“It’s an old kerosene lamp, Mr.
Trenton,” the owner of the antique shop said.  “An ornate one, true.”  She indicated the gilt and the pink, painted roses.  “But not particularly valuable.”  She finished the appraisal of the rest of the estate’s furnishings and gave the list to me.
        As a third generation partner of Trenton, Hayes and Trenton, it is my responsibility to handle details.  My current task involves the administration of the estate of Mrs. Johanson.  Her will read, “…Being of sound mind, having no living relatives, all my worldly possessions are to be sold…”  She had named her favorite charities as recipients of the money to be obtained from the sale.  There was one exception: the kerosene lamp. That was to be hand-delivered to Charlene Perry.  I didn’t recognize the name.
 
Mrs. Johanson had been generous to those who had cared for her during her last years.  She had put the money in trust for them before her death.  My job was to make sure the accounts were managed properly; that is, all of the accounts but one.  Mr. Hayes, the firm’s semi-retired senior partner, oversaw that one personally.
        I asked if this account, known only by number, had anything to do with Charlene Perry.  Mr. Hayes peered at me through thick lenses.  “Mark, I can’t discuss that with you,” he said.  “But, there’s another copy of the will in the safe.  I suggest you read it thoroughly.”
 
I thought I had. Nevertheless, I did as he said.  It was a copy of an earlier version, which had included a now-deleted provision for a granddaughter, Marylee.  What had happened to her? I wondered.  I saw that the bequest for the lamp had been added in Mrs. Johanson’s shaky hand. There was also a notation by Mr. Hayes.  Something about a letter.  His handwriting was no better than hers.  
 
I went on-line.  I searched the city directory first.  There was no Charlene Perry listed in the Knollsville area.  I expanded my search to include all C. Perrys.  Next, I tried close alternatives to the name Charlene.
        “Charles” Perry was at the top of the list and I called him.  He said he had had a twin sister named Charlene, but that she had died in a plane crash several years ago. He told me she had married a man named Truwood.
        I called Mr. Truwood, set up a meeting, and drove out to his immaculate home in the suburbs.  He had no knowledge of the Johanson family.  Neither had the new Mrs. Truwood, a stately blond named Valerie.
 
I thought I had reached a dead end.  I called Charles Perry again.  He told me a story of how a stranger had been responsible for the rosebushes planted near Charlene’s grave. Who had arranged that display was a mystery to him.
        Then I remembered: Mrs. Johanson had a weakness for roses, especially pink ones.  Not just the kerosene lamp, but her gardens, the paintings on her walls, and her upholstered furniture—all reflected this love of roses.  I asked Charles Perry where the cemetery was located.
        “You might find it odd,” he said.  “But I visit there every Sunday.  My entire family is buried there.  When Charlene was alive, we would go together.”
 
So on Sunday, Charles Perry and I visited Charlene’s grave.  The large family headstone rested in open green grass.  Pines stood in the area above, at the crest of a hill.  Back from the path, low-growing junipers spread out below.  Pink roses grew near a stone bench set amid the junipers.  
        There were other headstones in the area that didn’t read “Perry.”  At a distance, I saw a young woman standing near one of them.  The morning was warm but she was dressed in heavy, long clothing, and a large floppy hat with a trailing scarf.  The sunglasses made sense; it was sunny.  
 
Charles Perry placed flowers at the foot of the family headstone.  He stopped for some time by a double marker, his wife’s grave.  Not wanting to intrude, I wandered absently among the smaller stones.
        Charlene’s was easy to find—the pink roses were in bloom.  Soon Charles joined me. We stood for a moment in silence, then he said, “I should go.  I’ll be late for church.”
  
After he left, the young woman
started down the path towards me.  Out of courtesy, I said hello to her.
        She stopped at Charlene’s grave.  “She’s not there,” the young woman said.
        “I understand,” I said.  I repeated something my father had said over my mother’s grave.  “She’s with the angels.”
        The young woman shook her head slowly and turned away.  Then she turned back.  “How do you know Charlene?” she asked.
        “Only as the beneficiary of a small bequest in a will.  I’ve had difficulty finding her.  Now, I imagine, it doesn’t matter.”
        “Death,” she said, “and wills, and money.  Life is so complicated.”  She sighed.
        “I’m Mark Trenton,” I said.  When she didn’t acknowledge that, or reply with her own name, I asked, “You knew Charlene?”
        She went on, almost as if she hadn’t heard me.  “He didn’t want a divorce.  His parents wouldn’t approve.  And they had money he did want.”
        “Charlene’s husband?  Mr. Truwood?”
  
She gave me a probing glance.  “A
will, you said? Then you work for a law firm?  You’re a lawyer, an officer of the court?”  Her hand clutched the scarf wound around her neck.
        I’d seen that reaction before.  “You could put it that way,” I said. “But I only handle the leg work.  I was late getting through law school, too many distractions—women, cars.  I’m working at Trenton, Hayes and Trenton because it’s a family firm.”  
        I don’t usually tell people that.  I meant to put her at ease.  
        She drifted over to the bench by the roses and sat down.  I sat on the far edge of the bench and waited.  
        “I need to retain a lawyer,” she said.  “I have come into some money—quite a lot of it—that belongs to someone else.  It worries me.  It should be returned.”  I waited, thinking there might be more. “And, if you represent me,” she went on, “what I tell you is in confidence, right?”
        “Attorney-client privilege.”  Clearly, she wanted that protection, but I hesitated before saying more.  Whatever her problems, she knew Charlene Perry.  The Charlene Perry who had taken up so much of my time.  Over a kerosene lamp. 
        “The plane broke in half,” she said, in a low whisper.  “The tail section was really torn up.  Marylee and I were in the middle.  We’d changed

seats.  She had vertigo and I wanted to see out the window.”
        “Marylee?”  Where had I seen that name?         “She died in the crash, in my seat.  It was torn away with the tail section.  Mistakes can be made when bodies are so… What was left was difficult to identify.”
        “What are you saying?” I asked. 
 
