Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Vultures
"Where is she? Mabel! Put some coffee on, it's freezing out there!"
Brenda’s voice sliced through the hallway like a rusty blade. She strode into the kitchen without knocking off the snow from her boots, her heavy fur-trimmed coat smelling of cheap cigarettes and mint gum. Behind her came Greg and Derek, their faces red from the bitter Ohio wind, talking loudly over one another about funeral expenses and airline schedules.
Panic flashed through my chest. In a split second, I gathered the tin box, the letter, and the documents, shoving them into the bottom drawer of the kitchen sideboard beneath a pile of old table linens, leaving only the torn pillow sitting on the kitchen table.
"Did you hear me, Mabel?" Brenda barked, throwing her leather handbag onto the table, directly atop the cotton feathers. "We’ve been on the road since seven this morning. The roads near Mansfield are an absolute sheet of ice. Why isn't the heat turned up in here? This place feels like an icebox."
"Fiona just passed away seven hours ago, Brenda," I whispered, my voice raw and hoarse. "I haven't slept. I was sitting here trying to... process."
Derek chuckled dryly, unzipping his jacket and leaning against the sink. "Yeah, well, death happens, Mabel. She was eighty-four. It's not like it was a surprise. We need to get things organized before the funeral home starts charging us daily holding fees. Have you located the paperwork?"
"What paperwork?" I asked, wiping my eyes with the corner of my apron.
"What paperwork do you think?" Greg interjected, stepping between me and the table. He was the eldest, a man who lived his life calculating every interaction down to the penny. "Her social security cards, the deed to the farmhouse, any cash she had hidden away. You know how old people are. They stash dollar bills in coffee cans, under floorboards. Mom hasn't spent a dime from her monthly support checks in years."
"Support checks?" I stared at him, disbelief burning in my chest. "Greg, you haven't sent your mother fifty dollars in eight years. The only money coming into this house was Paul’s paycheck from Chicago and my tailoring work."
Brenda crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Don't take that tone with us, Mabel. You had room and board here for twelve years. You didn't pay rent. Don't act like you were doing volunteer charity work. Paul told us you guys were barely scraping by, which means either you're terrible with money, or Mom was hiding her assets."
"Assets?" I felt my jaw tighten. "She had an unpaid prescription bill of twelve hundred dollars from the pharmacy down the road. Her winter coat was missing three buttons. If you had visited her last month, you would have seen she could barely swallow crushed applesauce, let alone hide treasures."
"Whatever," Brenda snapped, waving a hand dismissively. She suddenly noticed the old pillow on the table, still leaking white feathers onto the laminate wood. Her lip curled in disgust. "Why is this filthy thing still here? I thought Derek told you to throw it in the dumpster outside."
"I told you," I said firmly, stepping forward and placing both hands flat on top of the pillow. "It stays with me. It was Fiona’s. She wanted me to have it."
"It’s an old feather sack covered in spit and skin cells, Mabel," Derek sneered, rolling his eyes at Greg. "You're getting sentimental over junk. Honestly, this whole place needs to be cleared out by an estate liquidator by next weekend. We’ve already contacted a realtor in Columbus. If we list the farmhouse and the back forty acres together, we can probably get four hundred grand for the lot."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "You contacted a realtor? Before the funeral? Before her body is even in the ground?"
"We have mortgages, Mabel," Greg said coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "We have children in college. Paul agrees with us, by the way. He’s driving in from Chicago right now. He knows we can't afford to let this land sit here doing nothing while you play house."
The kitchen door clicked open again, and my husband, Paul, walked in. His face was gray with fatigue, his shoulders slumped beneath his heavy work jacket. He smelled of highway coffee and diesel exhaust.
"Paul," I breathed, looking at him with desperate eyes. "Tell them. Tell them we can't just talk about selling Fiona's home before we've even picked out a casket."
Paul wouldn't meet my eyes. He looked down at the floor, sliding his hands deep into his pockets. "Mabel... let's not make a scene. My brothers drove a long way. They have a point. We've been sinking money into this roof and these heating bills for twelve years. We're drowned in debt. If there's value in this estate, it needs to be divided evenly among us four kids. That’s how it works."
"Divided evenly?" I repeated, the words tasting like poison on my tongue. "Where were the four of you when she had a stroke three years ago? Who changed her diapers? Who stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight when her fever spiked to a hundred and four? None of you called for Thanksgiving! None of you sent a card for her birthday! And now you're carving up her flesh before she's even cold?"
"Shut your mouth!" Brenda shouted, slamming her hand down on the table. "You're an in-law, Mabel! You're an outsider! You married into this family, and you think that gives you the right to dictate what happens to the Miller family legacy? You have no legal standing here. Not one drop of Miller blood runs through your veins!"
"That's enough, Brenda," Paul muttered weakly, but he didn't defend me. He didn't step between his sister and his wife. He just stood there, passive, spineless, terrified of his siblings’ aggression.
"No, it's not enough," Greg said, taking a step toward me. "I want to go through Mom's bedroom right now. Mabel, give us the key to her cedar chest."
"There is nothing in the cedar chest except old church hymnals and your father’s work shirts," I said through clenched teeth.
"We'll see about that," Derek said, already moving toward the hallway stairs. "Search the closets. Check behind the paintings. Old people love hiding cash behind wallpaper."
They swarmed through the house like locusts.
I stood in the center of the kitchen, clutching Fiona's torn pillow against my chest, listening to the horrifying sounds of drawers being yanked open, closet doors slamming, and furniture scraping across the floorboards upstairs. They tore through their mother's personal sanctuary without an ounce of reverence, kicking aside her prayer books, tossing her worn slippers across the room, hunting for anything that smelled of money.
Downstairs, I looked at the bottom drawer of the sideboard.
The tin box was safe. The lawyer’s letter was safe.
May you like
They thought they were the predators, tearing apart a helpless woman's memory. But they had no idea that Fiona had already laid the trap twelve years ago—and the door was about to slam shut right behind them.
***
