DESTINATION
UNKNOWN:
A Milford Mystery
Hadley Hoover
Destination Unknown 
1
Him
The Labrador roused, awakened by sounds of a big rig heading north
on Highway 6. Usually he chased trucks; this morning he stretched in his
doghouse door, yawned, and slept again. Night’s lingering chill gave the
day a slow start in Milford, Nebraska – even for dogs.
But not Ferlin Phemley. He was up-an’-at-’em, hit-the-road-Jack, riprarin’-to-go. Having left a warm bed before sunrise, he was shifting gears
in that eighteen-wheeler, crossing Big Blue River, gulping coffee, flicking
on the dome light, and finally reaching for the cash-stuffed zippered
pencil bag (buck-ninety-nine at WALMART) he’d tossed on the passenger
seat. Since it was merely leather-like according to its tag, the bag felt
chilled and stiff after spending the early-June night hidden in the truck.
“Gonna be goin’-goin’-gone for that dame who uses my name an’
ruins my game.” The repeated G’s and rhyming words rolled off his
tongue, summing up his woes. The ditty had first emerged from his
drunken fog as he imbibed with a sympathetic stranger in Wyoming.
Buoyed by that fellow’s besotted response – “Tha’s like po-tree, man, real potree” – Ferlin had borrowed the bartender’s pen and preserved it on a
stained coaster, which he now carried in his pocket like a talisman.
Reciting those seventeen words aloud in the crisp morning air revved
him so much that while passing the MIDWEST FEEDING COMPANY he
lowered his window and yelled at the cattle lining the troughs: “Next
time I roll by here, yer gonna be hamburger, an’ I’ll be hussy-free!”
Sure, he’d stash the cash again at his first stop, but for now? “Gonna
see it, touch it, an’ might even sniff it.” Easing a fifty from a banded
stack, he molded the bill over the steering wheel. In the dim light,
Ulysses Grant seemed to wink at him; he winked back. “Glad to have ya
aboard, Uly!” Ferlin talked to, and answered, himself a lot on the road.
Cashiers at four banks along the I-80 corridor had piled twenties and
fifties into his palm, emptying accounts that had been his little secret for
months. The money in the pencil bag was all his. “Well . . . all mine ’til I
pay the guy who stamps done to goin’-goin’-gone. Hey, that’s clever!”
Snickering at his wittiness, he hit the horn, startling a buzzard that
was enjoying a road-kill breakfast. “The sweet chump of interest I got on
them bank accounts, plus the bonus on my last run, buys two disposable
2
 Hadley Hoover
cell phones, an’ leaves plenty for me to celebrate G’bye-Trouble–HelloFreedom day!” He felt so giddy he didn’t even cuss-out a U-Haul towing
an auto-transport trailer when it cut in too close after passing.
“Been a blast if them bank-gals coulda given me only Ben Franklins.”
But, as he signaled for I-80’s on-ramp, he argued himself out of that idea:
“Nope; gotta lay low. With them bank-cameras aimed at me, it’s best if
nobody r’members the guy who wanted all his dough in hundreds.”
Acting as normal as possible for a man with murder on his mind,
he’d spent the mandated off-road hours in Milford doing the usual:
laundry; mucking-out the cab; restocking supplies; shooting the breeze
with the guys down at CASEY’s; draining six-packs of Miller High Life
early enough to keep a clean driving record; and listening to wifey yakyak-yakin’ while he ate her inevitable, always disgusting spaghetti.
He grimaced, still tasting the greasy sauce and gummy pasta. “Would
it kill her to cook sumpthin else?” He hooted at the query’s unintended
humor. “New one for the coroner. Cause of death: tried new recipe!”
Collecting the moola completed Phase I of Operation-Dump-Her.
All his endless work of bidding any job – even freight that messed up the
trailer. All the dreary sameness of Interstates – keepin’ wheels rollin’ to
keep cash flowin’. All the sleeper-cab nights and truck-stop showers –
no motels. All that junk food, now parked on his gut – no steaks to
celebrate completed runs. “But when all these bill-boys,” he tapped the
stuffed pencil bag, “get handed over, I’m back to livin’ the good life!”
