Have you ever felt like a dry martini, shaken not stirred? I don’t mean felt like imbibing in one, I mean actually felt like the gin and vermouth inside a shaker where the bartender rattles it up and down and side to side to make sure all the ingredients are sufficiently blended but not bruised? That’s how I’ve felt ever since the letter arrived from Geoffrey Maxamillion Eddington the Third, Esquire. I don’t imagine anyone likes getting a letter from an attorney, but this one had the effect of shaking me like a martini.
On the surface, one might consider his request for "the honor of my presence for the reading of the Last Will and Testament (his capital letters, not mine) of one Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale," to be held June 11 at his office in Braddocks Beach, Ohio, to be a good thing. There’s a hint that I might be a beneficiary of some sort, and with my current financial situation, well, any little bit would help. But here’s the problem. I’ve never heard of Braddocks Beach, let alone anyone by the name of Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale. So I ran to my computer and Googled both and I discovered the small lakeside resort in east central Ohio to be nothing more than a dot on the map and found an obituary for the Tinsdale woman. Based on that, it seems a nomination for sainthood was immanent. Figuring they must have mistaken me for some other Ellery Elizabeth Tinsdale, I called this Geoffrey guy to tell him he had the wrong person. He was out of the office, but his secretary asked me a question that had every last one of my neck hairs standing at full attention.
“You are the daughter of Jack Elliott Tinsdale, born March 9, 1940, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered. At least in my head. My mouth didn’t seem to be functioning at the time. How would she know who my father is? He and my mother have been gone from this earth for more than 15 years.
“Miss Izzy was Jack’s little sister.”
Oh. Well then. That explained it.
Not!
When I had been about five years old, my mother told me that everyone from my dad’s side of the family, including his sister Bella, had been killed in some sort of tragic accident when he was 18 years old. Mom warned me to never ask Dad about it because it upset him, so I never did. Could Bella and Izzy be one and the same? And if so, why then, up until a few days ago, had she been alive when Dad thought her dead?
“Why didn’t my aunt contact me before?” I asked, my voice revealing just a hint of the suspicion I was feeling. Could this person be fishing for information so they could steal my identity? Sure, I've heard horror stories about that stuff but I didn't think it would ever actually happen to me.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you,” the secretary said.
Nor was the secretary able to answer any of the other twenty questions I bombarded her with. But she did reveal just enough information to lead me to believe that this was no hoax. I was due to inherit something, and anything that tied me to my father as a child, say a picture of him and my grandparents, would mean more to me than all the money in the world. But truth be told, a little money would be nice, too.
Eventually, and in the most syrupy sweet voice, the secretary said, “If you are able to meet with Mr. Eddington on Friday at 2 p.m. you’ll get all the answers you need.”
“Okay.” Really, what choice did I have?
I brushed away the niggling worry that I would have to leave tomorrow and that the pilgrimage would take four days out of the two weeks that were already slammed full with myriad of things that needed to be done before my summer vacation, which had been three years in planning and saving. I was booked on a cruise to Alaska, and my ship sailed in a little over two weeks. “I’ll tell Mr. Eddington you’ve confirmed the appointment,” the secretary said. “He’s looking forward to meeting you, as is everyone else in Braddocks Beach.” And she hung up. Just like that, with the faintest of clicks, my tenuous connection to my father’s childhood was severed. Most self-respecting females when faced with the prospect of meeting kin she didn’t know existed for the first time would plan a trip to the mall. And even though I had long ago accepted the fact that I had not been blessed with the Shopping Gene in my DNA, I did just that. This was perhaps the one instance where a snazzy new outfit was needed. I mean, I couldn’t very well show up in my teaching uniform of denim skirt and polo shirt now, could I? So I dragged myself to McArthur Center in downtown Norfolk and blew an entire year’s clothing budget on one outfit, complete with shoes and a dab of classy (translation: pricey) jewelry. On the afternoon of June 10th, I threw an overnight case in the passenger seat, hung my new outfit on the garment hook and pointed the nose of Bessie (my bold and brassy Land Rover) northwest.
No sooner had I cleared the limits of Virginia Beach than I got a craving for pimento stuffed olives. Preferably ones at the bottom of a gently shaken martini.
You can read what happens when Ellery gets to Braddocks Beach in The Blond Leading the Blond, a cozy mystery published by Avalon Books and available for reading at a library near you or for purchase from Barnes and Noble or Amazon.com
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If you missed the post of Aunt Izzy’s obituary, just click the Read More button to see it now.