She gazed at the plain headstone
that was etched with the name CHARLENE TRUWOOD.  “Charlene’s not there,” the woman said.  “She’s not dead.”  
        “Excuse me?”
        “She didn’t die in the crash.  They identified another woman as Charlene.  I never contested it.”  
  
At first, I doubted her statement.  Airlines are careful these days; there’s usually something with someone’s DNA.  Second, she hadn’t told me how she could challenge their findings.  Instead I asked, “Then who is in there?”
        “Marylee Johanson.”
        Johanson.  It was as if a light had turned on.  Now things made sense.  I didn’t get a question out, before she’d said, “You must realize, I couldn’t.”
        “Because you are Charlene Perry.”
        “And because I didn’t want my husband to find me.  Everything else was secondary.  The situation—the crash, the mistaken identity—seemed like an answer to a prayer.  You do understand, don’t you?”
        I didn’t answer.  I didn’t know what to say.
 
“He wished I was dead.  He told me so.  He only married me because his parents had disapproved of his first choice, Valerie.”  I saw a pleading expression on her face, in her eyes.
        Truwood has his Valerie now.  But I said, “Their marriage isn’t valid.  As for you, if you’ve done nothing illegal, I…”  Another thought occurred to me.  “You’ve been using Marylee’s name?”
        “It was necessary,” she said.  “I needed a job, had to have a Social Security number.  I didn’t take any of her money, none of it.   I couldn’t have anyway.  My signature wouldn’t have matched.”
        “Forgery can be tricky,” I said.
        “It was easy enough to get a new ID.  I had her old driver’s license.  The airline recovered it, badly damaged, both photo and signature.  And the clerk at the DMV didn’t pay much attention to either.”  
  
 As I listened to her story, something bothered me.  “Why did you stay in the area?  By the way you’re dressed, I’d say you are concerned that someone would recognize you.”
        “Recognize me?  I doubt it.”  She unwound the scarf and pulled off her floppy hat.  In the bright sunlight I could see the fine white scars that crossed her face.  “I didn’t come out of the crash unscathed.”
  
I remembered a car wreck and
another young woman who still bore the scars.  And my father’s face when he wrote the check that settled the law suit.  “Law and alcohol don’t mix,” he said.
        “I’ve bent a few rules myself,” I said.  “But everything catches up with us.  What do you want me to do now?”
        “Return the money.  That shouldn’t be hard.  Marylee said she had only her grandmother, no one else.”
        “Her grandmother died.”
        “I know, I read the obituary.  Mrs. Johanson came to see me in the hospital,” she said.  “Several times.  She must have known I wasn’t Marylee, but she didn’t say a word.  She told me to get well, and not to worry.”
        “Did Mrs. Johanson ask you to come stay with her?”
        “Yes.  But of course I couldn’t…”  
  
I took Charlene Truwood to the
office.  On the way, I explained conflict of interest, how I couldn’t represent both parties involved.  But I promised her I’d find someone.
        “Then I can tell Charles.  It’s been hard, not being able to tell him, tell anyone.” Again her eyes searched my face.  “I guess, at first, when I saw you with him, I assumed you were a friend.  Perhaps that is why I said what I did.”
        “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
        “You see, when I was on that plane, I was running away from my husband.  Charles would never run away.  He’s so up front about everything. The more I thought about that, the less I wanted to involve him.”
  
Inside Trenton, Hayes and Trenton, I brought Charlene the lamp and its attendant letter.
        She opened the letter and read it.  She sat for a moment with a dazed expression on her face then read the letter again.  She raised her eyes to mine.  “Mrs. Johanson knew.  She knew the whole time.  She knew everything.”
        “What about the lamp?” I wondered aloud.
        Charlene shuffled the pages and read to me:  “One day my granddaughter, Marylee, was visiting when the power went out.  I brought out the lamp and she was so taken with it.  The lamp is lovely, with all the gold trim, and the beautiful pink roses.”
        “Pink roses,” I echoed.
        “That’s why Mrs. Johanson saw to it that the roses were planted at the cemetery. She knew Marylee was there.  I often wondered about it.  My husband would never have done something like that.”
        Charlene handed me the letter.  “Mrs. Johanson wanted to tell me that it was okay if I used the money.  And there’s more in trust.  Can you believe that?”
        I could—in an account under the personal management of Mr. Hayes.
        “Your firm is to make sure there are no problems.”  Charlene, quiet for a moment, then mused, “But why the lamp?”
        I knew.  It was Mrs. Johanson’s way to get the message in the letter to Charlene.  And, it was a way for Marylee to live on.
 
 
                         About The Author
  
        Eleanor Michael—wife, mother, part-time writer, has had poetry and stories published in a number of small press magazines.  In the last two years, her poetry and short prose have appeared in The Old Millpond Anthology and Art With Words.  Also, she has had poetry published in Lucidity and Smile.  She has placed in a number of Calliope Fiction Contests. 
        Her other interests include art and music.  She is currently working on a new mystery, several submissions, and query letters for future publication.
 
    
                                  Copyright © Eleanor Michael