Traffic was light. Shifting gears, he rattled off Phase II’s steps: “Find
a guy with guts, know-how, an’ enough need or greed so all this cash
tempts him. He does the job; I stay outta Milford ’til it’s over. Then I
rush home, actin’ all shocked an’ grievin’. Ha! Gotta practice that!”
Smirking, he turned on Sirius radio and caught the start of a Bob
Dylan classic: “Ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, Babe . . .” He raised his
thermal mug in a salute: “Ya got that right, Bobby. Pretty soon, one
Nebraska hussy ain’t gonna be callin’ me no-more, no-way, no-how.”
Ignoring CB-radio chatter, he cranked up the volume as Dylan sang:
“. . . gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul . . .” He clicked his tongue in
agreement: “It’s pure truth in them words. That Barrel-o-Trouble broad
don’t know it, but she’s ’bout done wastin’ my precious time.”
Ten thousand bucks guaranteed that . . . Well, it would as soon as he
found the right guy to do the deadly deed. Then: “fare-thee-well.”
Destination Unknown 
3
Her
“Mister Patton will finish his conference call soon, Miss Anders,” the
receptionist says. “You’ve been so patient. May I refill your coffee?”
I shake my head. I don’t need more coffee. As for patient? Too
nervous to know what to do except wait quietly is closer to the truth.
Coffee can’t ease my jitters; herbal tea would be better. Not this potent
black brew in a law office where I feel as out-of-place as if I’d shown up
in muddy boots at Buckingham Palace. Not that I’ve ever been to
England, or even in a law office until today, for that matter.
But Mama raised me to Respect Authority. That was Mama’s way:
capital letters showed in her tone. A phone call from an attorney
requesting my presence here today qualified as Authority Speaking. So
here I am, though why my presence is required remains a mystery.
The elegant clock on a corner shelf reveals it has been seventeen long
minutes since my five-minutes-early arrival. Is the receptionist right: Am
I patient? I run a finger over the embossed business card she gave me.
In gold letters below the stylish company logo, it reads:
 Palmer-William S Patton JD MBA
 Coral R Weld JD MD
 Harriet A Gleeson JD
Coral R . . . What does the R stand for? Reef, maybe? That goes with
Coral! I’d better behave; such nonsense proves that what Mama called
my “frequent detours into utter silliness” is true. Besides, surely I had the only
mother who blatantly ignored the lifetime ramifications of goofy names.
I dispel utter silliness and study the business card again. Why can’t
my appointment be with Harriet A Gleeson? She has one degree and a
comforting name. Someone named Harriet hums while she bakes and
frosts sugar cookies in fun shapes for after-school treats. If the A is for
Ann, it’s doubly reassuring. I could relax around a Harriet Ann.
But I probably won’t meet either woman listed on the card because
Palmer-William S Patton JD MBA himself contacted me. And here I sit
in what Mama would call a “fancy-dancy” brass-studded soft-leather wingback chair as I watch 1:14 tick into 1:15 on this June Tuesday afternoon.
4
 Hadley Hoover
Each swallow of coffee makes me shudder. Why did I refuse the
receptionist’s offer of cream and sugar? Oh, dear; I’ve forgotten her
name. No matter; whoever she is, it’s not like we would ever be friends.
She’s so young . . . in a way I never was. And she’s pretty in a way I’ll
never be. Asking her for cream and sugar now would be rude. But so is
leaving a nearly full cup. I resume sipping and shuddering.
It’s not surprising I’ve lost her name. Mister Patton’s startling request
crowded out all other concerns ever since he called me yesterday: “Miss
Anders, there are important matters to discuss related to your mother’s passing. Is one
o’clock tomorrow a convenient time for you to come to my office?”
For Mister Patton to know Mama – or that she even had “important
matters,” which is more than I know – indicates that she came here. But
when? There’s no such appointment on Mama’s kitchen calendar. And
it would have merited calendar-space.
