"I hope you're not going to try and tell me these coins are yours," she snapped to Fred.
Fred was in his finest form, the image of polite firmness. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, ma'am, but when we spoke on the telephone, I offered you the letters and the clothing. I'd already told Miss Worthington down at the museum she could have the pen and ink bottle. We never mentioned the comb and brush." Nor the notebook, Dean thought.
"That's right," said Effie. The look Claire gave her sister would frost a barbeque.
"You wouldn't remember to put your clothes on in the morning if I didn't tell you, Effie," Claire muttered.
"Here, take them," she said, handing Fred the comb and brush, but not the coins. The others looked at her expectantly.
Just then, Edith returned to the room, holding out three crisp one hundred dollar bills, which she thrust toward Claire who reached out and snatched them, without so much as a thank-you, stuffing them in her purse.
"You could perhaps give Mr. O'Connor the little coins," Effie offered.
Claire scooped up the five dollar gold pieces and dropped them in her bag. She then pushed the three smaller denomination coins across the coffee table toward Fred.
"Here, take these, just because I'm generous. I wouldn't want to see an old man cry."
Before Fred could reply, or whack her in the mouth, which would have been Dean's first choice, the front doorbell interrupted the tense gathering. Dean opened the door to a bearded man holding a small overnight bag. "Do you have a room?" he asked. A mud-splattered Blazer was parked behind him.