I rubbed my chin, suddenly hyper-aware of the moon crater. “Okay.”

  “Please don’t take offense to these things I’m telling you. I started in this business twenty years ago and I developed a thick skin. If you want to continue you should learn to endure the nitpicking. I might seem cruel to you but this is nothing compared to what you’ll hear in a casting call.”

  What a confidence boost. “I understand.”

  Myra twisted her head, jarring the dangling earrings. “We should also work on your personality. Your lively flower disappeared into a shell and that won’t do for an audition. You’ll be a quick no.”

  I cleared my throat and checked my wristwatch. “Well, this has been fun but my other appointment…”

  “Oh, hold on a second. This might be the commercial audition.” She lunged for her phone.

  “Which commercial?”

  “Never mind.” She turned her screen over as a picture of ‘Ex 3’ flashed. “My lazy ex-husband calling for a handout. Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t recommend it. I’ve been married and divorced four times. Two and four are the same man so I never know if he should count twice. It sure cost my bank account twice.”

  Four failed marriages? The woman was barely forty and she already beat Ross Geller’s record.

  She organized the documents on her desk. “Never marry a flighty actor.”

  “Um, what commercial audition are you waiting to hear about?”

  “I’m trying to get you on a shortlist of applicants for a regional fast-food ad. Nothing major but it is a resume builder.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Just when I considered running from the food truck and never looking back, Myra dangled a shiny opportunity in front of my face. How could I resist?

  “I’ll need you to look over these papers and sign them to make our relationship official. Then we can start booking auditions.”

  By the time I finished with my new agent, I was officially running late for the reading of my fake Uncle Albert’s will. As I sped through a yellow light, I pictured myself arriving tardy and uninvited.

  Some days boosted your confidence. This was not one of those days.

  3

  Heir to the Throne

  I checked the address a second time before entering the office. Painted in a stencil across the foggy glass door was Trisha Foster, Attorney at Law.

  Definitely the right place. An internal battle waged as I regretted my decision. With a deep breath, I reached for the door. My stomach sank and I pivoted to the hall. I couldn’t crash the reading of the will. Invited or not, I never met the man.

  “In or out, darling?” A white-haired woman pointed her cane at the door. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Are you Trisha Foster?” I asked.

  The woman laughed. “Heaven’s no. Everybody calls me Granny. Are you here for dear Albert?”

  “Um, yes ma’am.”

  She looped her arm through mine. “Come now. No reason to be skittish.” She dragged me into the law office. We brushed by reception and waltzed straight into the conference room.

  A man in a tailored suit and wingtips paced by the window. “The attorney is late. I espect nothing less.” He spoke with a Cuban accent.

  “I don’t mind. I brought my crocheting along.” Granny dropped her oversized purse and produced a roll of yarn. “I make hand towels for the kitchen. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.”

  “This is the one I’m currently working on for my neighbor. She decorates in chickens and roosters, Lord knows why.” She dragged the half-finished product from her bag. “But I make what my customers like.”

  I stroked the soft cotton. She transformed a cheap hand towel into an intricate conversation piece. “Lovely. How do you make these?”

  “I purchase cheapo patterns at the Dollar General and I cut them in half. At the top I crochet the… well I call it a hat because it looks like a little nightcap. It allows you to hang the towels off a cabinet or your stove. About a month ago, I started selling them to ladies at the church. They’re taking off like hotcakes.”

  “Beautiful. I can see why.” Though tempted to buy one on the spot, my current budget didn’t allow for expenditures. And we devoted little effort to decorating the apartment.

  The Cuban film-noir man smoothed a hand over his jelled raven hair. “They’re worse than doctors with a waiting room. No concern for someone else’s busy schedule.”

  “Who doesn’t hate lawyers?” Granny asked. “Am I right?”

  All eyes turned to me and I decided not to mention being the daughter of evil. “They are the worst.” I checked the time on my Apple Watch. “Trisha is only a few minutes late and traffic from downtown is ridiculous.”