How did she get here? I chauffeured her everywhere . . . or so I
thought. Did she call a taxi – a shocking idea, given her opinion of cabs
(“filthy”) and their drivers (“scoundrels”) – just to trick me? However she
accomplished it, Mama went to a lot of trouble. But why all the secrecy?
Many questions have occupied my mind since Mister Patton’s phone
call. Now a new one shuffles in: Did Mama sit in one of these chairs,
drinking strong coffee and watching What’s-Her-Name work? Mama
insisted on knowing everything I did. Obviously there are huge gaps in
what I knew about her activities.
The phone rings. The receptionist speaks into a hands-free device.
It angles off her ear, follows her cheek’s curve, and hovers near her lips
which are outlined in a shade slightly darker than the lipstick (just one of
many make-up skills I admire, but don’t possess). “PATTON-WELDGLEESON LAW OFFICE; this is Ashley. How may I help you?”
Ashley. Whew; name issue resolved, assuming I don’t forget again.
If only the rest of life’s looming dilemmas fixed themselves so quickly. I
close my eyes and focus on the soft music floating around me. The
room is not large, so I can’t help overhearing Ashley’s response to the
caller’s apparent question: “We bill on the fifteenth . . .”
Bills! Did Mister Patton ask me to come in today because Mama
didn’t pay her bill? There could even be overdue charges. Well, no one
is getting paid today. Not when my purse contains three dimes, a dollar
bill so wrinkled the stamp-vending machine at the Post Office rejected it,
and the blank check I always carry (“Use this only for a dire emergency . . .”)
for Mama’s always low, but now rapidly dwindling bank account.
Destination Unknown 
5
Okay, yes: there’s also the Indian Head penny I found last year in the
WINN-DIXIE parking lot, but I don’t spend that. It could be worth much
more than one cent. A fortune, maybe. Someday I’ll ask someone who
knows about such things. Meanwhile: the bill.
I survived the awkward dialogue with Ashley that covered our mutual
greetings and her coffee-query, so maybe I could muster the courage to
ask her about charges. Then with any luck, no matter what Mister Patton
tells me, I won’t embarrass myself with an all-out panic attack.
But what do I call Ashley? She called me Miss Anders, so the proper
thing to do is to use her consonant-loaded-multi-syllable-tongue-tangling
surname. But I can’t; when I saw it on the name plate, my brain froze.
Could I just mumble, “Ms Ghmppff . . .”? No; bad idea.
Okay: how about just a first name? No; calling her Ashley seems too
forward; we’ve barely met. I want to go home! Mama was right: “When
the Good Lord stuffed envelopes with smarts, yours sure didn’t need extra postage.”
It is now 1:18. The phone call ends. Decision made: I won’t use any
name. Better to show bad manners than make a fool of myself, right? I
clear my throat. “Excuse me . . .” It comes out much too loudly. My
cheeks flame. I stammer, “C-c-could you please tell me wha-what . . . the
ch-charges will be for this, uh, appointment?”
Ashley smiles, but it’s a nice smile – not one that means the blushing
woman in a homemade Simplicity-pattern size sixteen polyester dress
amuses her. When I lower my gaze, I discover a new crisis: I’m wearing
a black tasseled loafer on my left foot and a brown penny loafer on my
right. Mama would just laugh: “I have another pair like this at home!” But
I’m not Mama; I can’t laugh it off. If I twitch my nose, will a genie pop
out of a bottle and fix this mess before anyone notices?
Being in Ashley’s presence is awkward enough even if my shoes
matched; it’s not her fault. I admire her self-confidence and efficiency.
I’m in awe of anyone who keeps a lilac summer sweater frizz- and stainfree. I envy her perfect hair-do and straight white teeth. I’m jealous of
anyone whose 32-B bosom is anchored at such a perky North American
latitude. My 38-Ds have begun their inevitable drift toward the equator.
Ashley is too polite and sophisticated to roll her eyes at my billing
question, or comment on my obvious uneasiness. Maybe people who sit
in these chairs are often distraught. Not Mama. She’d have gotten what
she called “the low-down” on Ashley: “How long have you worked here? . . .
