by Barbara Ross
She gave me a sad smile. “I guess we weren’t that kind of neighbors.” Her eyes moved upward, in the direction of Herrickson House. It wasn’t visible through the cottage windows. The hedges on both sides of Rosehill Road and the trees that lined the mansion’s driveway blocked the view. “I wonder what will happen to it?” she said.
“I hope it stays as it is. That’s what Lou wanted. And I hope whoever inherits lets people access the beach, like she did.” My voice was more strident than I expected, taking me by surprise. I hadn’t realized I cared so much.
“I hope so, too,” Vera said. “Whoever it is.”
Her comment brought me back to my thoughts from the night before. Who benefited from Bart Frick’s death? Who owned the land, the lighthouse, the art, and antiques? Who owned Herrickson House now?
CHAPTER 17
I called my friend and attorney Cuthie Cuthbertson from the road. Cuthie was a roly-poly man, always dressed in a too-big suit, his thick mahogany hair gelled within an inch of its life. But, despite these handicaps, he was one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in Maine, the best in our county. People underestimated him, until he opened his mouth and used his beautiful baritone to tell the jury a convincing story. Cuthie was born to tell stories.
What he wasn’t, was an estate lawyer. He didn’t have the patience for wills and trusts. But he knew his way around a courthouse and around Maine’s legal system. Besides, I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.
“What if someone died, and before their property was even probated, the heir died?” I asked.
“Is this a real case or a hypothetical?” Cuthie always wanted to know where he stood.
“Real case.”
“Heloise Herrickson, I’m assuming.” He whistled. “So someone with significant property.”
“Yes. The house and especially the property are valuable. And you should see the inside. It’s like a museum—art, papers, jewelry, stamps, coins. It’s amazing.”
“I’m intrigued. Remind me, Lou died when?”
“Three weeks ago. She was a hundred and one.”
“And she left the property to Bartholomew Frick, her grandnephew. Where was he from?”
“Brookline, Massachusetts.”
“And he was murdered, what, three days ago?” Cuthie paused. “The news on Frick is probably not great. Unless his will was filed at the Registry of Probate down in whatever Massachusetts county he lived in before he died, you probably can’t get access, unless you can figure out who his attorney is, and whoever that is would have no reason to tell you anything. Unless you’re an heir. Why do you want to know this?”
I laughed. “No nothing like that.” Though if I owned Herrickson House I would keep access to the beach open forever. “I can’t help but wonder who owns the property now.”
“Because maybe whoever it is would have a motive for murder.”
I admitted it. “Well, wouldn’t they? The state cops seem much more interested in the people who were on the scene and who wanted access to the beach.”
“Then we must work to prevent a tragic miscarriage of justice.” Ever the defense attorney, Cuthie was on board. “Here’s my suggestion. Getting access to Frick’s will is going to be a pain. You have a much better shot at finding Lou’s. Frick may have already filed it at the Registry in Wiscasset. The way he put up that gate so fast, he seemed like a man in a hurry. He may have been the sole heir to the property on Herrickson Point, but there could have been personal bequests to others and so on. It might give you a sense of what other family is out there.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“They’re open ’til four. Any business in this for me?”
I laughed. “Yesterday I told Will Orsolini to call you before his second interview with the police, but he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I meant someone who could actually pay me, but thank you. Besides, I understand Will has a witness who can place him elsewhere at the relevant time.”
“How the heck—?”
“I’m leaving lunch at Gus’s right now. Duffy MacGillivray was there telling everyone who would listen about his central role in our local homicide. Such a drama queen. Good luck with your research.”
* * *
The brick courthouse in Wiscasset sat high on the town green. I’d been by it countless times, but had never been inside. The Registry of Probate was a quick left after I came through the metal detector. I walked down the short hallway into a room lit with large windows even on a gray and rainy day.
The woman who helped me, Mrs. Hart, was patient and efficient. I’d been worried when I first walked in because everyone else there—sitting at the wooden table or standing at the high, blond wood counters—seemed to know exactly what they were doing. I was the only neophyte bumbling around, asking dumb questions.
Mrs. Hart told me proudly that the Registry had wills dating back to 1760, and that those filed in the last twenty years were digitized and available online. Heirs and executors (called Responsible Persons in Maine, as Jamie had already informed me) had anywhere up to three years to file a will for probate, so she couldn’t guarantee Lou Herrickson’s was there.
But, with a minimum of fuss, she retrieved a paper of copy of the will from somewhere behind a painted wooden door. Bart Frick had filed it the afternoon of his first day in town.
I went to the table and sat down next to a woman who had paper documents and file folders full of wills and estate inventories piled in front of her.
“Genealogy?” she asked me.
“No.” Not wanting to be abrupt or unfriendly, I racked my brain for a more expansive response. I didn’t think, “looking for a murderer,” was going to do it. I settled on, “a family matter,” which I supposed it was, though not my family. The woman gave me a pleasant smile and turned back to her work.
The beginning part of Lou’s will was straightforward. She said she was Heloise Herrickson, the widow of Francis Herrickson, and was of sound mind and body. The will was dated ten years before her death and was drawn up by a well-known Portland, Maine, law firm.