  “Well, I can’t wait any longer. My clients expect me to keep appointments.” The man clutched his fedora and headed for the door.

  “Excuse me.” A new man squeezed by on his way into the conference room and squished the fedora. “Oh, I am sorry about that.”

  The Cuban punched the hat back into place. “Don’t tell me, you are the lawyer?”

  “P… Trisha? No, my name is Stephen.” His beady eyes scanned the room. He tugged at the neck of his dress shirt, buttoned to the top. The pattern and color made him look as if he wore graph paper. “I think the lawyer is a w… woman.”

  The Cuban bounced on the toes of expensive Oxford loafers. “Well, where is this fella? I got better things to do than wait all day.”

  Stephen leaned toward me. “Is this the will reading?”

  “No, this is the meeting for the church picnic, he’s our rally leader.” The blank stare caused me to reevaluate my joke. “Yes, you’re in the right place.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  I found it odd none of the people in the room acknowledged each other. Obviously not a close-knit family. Unless they were associates of Uncle Albert instead of kin.

  A skinny woman bustled into the office, hauling a gigantic cardboard box. “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic is a nightmare.”

  Stephen danced forward and backward. “Need help?” He bumped into a plastic chair. “Oh, no. You got it.” He spoke the words so quietly, that I doubted she heard him.

  “I’m Trisha Foster and the sign claims I’m an attorney at law. Still weird to say because I passed the bar like three months ago.” Her brown eyes bugged. “Any who.”

  “Can we speed this up? I’m due in meetings all afternoon,” the Cuban said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Trisha fingered the people in the room. “We seem to be missing one person. Why don’t I take roll to confirm who’s present?”

  The Cuban poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Ricardo Robinson.”

  “Okay.” She made a check mark on her list. “Both the ladies are here, Granny Robinson and Rebecca Robinson.”

  My brow twitched at the repeated surnames. Was I wrong about the family assessment?

  “Excellent.” Trisha completed dual checks. “Are you Jessy or Stephen Robinson?”

  “The latter.” He blew on his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the tail of his shirt.

  “How about we get movin’ then?” Ricardo motioned everyone to the table.

  “Honeybunch, why don’t you calm down and let the young lawyer lady run this meeting as she sees fit?” Granny tucked her crochet paraphernalia into her tote.

  “Thank you.” Trisha tightened her ponytail and stared at the items laid in front of her. “We should wait for Mr. Jessy before we begin.”

  “Aye yai yai. I’m never getting out of here.” Ricardo removed a comb from his pocket and fixed his already perfect hair.

  “Are you a stockbroker or something?” Stephen asked.

  “Or a time traveler,” I mumbled.

  “Well, I guess I can start by reading the message Mr. Robinson left in his will.” Trisha unfolded a sheet of paper. “Though I raised no children… sorry, I forgot to say, I’m starting the letter now. So, this is what Mr. Robinson, Albert, Mr. Robinson wants you to learn.”

  The conference room busted open and a young man in a leather jacket strolled inside. “Hope I’m not too late to claim what the old geezer left me.”

  “We are just beginning,” the lawyer said. She cleared her throat and fluffed the letter. “Though I raised no children, I consider the five of you my closest family. To you, I’m bequeathing my prized possessions.”

  I crossed my fingers for the minor league baseball team.

  “Sweet.” Jessy propped his boots on the table.

  “That’s all he wrote. Short and to the point in death as he was in life.” Trisha grinned. “On behalf of Mr. Robinson, I want to express how much he cherished each one of you. You truly represented a special friendship, especially toward the end of his life.”

  My shoulders quivered and the guilt ate through my stomach like acid. I shouldn’t be here. Before I drove to the office, I Googled pictures of the man, confirming we never met. Uncle Albert sent a letter to the wrong Becky. I gripped the chair, prepared to leave when the squeak drew everyone’s attention. I shifted in my seat and crossed my legs. “Anyone carrying some WD40?”