Did you grow up in Greenwood? . . . What did you study in college? . . . Are you
from a large family? . . . What do your parents do for a living? . . . Is that
6
 Hadley Hoover
handsome fellow I see in the photo on your desk your boyfriend? . . . Oh, how
wonderful! He’s your fiancé! Tell me: when will wedding bells ring?”
For all I know, Mama wrangled an invitation to Ashley’s wedding. I
can only sigh – and I do, trying not to do so too audibly.
If, after meeting Mama, Ashley dreaded seeing me today (though
maybe she views me as a curiosity – like a two-headed goat) it doesn’t
show in her demeanor when she responds to my question: “The fee
depends on the nature and duration of a case. For some clients, it’s a
percentage. Otherwise, our standard hourly rate is two-hundred-andthirty dollars, billed in quarter-hours.”
A soft electronic tone sounds. Ashley glances at the phone; maybe
that means she didn’t hear my stunned chirp. “Oh, good; Mister Patton
is ready now. Please come with me, Miss Anders.”
Two-hundred-and-thirty-dollars? An hour! To get that kind of
money I need a job, and need it fast. I stuff the now-mangled, sweatdampened business card into my purse.
My knees wobble as I, in my two-tone footwear, follow Ashley
whose high heels match each other and her purple skirt. Usually I would
admire the framed artwork lining the hallway but, after hearing “twohundred-and-thirty dollars,” any spare brain cells are busy worrying about
the cup I left behind. The coffee remaining in it will make a sizable
carpet stain if it gets bumped. But it’s too late to remedy that: Ashley is
opening a door.
Destination Unknown 
7
Ferlin
As the truck’s odometer ticked off miles, Ferlin’s emotional meter
moved from baffled to frustrated to steamed. Plots and plans stalled.
Operation-Dump-Her Phase II? Not a triumph. “It’s a D-E-Z-A, uh . . .
well, I don’t gotta know how to spell it to know it’s a disaster.”
In Omaha, he had picked a load of hydraulic motors and pumps
going to Kansas City. No gripes, but also no luck luring a killer.
He had littered the highway from Nebraska to Missouri with curses
and complaints. It didn’t lighten his mood to find a long wait at the stateline weigh station. “Some of us got places to be, so hop to it, ya chickencoop Bears,” he jeered, inching toward officials monitoring the scales.
Truckers re-entered the freeway in spurts; Ferlin’s grumpiness eased
only when it was finally his turn. By the time he needed a pit stop, he’d
talked himself into a clearer view of reality. “Omaha’s way too close to
Milford to be lookin’ for a killer there.” The reminder helped, but didn’t
fully erase his mounting tension as he set his sights on Kansas City.
In response to a cashier’s “Here you go; you racked up another free
shower” after he’d pumped one-hundred-plus gallons of diesel, Ferlin
muttered: “Phase II needs more time an’ space.” Ignoring her odd look
at that non sequitur, he pocketed the debit shower card and headed for
the soft-drink coolers, which if not distracted he’d have done before
paying. Holding the door open, he stared at the shelves while cold air
swirled around him. “Any guys in K-C-Mo who was wantin’ to make
serious dough sure wasn’t hangin’ nowhere near me.”
Chugging from a liter of Mountain Dew before paying for it, he
burped and grabbed a fistful of beef jerky and candy bars from a rack
near the counter. Outside, he chased a bite of Snickers with another gulp
of pop and continued his mental review of his unexpected failures . . .
It had been a short jaunt across the state line to Kansas City, Kansas,
to pick up paperboard packing containers for a manufacturing company
in Columbia, Missouri. Good news: nice clean load, driving in conditions
the weatherman had gotten right. Clear skies, wind at his back made for
an easy run. Bad news: zero success in landing anything but a tasty meal
at a Kansas diner. But the meal had ended so badly that, rolling toward
8
 Hadley Hoover
Columbia, he had trouble focusing. Other truckers’ warnings of “Bear in
the bushes” saved him several hefty bear bites. He was relieved to end
that leg of the trip still ticket-free. “Ain’t got no spare cash for fines.”
