the pizzas and all. It just slipped my mind.”

Edith sighed. “Want me to type up another one?”

“Well, one of the ladies said she had bridge club tonight. I might not be able to get all the signatures. Oh, hell. I should have thought to take you along. You’re a notary, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Edith, cutting the pizza with her letter opener. “Did you remember the napkins?”

“No. Use a paper towel. Look, I don’t suppose you could notarize this now, could you? I mean, I know you’re supposed to see the document being signed, but I swear to you that they all signed it, and I signed it, and it’s all legal. Oh, please, Edith! If we don’t get all this done by tomorrow, the deal will fall through.”

Over a slice of pepperoni pizza, Edith gave him a look of exasperation. “All right,” she said. “You are new at this. I guess everybody’s entitled to one incredibly stupid screwup. But it’s illegal, you hear? So I don’t want you ever to make this mistake again.” She opened her desk drawer, took out her notary seal, and witnessed the document.

“Thanks, Edith,” said Bill. “I promise I’ll never forget again. You’ve saved my life.”

“That’ll be a dollar,” said Edith.