  “What’s in the box?” Ricardo asked.

  “He wanted to be as fair as possible, so Mr. Robinson left you each an item of equal value. He gave the choice careful consideration to match your personality.” Trisha yanked on the cardboard box. “Ooh, they sealed this tight. Does anyone…”

  Jessy twirled a pocketknife like a character from The Outsiders. “Here you go.”

  “Why thank you.” Trisha sliced across the tape. She reached into the box and consulted her notes. “First up is Stephen.”

  He strode around the table and approached for his inheritance. His head titled as Trisha handed him the mystery object. He twisted to show the audience. “A ceramic pink flamingo. Cool.”

  “He’s holding a calculator,” Trisha added. “Representative of your time as a mathlete.”

  “Any clue what a mathlete is?” Jessy stretched across the table and waved at me. “Something super nerdy?”

  “Kids who compete in mathematic competitions in school, or so I’m told.”

  Stephen gripped the three-foot-tall lawn flamingo over his head like the Stanley Cup. “Check out the resemblance between his skinny legs and mine.”

  We mumbled our unsure response. What did one say when gifted a cheap lawn ornament?

  “Next is Ricardo.” Trisha displayed another flamingo.

  He smoothed a hand over his tie. “He’s wearing a sombrero.”

  “Cute right?” Trisha bopped her finger on the hat. “Olé.”

  I lifted my chin as I tried to look inside the container.

  Trisha shook her finger. “No peeking.” She dug into the box and pulled out, you guessed it, another flamingo. The third one resembled the Mother Goose cartoon. “Granny if you will…”

  “Once I’m parked in a chair it takes a force of nature to get me up again, Dolly.”

  Trisha chuckled. “I’ll come to you.”

  “How precious. I adore the little reading glasses.” She displayed the pair hanging from around her neck. “We’re twinkies.”

  “I sense a matching hand towel in your future.”

  Granny swatted at me. “What a marvelous idea. I love it.”

  Trisha clicked her tongue. “Rebecca, you receive the Hawaiian flamingo.”

  Equipped with a lei, grass skirt, and everything. I navigated the round conference table to accept my strange gift. I struggled with the weight of the ceramic decoration. “Heavier than she looks.”

  “They are quite well-made.” Trisha scanned her list and reached inside the box. “Leaving Cool Guy Jessy for last.” She rotated the final prize, a sunglass-wearing-chillaxing flamingo.

  Jessy stroked his clean-shaven face. “Wow, just what I always wanted. This puppy is gonna brighten up the trailer park. I hope no one tries to steal it.”

  “Perhaps you might keep it indoors if you live in a rough neighborhood.” Trisha folded the cardboard box. “That concludes our conference. Enjoy your weekend. And on your drive home today, please give a good thought to Albert. May he rest in peace.”

  Granny collected her bag and the flamingo poked over the straps. “A pleasure meeting you, Becky. Maybe I can explore the family history and discover how we are kin. My kids set me up with an email messenger account.”

  I scribbled my address on a gum wrapper. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  “Splendid. You can tell your friends about my hand towels.”

  She hiked the bag on her shoulder and almost lost Mother Goose Flamingo. “Why don’t I help you to your car?”

  “Thank you, dear.” She patted my hand.

  An awkward elevator ride later, the five Robinsons spilled into the parking lot to go our separate ways. Ricardo tucked the flamingo under his arm like a football and raced across the blacktop. He sped away in a vintage automobile.

  Granny followed my gaze. “A 1955 Pontiac Star Chief. Quite a car, he must be in finance.”

  Or a time traveler.

  “Nice talking to you, Granny.” I helped her into a ten-year-old van and almost fumbled my flamingo in the process.

  “You are very sweet, my dear. Your folks raised you right helping an old woman.”

  “Any time.”

  She honked goodbye as she backed out of the parking spot and navigated over a curb. I adjusted my grip and strode to the back of the lot where I found a few feet of shade.