“Columbia was a bust,” he muttered, rinsing out his thermal mug in a
rest-area bathroom. Though he was many miles beyond that spurned
city, he was still steamed over the Kansas diner’s near-disaster. “No
reason for that guy to get all bent outta shape when I was offerin’ him
the deal of a lifetime to boost his income! Why’d he hafta point me out
to the cashier? Hated to leave without finishin’ my food, but didn’t know
how much he told her about what I’d said, so did what I hadda do: leave
a ten-spot on the table, skedaddle, an’ mix-in with the rigs headin’ out.”
He lit a Marlboro and halted his monologue to enjoy the first drags
before beginning the required vehicle inspection: parking and service
brakes, trailer brake connections, reflectors, steering mechanism, horn,
tires, coupling devices, windshield wipers, and rear-vision mirrors. Good
thing the task was second-nature because his mind kept flipping back to
his disrupted meal. “Dang-it, sure hated to waste good ’cakes. They was
big an’ hot, not doughy in the middle, didn’t fall apart in the syrup . . .”
At the beginning of this long-haul run, he had bought a Dylan CD at
an Omaha truck-stop so he could endlessly play what he’d dubbed the
Operation-Dump-Her Phase II theme song. But his enthusiasm for
hearing Bob’s reedy voice sing “Ain’t no use in callin’ out my name . . .” was
waning after four days without reeling in a hit-man.
“Not even a nibble,” he groused, pouring the rest of the morning’s
fresh brew into his thermal mug. As he started a new Duty Status form
for the day, the combined smell of yesterday’s banana peel and a full
ashtray reminded him to empty the garbage.
After a final trip back inside the building to brush his teeth and
empty his bladder, he buckled his seat belt over a growling stomach that
the Pop-Tarts, OJ and coffee from the rig’s stash hadn’t been adequate to
placate. “I gotta find a Mickey-D, an’ get me one-a their Big Breakfasts!”
He pumped his fist, but then frowned. “But even Golden Arches’
pancakes ain’t gonna be as good as at what I left at that diner.”
Even the pleasant morning breeze blowing through the cab didn’t
divert his mental journey through the blunt truth of unachieved goals.
But he soon had other things to fret about. Strong winds rocked the rig.
If this didn’t let up, he’d face a tardy delivery of building supplies from a
Columbia manufacturer going to a construction firm in Carbondale,
Illinois – and the purchaser was giving a bonus for on-time delivery.
Destination Unknown 
9
He arrived behind schedule and turned the air blue with curses. The
waiting dock worker’s surly attitude and harsh words put Ferlin in such a
foul mood that, after he’d signed off on the delivery and left, no one else
pumping fuel got close enough to talk money-making schemes.
Eating a delayed lunch, he kept an eye out for any guy who seemed
like a possibility. Unfortunately everyone looked at Ferlin’s scowling face
and gave him wide berth, opting for booths rather than be anywhere near
him at the counter. “So be that way; it’s yer loss.” He slathered catsup
on his burger and onion rings, swatting the bottom of the bottle to get
more out. It burped a blob onto the counter.
Instead of cleaning up his mess, between bites Ferlin revived his
mumbled tirade against the fellow he’d kept waiting for delivery. “Acted
like me makin’ him an hour late ruined his pathetic life. Who’d the wind
screw outta a bonus, huh? Not him. Who got overtime, huh? Not me.
Shoulda told him: ‘Got it: It’s yer annivers’ry an’ yer whiny missus is
callin’ ev’ry ten minutes. Like they say: Sometimes yer the windshield,
sometimes yer the bug. So deal with it, Bug: Buy wifey some booze an’
mellow out, both of ya.’ Sheesh! What a jerk.”
Back on the road, he used GPS to locate a trailer wash-out. He liked
a clean rig outside; inside, he didn’t care). His mood improved when he
drove right into an empty bay. “Sumpthin finally went right. That’s a
good omen for me handin’ over ten thousand buckaroos soon.”
It didn’t happen.
He hit common ground with a bull-hauler, talking about the “high
price of livin’ ain’t goin’ down none.” But the muscular driver gave
Ferlin a stern look when he hit the “gonna make one loud-mouth nag
quit flappin’ her jaws permanently, if ya get my drift” part of his spiel.
