by Janet Dawson
“I’m with you so far,” I said. “When do we get to Ermengarde?”
Mike ran a hand through his straight black hair. “Mrs. Littlejohn gave Aunt Mae sealed envelopes containing her will and her funeral instructions. And she asked that Aunt Mae look after Ermengarde until the instructions in the will were carried out. So Aunt Mae’s had the cat ever since Mrs. Littlejohn went into the hospital for the last time, which was the day before she died. The funeral was last week. Aunt Mae didn’t open the envelope containing the will until after the service.”
“So the problem is in carrying out the instructions in the will,” I guessed.
“Exactly,” Mike said. “As soon as Aunt Mae read the will she called me. For the most part, the document is fairly straightforward. Mrs. Littlejohn wasn’t rich, but she was certainly well off. She left a number of substantial bequests, to a number of friends as well as several charities.”
“I take it one of these large sums was set aside for the care, feeding and upkeep of her cat Ermengarde,” I said. Mike nodded.
“It’s not worded that way, of course,” Cassie chimed in. “The money is left to Mrs. Littlejohn’s niece, for the specific purpose of Ermengarde’s care, until such time as Ermengarde departs for that great cat tree in the sky.”
“So Ermengarde’s rich, or rather well off,” I said. “Or her caretaker is. Unless the caretaker, or one of the other beneficiaries, decides to eliminate the cat.”
Mike waved the document he was holding. “Mrs. Littlejohn anticipated that possibility, and took care of it. She states in her will that if the cat dies of anything other than natural causes, Ermengarde’s bequest goes to several charities, not the caretaker or the other beneficiaries.”
“And if the cat dies of natural causes?” I asked.
“The caretaker gets what’s left,” Cassie said.
“Aha.” I digested this for a moment. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem’s the niece. Or rather, the nieces. There are two of them.”
I frowned. “Does the will specify which niece?”
“Nope,” Cassie said.
Mike leafed through the pages until he found the offending clause. “It says here that the money is bequeathed to Mrs. Littlejohn’s niece, who will have full control of the money as long as it’s spent to provide Ermengarde with all the comforts to which she’s accustomed.”
I reached for the will and read the clause, raising my eyebrows at the number of zeros after that dollar sign. “Wow. That’s a lot of cat crunchies. Who the hell drew up this will anyway? A summer law clerk would have known better than to leave a beneficiary unnamed.”
“For an attorney to make a mistake like that borders on legal malpractice.” Cassie said, with a look that would have withered the yellow chrysanthemums on the credenza behind her desk.
I had to agree. I glanced through the rest of the will. Every other bequest specified a beneficiary by name, whether it was a person or an organization. The clause relating to Ermengarde was the only one that didn’t.
It could have been a mistake. It was possible whoever typed the will had left out the name by accident. But if that was the case, the attorney—or Mrs. Littlejohn—should have caught the error when they proofread the will. Unless neither of them had read through the document. I looked at the date the will was signed. Earlier this year, ten months ago.
Somehow I didn’t think the omission of the niece’s name was a mistake. It smelled deliberate, not accidental.
“Aunt Mae says Mrs. Littlejohn’s attorney was named Bruce Cathcart,” Mike said. “She found his name and address on some other papers Mrs. Littlejohn left with her. Cathcart’s also the one who notarized the will, as you’ll see from the last page.”
“But you can’t find Cathcart,” I finished.
“He’s done a bunk,” Cassie said. “Or so it appears. Which means we can’t ask him just what he was thinking when he drafted up this will. If he was thinking at all.”
“He’s disappeared?” I asked.
“When I went looking for him,” Mike said, “I couldn’t find him. He rented an office in another law firm, Burke & Hare. When I contacted them, the office manager told me he’d left. And she claimed he didn’t leave a forwarding address. But I got the feeling she wasn’t telling me everything. All she would say was that he was there two years.”
“What about before that?” I asked. “Was Cathcart associated with another firm? Did he have a partner?”
“According to the bar association, he was practicing solo when he rented space from Burke & Hare,” Cassie said. “Before that, three years ago, he was with the Bestwick firm over in San Francisco. Nobody there will answer any questions about him. All the human resources manager will do is confirm that he worked there for five years. The bar association doesn’t have a current address for him. Nor did they have any record of complaints against him. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any, of course, just that they didn’t get reported to the bar.”
“The guy definitely sounds like he’s had some problems. If people don’t want to talk about him, that could mean they have nothing good to say.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mike said. “He must have had a secretary, though. If you could locate the secretary, maybe that would lead us to Cathcart.”
“Worth a try,” I said. “That’s the first problem. I assume the nieces are the second problem. Only two so far?”
“So far,” Mike said. “Aunt Mae organized the funeral according to the instructions Mrs. Littlejohn left, and she notified everyone in Mrs. Littlejohn’s address book. She also put a notice in the Oakland Tribune and the San Francisco Chronicle. Both of the women showed up at the funeral, introduced themselves to Aunt Mae as Mrs. Littlejohn’s nieces, and said they’d read the death notice in the Chronicle. Aunt Mae had never met either of them before. Neither had anyone else at the funeral. My aunt had heard Mrs. Littlejohn speak of a niece, but she was under the impression that they weren’t close, and that the niece lived in another state.”
“So you’re not even sure the nieces are really nieces,” I said. “Let alone the real niece.”
“Their names are Cathy Wingate and Mary Hooper.” Mike reached for a yellow legal pad on which he’d scribbled some notes. “Aunt Mae’s got Mrs. Littlejohn’s address book, and she says she didn’t see either name there.”
“And neither woman is listed as a beneficiary elsewhere in the will,” Cassie added
“Do they know about the will?”