Lou had left, as I already knew, the property, lighthouse, and dwelling known as Herrickson House, and all contents therein, to her husband’s grandnephew, Bartholomew Frick of Brookline, Massachusetts.
But then it got strange. She left all of this to Frick on the condition that he live at Herrickson House and leave the land, house, outbuildings, and the contents of the house substantially as they were at her death for the period of one year. Only then, after the year had passed, did he inherit the property outright. If Frick failed to meet these conditions, the property passed to “my late husband’s goddaughter, Elizabeth Anderson of Scarborough, Maine.”
That stopped me cold. Who was Elizabeth Anderson and why was she potentially inheriting an enormous house and acres of oceanfront property? Lou hadn’t expanded on that.
I remembered Frick had said, “I may have to live here . . .” on the morning of the murder. At the time it hadn’t struck me as strange. But now I knew he literally had to live at Herrickson House if he hoped to get his inheritance. Did the gate he’d put across the beach road constitute an alteration? From a structural point of view it was easily taken down, clearly temporary. But its spirit altered the property substantially, blocking access Lou and generations of Herricksons had allowed.
Frick was the Responsible Person as well as the heir, which seemed a bit like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. He would be the one to attest that he had lived in Herrickson House for a year and that he had not substantially altered the property or the house, or sold the contents for that matter. Except he wouldn’t, because he was dead.
There were a few other bequests. Five thousand dollars each to Lou’s hairdresser, handyman, cleaning lady, and gardener. Not a life-changing amount, but an amount that would no doubt come in handy in the long winter months ahead. Twenty-thousand to the Art League in the hopes they would make improvements and repairs to their gallery
building. An endowment to the high school to give a scholarship to a promising art student in her name.
Lou left a hundred thousand dollars to Ida Fischer, along with the wish that Ida be “allowed to live at Herrickson House for as long as she wishes. It has become her home.” Ida had lasted exactly one day after Bart Frick arrived. The amount was generous, certainly, but it wouldn’t last forever, especially without the free housing that Lou had wished for her, and it was hard to imagine Ida could get another job at her age. She’d been a companion to Lou more than anything, making simple meals and doing light housekeeping. Others came in to do the heavy lifting.
And then, in one of the final paragraphs of the will, something else shocked me. “I have deliberately and consciously left nothing to my daughter, for reasons well known by her.”
Daughter? No one had ever mentioned a daughter. And, what could a daughter have done that everything was left to a grandnephew of Lou’s late husband? I could see maybe the real estate should go to a “Herrickson,” but what about the art and other treasures? They must be worth a fortune. Lou was so famously generous. What on earth would have made her turn her back on her own child?
And who was this mysterious Elizabeth Anderson of Scarborough, Maine? If she inherited an estate worth millions on Frick’s death, wasn’t she suspect number one? But did she inherit? Frick hadn’t lived out his year at Herrickson House, that was certain. But he’d been unable to, because he was murdered. So did the estate pass to Elizabeth Anderson or did it pass to Bart Frick’s heirs, whoever they might be?
The rest of the will was routine. I didn’t recognize the names of either witness. It had probably been signed in the lawyer’s office.
I made some notes on my phone and gave the document back to the nice clerk, pulled my slicker over my head and dodged the rain as I raced to my car. Inside, it was like a sauna. The windows were fogged and the rain decreased visibility to zero.
I’d gone looking for other suspects in Bart Frick’s murder and I’d found two. Elizabeth Anderson, who inherited, if she inherited. Her motive was clear. And the mysterious daughter. If Bart Frick was dead, she still didn’t get anything, but wouldn’t that make you crazy if you were Lou’s daughter?
I had the feeling Lou didn’t know Bart Frick well if she thought he was the type of person who would happily let Ida Fischer live in his house for free. Or, if she thought he would keep the house as it was, instead of selling of her treasures, tearing Herrickson House down, and building oceanfront McMansions. (Filet-O-Fish Houses?) If you were Lou’s daughter, and you knew that all the money in the estate, everything except the real estate, came from your mother, and yet your mother had plucked an obscure relative of her husband’s and given him everything, what would you do?
I turned the key in the ignition and put the defroster on full blast, for all the good it did. I gave up, opened the windows in spite of the rain, and when the windshield cleared, headed back to Busman’s Harbor.
CHAPTER 18
On the way back, I called Sergeant Tom Flynn on his cell.
“Julia. Chatting with you twice in one day. This is becoming a habit.”
“I was over at the courthouse looking at Heloise Herrickson’s will,” I told him. No point in holding back.
“Were you now?” Flynn seemed more amused than upset.
“I was. I assume you know what the will says.”
“Of course.” Flynn still played along.
“So it seems to me Elizabeth Anderson is an obvious suspect in Bart Frick’s murder.”
“Obvious,” Flynn confirmed.
When he didn’t expand, I asked, “Is that something you’re pursuing?”
“We would be. If we knew where she was.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“Nope.” Flynn blew out a puff of air. “No Elizabeth Anderson in Scarborough, according to the town clerk. We checked with the local police department. They’ve never heard of her. They were nice enough to knock on the doors of all the Anderson families in town. Nothing.”