The man gawked at Ferlin. “You some kinda idiot? That puts you
and the trigger-puller in the slammer, so ditch that whole stupid idea! If I
was an undercover cop, I’d be slapping cuffs on you. The next guy you
ask to do your dirty work could turn you in. Lucky for you, I’m behind
on the clock or you can bet that ten-grand I would. Still might do it.”
With hands raised the Okay-gotcha gesture, Ferlin backed off. Lighten
up, dude! But he stayed clear of his rig until the guy pulled out. “If I don’t
let him see what I drive, he can’t turn me in. See? I ain’t no idiot!”
Later, he found a kindred spirit in a guy whose beer-belly deserved its
own zip code. Vern (which must be his name, unless he’d stolen or
borrowed the real Vern’s shirt) kept on cleaning his windshield as he
10
 Hadley Hoover
listened to Ferlin for a few minutes. Climbing down to refresh the
squeegee, Vern said ruefully, “Yeah; I’ve got bimbo trouble, too.”
Spur-of-the-moment and mighty proud of it, Ferlin came up with
something he thought was hilarious: “Ya know how them weddin’ vows
they made us say have that bit like ‘till death do us part’? Well, Vern, I’m
fixin’ to speed things up in that department!” His lips released a bulletsound as he aimed a pistol finger at the horizon. He grinned cagily. “I’ll
pay ya big money if yer the guy who makes it happen. How’s ten-grand
sound, Vern?”
Stunned and stuttering, that formerly kindred spirit freaked out.
Leaving half the windows dirty, Vern shot a horrified look at Ferlin.
Calling him “a sick dude” and “scum of the earth” and more that got lost
in his rush to escape, Vern made quick work of tossing the squeegee back
into the water bucket and dumping the used paper towels.
For a fat guy, Vern sure could move. Clambering into his rig like
there was a rabid dog nipping at his heels, the guy slammed the driver’s
door so fast and hard it nearly caught Ferlin’s grasping hand. Vern
wasn’t the least bit concerned when Ferlin yelped and pulled back barely
in time to avoid smashed fingers.
Shaking from the shock, Ferlin sent a volley of curses after the
rapidly departing rig. Ignoring the stares of drivers at other pumps, he
hollered toward the now-vacant stretch of highway, “If I wasn’t a
forgivin’ sorta guy, I’d sue yer hide from here to China! When ya don’t
want sumpthin, just say ‘No thanks.’ Don’t get all huffy!”
Turning to block other drivers’ view, he gingerly examined his hand.
“Sheesh. Vern coulda broke ev’ry bone in my fingers. Then where’d I be?
Big trouble, that’s where . . . like any trucker with a gimpy right hand.”
Pulling away from the pumps, he parked in the first open spot.
The encounter had rattled Ferlin big-time. He reached for the small
cooler that held enough ice to keep a washcloth cool. Running the chilly
cloth over his face and neck was his secret to staying awake on the road.
Now he needed a nerve-soother. He tipped back his head and covered
his face with the icy cloth. The jolt of cold did its trick; by the time his
body temperature had warmed the cloth, he was calm enough to drive.
But only success in Operation-Dump-Her, Phase II could make
Ferlin forget his near-miss with injury. “Good luck had better land slapdab in my lap real soon. An’ it will, real soon, right?” Ferlin aimed his
rig’s nose eastward where each day’s rising sun promised hope . . .
usually.
Destination Unknown 
11
Lass
Ashley’s introduction – “Miss Anders . . . Mister Patton” – is a blur.
Did I say something suitable, or did I voice the foremost question in my
mind: Is that map of South Carolina painted on the wall, or wallpaper?
The detailed map covers a whole wall. It shows all forty-six counties,
even little towns that barely exist, and creeks that are usually dried up. Its
colors are subdued earth-tones except for a red star marking Greenwood,
like those YOU-ARE-HERE arrows on shopping mall directories.
