TheCart Before the Corpse by Carolyn McSparren Page B

Bigelow. “It’s a very small world. Nobody outside of driving would so much as recognize his name, although he had enough silver cups and bowls and platters to fill the average jewelry store.” I glanced over at her. “Any idea what he did with them? Did he sell them for a down payment on the farm? Most of them are engraved. That must lower the value considerably. Still a lot of them were good quality sterling.”
    “He didn’t bring them with him when he moved in. You saw what he brought. A couple of suitcases, a couple of black plastic trash bags of clothes, some harness and some books.”
    “I don’t know where all his files are either. He kept notes on every horse he ever trained, every Coggins test he ever pulled, every shot or leg poultice. Are there any storage rental places in Mossy Creek?”
    “I’m sure there are in Bigelow. Couldn’t he have left all but the essentials in Aiken when he moved here?”
    That did make sense. I didn’t know how long he had wandered before he settled on Mossy Creek and went back to get his horses and belongings. He might have spent months looking for land before he found his forty acres.
    “You said Hiram had been living in your apartment less than a year. Did he live somewhere in this area before that? Maybe camp out in that old barn while he and Jacob were putting up the new stable?”
    “I think he may have, or stayed in some el cheapo motel, but I don’t know for how long or how many times he’d visited the area before he bought his land. He did say he commuted from Aiken for a few months.”
    “That’s some commute. How did he find your apartment?” I asked.
    “I had my basement finished last year in hopes of bringing in a little extra income. I put an ad in the Mossy Creek Gazette and the following Sunday, Hiram showed up on my doorstep. He was the first and only person to look at the place. He moved in a week later. We became friends almost at once.”
    I looked over at her. I still wondered if they’d been more than friends, but there was nothing in her voice that said he was a lost lover. It was none of my business anyway unless it turned out to have something to do with his death.
    “Turn left,” she said. “Mr. Robertson’s office is off the main square. I made a list of people you need to call back when we get home. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of others on Hiram’s answering machine.”
    I wouldn’t be able to blow them off. I owed Hiram his obituaries. What I didn’t owe anyone was answers to probing questions about the way he died. Even if I’d had answers, which I didn’t.
    We drove onto Bigelow’s main drag and parked in front of the Victorian house that had been turned into the offices of Kauffman, Hardwick, Smithson and Robertson.
    “I recommended Frederick Robertson to Hiram. He’s been my lawyer since Ben and I moved down here and Ben died on me. Even in a really straightforward estate, there are things that need to be done, final tax preparation, probate . . . ”
    “Please,” I begged. “I so don’t want to do this.”
    Peggy left to do some shopping while I climbed the stairs to the offices where Frederick Robertson was a partner. I’ve never been to a lawyer’s office in Timbuktu, but they probably import antique wood paneling, furniture, and hunting prints on the theory that their clients expect it. This office was the prototypical southern lawyer’s office except for the secretary, who was a knockout redhead. She ushered me directly into Mr. Robertson’s office. He was chubby, cheerful, and seated me in a leather chair that probably belonged to his grandfather.
    After the usual stuff about being sorry for my loss, he templed his fingers and leaned forward. “Do you want me to continue to act for you in matters pertaining to the estate?”
    “Good grief, yes!” I reached for my handbag. “Do I need to give you a check as a retainer? I just assumed . . . ”
    He waved pudgy fingers. “Don’t worry about