“The lawyer who drew up Lou’s will must know who Elizabeth Anderson is.”
“He doesn’t. Ten years ago Mrs. Herrickson gave him the name and phone number of a private detective she said would be able to put the attorney in touch with Ms. Anderson should the need ever arise. The PI has given up his license and left the state. We’ve heard he’s somewhere in Florida. We’re trying to get in touch. In the meantime, we’ve tried DMV records, arrest records. I’ve taken to random Googling.”
I imagined high-energy Flynn stuck at his desk clicking on the results from a search engine. It must be driving him crazy. “So does Elizabeth Anderson inherit or do Frick’s heirs?”
“Do I sound like an estate attorney? Mr. Frick appears to have died intestate, in any case.”
“Without a will?”
“It’s not that uncommon. Frick was in his forties, healthy, no wife or kids. And, until three weeks ago, he didn’t have much. A modest condo, a four-year-old car.”
“He was driving a hundred thousand dollar Porsche.”
“Bought two weeks ago at a shady dealership using his coming inheritance as collateral. Frick probably would have made a will now that he was a multimillionaire, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“So that means?”
“I’m not a judge, but I’m guessing this Elizabeth Anderson inherits because Frick didn’t spend his year at Herrickson House.”
“Doesn’t that make her your chief suspect?”
“Not if she never turns up to collect.”
I had to give that one to Flynn. Killing to inherit wasn’t a motive if you never put your hand up to say, “It’s mine.”
“And the daughter, the one who was disinherited?” I asked.
“We have the Palm Beach PD looking,” Binder answered. “We’re assuming she’s Mrs. Herrickson’s child with her first husband, Charles Mills, but we’re still verifying. The daughter may well have a married name.”
“Or an alias,” I said. “I’m not sure I’d keep my parent’s name if she treated me like that. Lou was a hundred and one when she died, so the daughter would be . . .”
“Yeah,” Flynn confirmed. “Seventies or eighties. Or perhaps deceased herself.”
“Why go to the trouble of disinheriting someone who’s already dead?”
“The will’s ten years old,” he reminded me. “The daughter could have died anytime since it was made. You never heard anything about a daughter?”
“Nothing. If anyone knows, it’s Ida Fischer.”
“Ms. Fischer is coming in later today. We have many reasons for wanting to talk to her.”
I remembered Ida’s photo on the whiteboard when Flynn had turned it over.
“Could a woman have committed this murder?” I asked. “An older woman?” Ida Fischer was an older woman. Lou’s disinherited daughter was an older woman. Frank Herrickson was born in 1909, so the missing Elizabeth Anderson, his goddaughter, was probably an older woman, too. Certainly she was a woman. If she was alive.
“The room where Frick was killed was a wreck,” Flynn told me. “There was broken china and glass, shattered pictures. Like whoever it was came in there swinging the weapon in fury, taking out everything in their path. We think whoever it was took an overhead swing and happened to hit him exactly right. A lucky shot.”
“Not so lucky for him.”
“He had no defensive wounds. We’re not sure why he didn’t put his hands up, try to deflect the blow. But in answer to your question, yes a woman could have done it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Happy to be of service, ma’am.”
* * *
I knocked on the door of Ida Fischer’s sister’s house. It was a modest two-story on a tiny lot in the center of Busman’s Harbor. I didn’t know her sister, but in the way of small towns, I knew of her. The sister had a husband, a middle-aged daughter, and son still living at home, three daughters living nearby, and a
passel of grandchildren. I imagined Ida’s presence made the house feel pretty crowded.
It was Ida who answered the door. “Julia.”
“Hi Ida. I wanted to follow up on our conversation at the Snuggles. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Of course, of course. Peg and I were just sitting down for a cold drink on a muggy day. I can’t talk long. I’m expected at the police station. Come in.” She led me through a small living room crowded with giant brown furniture into a kitchen just large enough to hold an eating table.
“Do you know my sister Peg?” she asked.
“Don’t get up. I’m Julia.” Ida’s sister Peg was her physical opposite in every way. Where Ida was small and tough, like a buzzard, Peg was big and soft, like a farm-raised turkey.
“I know you. You’re Jacqueline’s daughter.”
“Yes, that’s right. Pleased to meet you.”
“Fee and Vee asked Julia to help out with my little problem,” Ida told her.
“You mean your problem of being suspected of murder . . . again.” Peg sure didn’t pull any punches.
“I wouldn’t say suspected,” Ida protested. Would she have been so sure if she’d known her photo was on the whiteboard down at the police station?
“Humph.” Peg was not impressed.
Peg stood and pulled a glass from a cabinet. She filled it with ice and poured cold tea over it. She bustled about, cutting a wedge of lemon, getting a spoon. “There’s sugar and the pink packets on the table,” she said, pointing with her knuckle. She sat back down.
“That’s what I’ve come to see you about. Do you know about the provisions of Lou’s will?” I asked Ida.
“Her attorney called me to tell me about the hundred thousand dollars, if that’s what you mean.”
“And the part where she said she hoped Bart Frick would let you live out your life in Herrickson House?”