Turning, I try not to but can’t help gaping at massive clothbound
books filling tall lawyer bookcases (I saw the term in an auction ad) with
hinged glass doors which lift and roll along each shelf’s hidden tracks.
Filling two-thirds of the wall with the door through which I entered the
room, these bookcases look like well-preserved antiques. Lots of framed
diplomas and awards (all Mister Patton’s) hang on the wall above them.
Floor-to-ceiling spotless windows along the remaining two walls have
minimal, but expensive-looking drapery. It’s hung in a way that doesn’t
ruin the view of a terraced rock garden with healthy ferns and a glistening
waterfall. I don’t belong here . . .
Our South Carolina map in the glove-box has rips along the creases.
Our paperbacks are in a three-shelf K-MART Blue-Light-Special particleboard bookcase. Our high school diplomas are in boxes in the attic.
Our flimsy curtains struggle to hide the fact birds love our windows too
much and too often. Our yard has a plastic birdbath with sand in the
base to keep it upright on windy days. Sometimes it works; mostly not.
Though I’d rather flee, I shake Mister Patton’s hand. Mama’s voice
in my head ensures that I do so firmly: “Grip and shake, or it’s like holding a
dead fish. You only get one chance to make a first impression.” Sorry, Mama;
Mister Patton’s first impression of me is the least of my worries when
I’m floundering in a sea of financial woes with no life preserver.
Ashley slips away, leaving me alone with Mister Patton. Though I’ve
had no reason to buy or price men’s suits, I suspect his ash-gray one cost
more than an hour’s fee. Ditto for the jeweled cufflink that flashes when
he motions me to an oval table. Upholstery on the six chairs, which have
padded arms, not just seats and backs, matches the drapery.
12
 Hadley Hoover
“Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Miss Anders.”
Mister Patton pulls out a chair opposite a folder that’s already on the
table. Belatedly sensing he’s waiting to assist me, I duck my head to hide
my second blush of the hour. I sit, and he rolls me into place.
Rounding the table to his seat, Mister Patton says in a friendly and
relaxed voice, “Miss Anders, let’s take care of an item of business before
we get started. May I see some identification, preferably with a photo?”
This surprises me, but what do I know? I take my billfold out of my
purse and slowly extract my driver’s license. I’m not eager to have this
polished, professional, personable man discover I’m forty-three years old
and carry one-hundred-forty pounds unevenly arranged on my five-footsix-inch frame. I suck in my cheeks in a futile attempt to appear thinner.
He returns the license. “Thank you, Miss Anders. I apologize for
such an abrupt beginning to what I hope will be an amiable relationship,
but it is imperative that I ascertain you are who you claim to be.”
“I see.” What a fibber! I see nothing, and made no claims about
anything. The extent of my input to this meeting is showing up.
“My sympathies for your loss of your mother, Miss Anders.”
His sincere tone and kind eyes catch me off-guard. I steal myself
against tears because I don’t want to look like a smashed tomato – which
I will if I cry. My “Thank you” is a tiny whisper in a large silence.
“Will it offend you if I call you Lass?”
Hardly; try relieved. “No, it’s fine.” All this Miss Anders talk is a
depressingly constant reminder I am Miss-Anders-without-MisterAnybody, and no past- or expected future-offers to change that status.
He smiles as if I have extended a rare privilege. “I only met your
mother recently, but she was . . .” His hesitation surprises me. I quit
trying to sneakily upside-down-read the folder’s label and meet his eyes.
He backtracks smoothly: “Your mother was an interesting woman.”
Mama? Interesting? Opinionated, snoopy, overbearing, a character?
I have no quibble with those descriptors. Quirky, even. I mean, really:
who names her daughter Lass and her son Ladd? But interesting? My
nod is more of an involuntary head-jerk than a sign of agreement.
“Her portfolio was so enlightening. I’d not ever known that hand
models exist before we met. How wonderful she could enjoy what was,
as I recall her saying, ‘a rewarding and exciting career’ for so many years.”