  Stephen waved from the bus stop and his flamingo sat next to him on the bench like an old pal.

  What a strange day.

  As I searched for my keys, I stared into the black ceramic eyes of my inheritance, almost in a trance.

  “Hideous is the word you’re looking for.”

  I twirled into Jessy. “What?”

  “Don’t pretend like those other losers. Coming here turned out to be a total waste of time.” He spun the chillaxing flamingo. “Drove all the way to Burbank and all I got is a crummy lawn ornament.”

  “It isn’t so bad.”

  He stroked a hand through spikey hair. “I think the thing is possessed and Albert wants to make sure we’re haunted for all eternity.”

  “Yours is cool with the Elvis sunshades.”

  “Want to trade? Better yet, you can take them both.”

  I waved off the offer and drifted back into my car. “No, Albert chose the gifts with care and assigned them based on our personality.”

  Jessy narrowed his gaze. “You don’t have the faintest idea who Albert is either, do you?”

  “Well, I’m not so…” I hesitated as his words sunk in. “Either? You aren’t a relative?”

  “No, I thought the suit delivered the summons to the wrong guy.” He spread his arms. “When I arrived, I realized all you weirdos shared the name Robinson. It’s freaky. I kept waiting for Peter Funt to pop out and yell, ’Smile You’re on the Candid Camera television show.′ That would make some sense.”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “No way these things are legit.” He tossed his flamingo high into the blue sky and cushioned the bird in his arms.

  “You’re going to break it into a million pieces.”

  “Preferable to bringing the evil juju home.”

  My detective sense tingled as my imagination chugged along like a runaway train. “Do you think something else is going on here? A scam?”

  “No clue but this whole thing is Whackyville.” He spun on his boot. “Catch you around, Robinson.”

  I sank into my aging sports car and waited for the engine to heat up. While Zelda coughed and sputtered, I again Googled the elusive Albert Robinson. Nowhere did it list his survivors or cause of death. An anecdotal line in the obit claimed he died in his sleep.

  An idea sparked. I had the perfect in with the Los Angeles County Coroner. I scrolled through my contacts and dialed the number.

  “Detective. Long time no call.”

  “Hi Dr. Eklund, can I bug you a moment?”

  “Sure. I’m not busy. Just scrolling through Amazon for a gift for the wife.”

  The man lived in the doghouse. “What did you do this time?”

  “Nothing. A preemptive strike for next time. I’m on a streak and I’m certain it won’t last much longer.”

  “I need a favor, Doc.”

  “Name it.”

  “Albert Robinson died last week in Burbank. Can you pull the autopsy report?”

  “Assuming there is one, sure.”

  “In what cases would they skip the autopsy?” I asked.

  “Well, if the person died of natural causes or a clear medical condition, we don’t order one. Only if there is an expectation of foul play or an unknown cause.”

  Why didn’t they ever mention that tidbit on my favorite medical shows? “Either way, can you research his death and let me know what you find?”

  “Can do. Is this for a case?”

  “I’m not too sure yet.”

  Throughout the drive home I found myself distracted by the flamingo, the reading of the will, and everything in between. None of it made sense. I stopped by 7-11 and purchased a cold Dr Pepper. The caffeine kept my mind alert and spinning.

  When I arrived at the apartment complex, I was no closer to an explanation. I snagged my purse, drink, and my inheritance and navigated the uneven steps. I reached the landing and fumbled for my keys.

  The hula flamingo slipped from my grasp and bounced on the concrete. It tumbled head to foot down the stairs. I chased after it a moment behind.

  Momentum froze at the last step and the ceramic creature rolled to the edge. My heel slid on the stair and I caught myself before mimicking the plunge. I bent over for the slippery sucker, and it tumbled again. It hit the pavement and shattered.

  I slapped my forehead. “Bouncing down a million steps, you’re fine. But a two-foot drop to the concrete kills you?”

 

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