American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,31

deer, lying on their backs with their horns rising up in spiked tangles. There are so many horns that they look almost like tree branches, and now that her eyes have adjusted she sees that there are many types of horns, some the traditional twelve-point, some curling rams’ horns, so there must be many species.

Mona walks forward into the labyrinth of filing cabinets. As she moves she finds there is another scent in the air, buried below the aroma of old paper and formaldehyde, something like rotten pine. She rounds a corner and sees there is a big wooden table ahead, and unlike the rest of the furniture in this place it has a surface that is clear, except for four things: a box labeled OUT, a box labeled IN (both empty), a small desk light, and a cup of tea sitting on a saucer. Hanging from the front of the desk is a sign so similar to the one on the stairway door she’s sure it was made by the same person. This one reads M. BENJAMIN!

Mona walks to the front of the desk. The tea stinks horribly: it is a thick, muddy, piney concoction that has left a dark brown residue on the sides of the cup. It does not look like something the human digestive system could make any sense of.

“Hello?” she calls.

There is a flurry of noise from among the cabinets behind the desk. “Hello?” says a voice, surprised. Then a woman emerges from some hidden passageway in the back. Though she is quite elderly, seventy at least, she is still enormous, over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and big hands. Yet she is dressed in the most matronly way possible: her hair is an immense, gray-blond cloud, and her dress suffers from an abundance of purple fabric and gray polka dots. A string of thick pearls rings her skinny neck. She blinks quickly as she totters out of the shadows to the desk. “Oh,” she says when she sees Mona. “Hello.” With a long, soft grunt, she sits down, face politely puzzled.

“I’m here about a house, ma’am,” Mona says.

“Which house?” asks the woman, and she fixes a set of spectacles to her nose.

“Uh, this one on Larchmont here. I inherited it.”

“Inherited it?” asks the woman. “Oh. And… are you a current resident?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not, but I have all the paperwork here, or at least, you know, a hell of a lot of it,” says Mona. She produces her folder with all the documentation and begins to hand the pages out to the woman, who is presumably Mrs. Benjamin.

Mona expects her to begin sorting through them officiously, like any world-weary bureaucrat, but Mrs. Benjamin simply holds one paper—the copy of the will—and stares helplessly at the rest of the pile. “Oh,” she says. Then, hopefully, “Are you sure?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you sure you inherited a house here? I must admit, it’s not very common. Most properties bequeathed are usually bequeathed to people already living here.”

“I’m just going by what the paper says,” says Mona. “I had a couple of courts say it was all legit back in Texas, and I’d hate to have come all this way for nothing. I understand the will expires in less than a week, too.”

“I see,” says Mrs. Benjamin. Finally she begins to pick through the paperwork. “And you would be Mrs. Bright?”

“Miss. Yes.”

Mona expects her to ask for identification, but she says, “Wait. I remember you… weren’t you in the red car yesterday? At the funeral?”

“Uh, yes. That was me.”

“Ah,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “You were the source of a bit of gossip, my dear.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, these things happen,” says Mrs. Benjamin carelessly. “Honestly, it helped lighten the mood a little.”

“Who passed away, if I might ask?”

“Mr. Weringer.” She looks at Mona like this should mean something. When Mona does not react, she asks, “Did you know him?”

“I just got in last night, ma’am.”

“I see. Well, he was… a very well-respected member of the town. We’ve been all in a tizzy ever since.”

“How’d he die?”

But Mrs. Benjamin has turned her attention to the papers, squinting at the faint, staggered writing. “I don’t recall any Brights ever living here…”

“The original owner was Laura Alvarez.”

“I do not recall any Alvarezes, either,” she says, with an inflection that implies—and I would. A thought strikes her, and she peers up at Mona and asks, “Can you please step back a little?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Can you step back? Into the light? So I can see you better.”

Mona obliges her,