I stifle a moan. Mama first uttered what would become her regularly
repeated phrase in a 1991 interview with a Greenwood INDEX-JOURNAL
Destination Unknown 
13
reporter. A laminated copy is in the binder she maintained as “evidence of
my success.” At two-hundred-and-thirty-dollars an hour, I fervently hope
Mama skipped some of the pages in her thick portfolio. That was her
term: “my portfolio.” I privately called it a scrapbook, especially after she
enrolled in a one-hour Scrapbooking Class, bought special scissors, pens,
and paper at K-MART and started getting fancy.
As for the off-chance she leapfrogged over any of her usual dramatic
accompanying narrative? Give that a slim-to-none rating. Knowing how
Mama operated, I dismally bump-up my mental estimate of Mister
Patton’s bill.
That 1991 interviewer saw a slimmer version of the now-bulging
book Mama had shown Mister Patton. In it, she preserved originals of
advertisements featuring her hands. The newspaper man had fled our
living room, glassy-eyed from viewing countless shots of Mama’s famous
hands wearing/holding/touching/demonstrating/pointing to a vast array
of products. I decide Mister Patton is the most gracious man alive if he
endured all that and still considers Mama “interesting.”
Forcing myself to refocus, I watch Mister Patton reach into an inner
suit-coat pocket and extract a fountain pen, which he sets aside. Clasping
his hands on top of the still-unopened folder, he leans forward and is
momentarily lost-in-thought. His tip-clasp has the same kind of red
jewels as what I saw in his cufflinks. Pale gray specks on his burgundy tie
match his crisply pressed shirt. Who irons his shirts? What a stressful
task, having to get every wrinkle out, and someone did.
I’d wager my dollar-thirty he’s pondering how the interesting Edith
Beatrice Benton Anders birthed such a dull daughter. I wondered the
same thing whenever Mama sighed, “Lord knows, you don’t have much
personality to work with, Lass. Just do the best you can and let me handle the rest.”
Well, Mama’s famous hands aren’t earning money anymore and, with a
huge economic crisis looming over my head, that’s cause for alarm.
When did the grandfather clock in the corner start ticking off my
two-hundred-thirty-dollar hour? I cross and uncross my legs.
Was it when I walked in the front door at five-to-one? I twist a curl
– but, hearing Mama’s “Lass, quit fidgeting!” in my ear, I quickly hide my
non-famous hand beneath the table again.
Or did today’s bill start when Ashley escorted me in here at onetwenty? I sneak a peek at my watch. Dare I say something? I mean,
time’s a-wasting and only one of us (guess who?) is getting any richer
sitting here.
14
 Hadley Hoover
Or will it begin when Mister Patton finally opens the folder? If so,
why the delay? Is he watching the clock, waiting for the next quarterhour to come around so billing me will be easier?
But all such concerns scatter like dust-bunnies in a fan’s breeze when
Mister Patton says, “Thanks to your mother’s good luck and generous
bequest, Lass, you are a wealthy woman.”
My eyes pop open so wide it reminds me of grade-school days when
Mama braided my hair so tightly that my skin felt like it didn’t fit my face.
Bequest? Mama?
Wealthy? Me?
I grip the chair’s arms to keep from mimicking Jell-O slithering off a
hot plate. For my whole life I listened to Mama bemoan that her career
offered “much in excitement, but little in monetary rewards.” Was she lying
about a hand model’s income?
My mouth opens and closes, fish-like, several times without words
making it from my befuddled mind and past my tonsils. I finally stutter,
“Wh-wha-what d-di-did you s-s-say?”
Forget being sneaky: I now openly stare at the folder’s label, which I
had foolishly believed I had figured out . . .
It must say ERLENE, not EDITH.
BERNICE, not BEATRICE.
BENSON, not BENTON.
ANDREWS, not ANDERS.
I once overheard Mama describe me to someone as “. . . not the
brightest bulb in a string of Christmas lights . . .” True. But even I have
enough wattage to illuminate the problem we have here: Erlene Bernice
Benson Andrews’ offspring or heir – whoever, wherever they are –
should be sitting in this chair. Not Edith Beatrice Benton Anders’ dazed
daughter who is clutching a purse with one dollar and thirty cents of
spendable cash inside it.