Mike shook his head. “No. I thought it best not to bring up the matter until I was sure which one of them actually is Mrs. Littlejohn’s niece. That’s where you come in.” He tore off a sheet of yellow paper. “Fortunately, Aunt Mae had the presence of mind to get their addresses.”
I looked at the sheet. Both of Ermengarde’s potential guardians lived in San Francisco. I asked Mike for his aunt’s address and phone number, then I glanced at my watch, mindful of Abigail’s vet appointment. As I stood up, I folded the paper and tucked it into my purse. “I’m on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything.”
The sooner the better,” Mike said. “I can’t get this will admitted to probate until this mess is straightened out.”
Abigail was not thrilled with the prospect of going to the vet. Neither of my cats are. They have been known to vanish at the rattle of a cat carrier latch. However, Abigail is old and fat, and I’m faster than she is. I scooped her up, ignoring the flailing paws and the outraged meows of protest, and wedged her through the door of the carrier. Then I strapped her into the passenger seat of my Toyota, and set off for Dr. Prentice’s office, with Abigail muttering imprecations all the way.
Mike didn’t know how old Ermengarde was, I thought, as I watched the vet examine Abigail. My own cat was nearing twelve, and I didn’t want to think about losing her, but it was hard to know how long a cat would live, even the most pampered feline. Whether Ermengarde lived another year or ten years, she was going to l
ive in style, considering the sum of money Mrs. Littlejohn had left for her care and feeding. And the niece who administered Ermengarde’s money would also benefit quite nicely.
My vet conceded that Abigail had had slimmed down some since our kitten Black Bart came to live with us. That had upped the cat’s exercise level, plus I’d also been monitoring her diet. Dr. Prentice administered the required vaccines. That done, I opened the door of the cat carrier and Abigail retreated inside. Coming home from the vet was the only time she ever willingly got into the carrier.
“Do you by any chance have a client named Sylvia Littlejohn?” I asked Dr. Prentice. “With a cat named Ermengarde?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” the doctor said. “Why do you ask?”
“Mrs. Littlejohn died recently,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Dr. Prentice said. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope someone’s taking care of Ermengarde. She really loved that cat.”
“Yes, the cat’s being cared for,” I said. “How old is Ermengarde? Is she in good health?”
“I’ll have to check my records.” Dr. Prentice left the examining room and came back a moment later with a file. “Ermengarde’s four. And she’s in excellent health. If she doesn’t have any major medical problems in the future, she could live another ten to twelve years.”
I took my cat home, promising her that if she stayed healthy she wouldn’t have to go to the vet again for another year. Then I headed over to an address in the Oakland hills to see Mike’s aunt, who was caring for Ermengarde pending resolution of the mystery of her friend’s will. I was eager to meet the newly rich cat.
She had blue eyes, slightly crossed. And there was a Siamese somewhere in her gene pool. She was small and elegant, with a luxuriant, long, fluffy coat, mostly white veering into pale champagne and dark brown in places. The dark patches on her dainty pointed face had the look of a harlequin’s mask. Her ears and tail were tipped with brown, and so were three of her four paws.
Ermengarde was indeed a gorgeous cat. She gazed at me, unconcerned, with those big blue eyes, rested regally on a dark blue towel on Mae Chao’s sofa. I held out my hand and let the cat take a delicate sniff. I knew I’d passed inspection when Ermengarde rubbed her pointy chin against my fingers, then allowed me to stroke her silky head.
I saw a white electrical cord running from under the towel to an outlet on the wall. “There’s a heating pad under that towel,” Mrs. Chao said. “Sylvia always had heating pads for this cat to sit on. She said cats are like heat-seeking missiles. They always find the warm spot.”
I smiled, thinking of Abigail and Black Bart, and how fond they were of my down comforter, especially in winter. I’d have to try the heating pads for them.
I’d seen no other evidence of felines in residence, the sort of evidence I saw at my own house. Mrs. Chao’s sofa, dark green with a floral motif of large pink peonies, showed no signs of cat claws shredding through the fabric. The beige carpet didn’t have stray bits of cat food and kitty litter, at least none visible to my eyes. And I didn’t see the usual buildup of cat hair anywhere else except the blue towel on which Ermengarde rested. That was covered with long white strands. Either Mae Chao wasn’t a cat owner, or she was extraordinarily tidy and had extremely well-behaved cats. If there is such an animal.
“I take it you’re not a cat person,” I said. Mrs. Chao had made tea, and I sipped at the fragrant jasmine brew.
“Not really,” she admitted. “Although I really like Ermengarde. She’s such a sweet, good-natured kitty. And very well-mannered. Of course, she’s been subdued since she came to live with me. I’m sure she misses Sylvia.”
I looked at Ermengarde, wondering what dark secrets of feline misbehavior lurked behind those crossed blue eyes. “Ermengarde’s an odd name for a cat.”
“Sylvia named her after an old nanny who took care of her when she was a child,” Mrs. Chao said. “She said Ermengarde—the woman, not the cat—practically raised her and her sister after their mother died. Sylvia was about eight when that happened. Her sister was four or five. Their father was a wealthy businessman here in Oakland, and he traveled a lot. So Sylvia and her sister were frequently left alone, with the original Ermengarde, who was a German refugee. She came over here right before World War Two.”
“I wonder why the cat reminded her of the woman.”
“Oh, she told me.” Mrs. Chao reached over and ruffled the cat’s fur. “The original Ermengarde had blue eyes that were slightly crossed. When Sylvia saw this little white kitten at the Oakland SPCA four years ago, she immediately thought of Ermengarde. Who has been dead for years, of course.”
“What was the sister’s name?”
“Oh, dear, let me think.” Mrs. Chao reached for the cup of tea she’d set on the lamp table at her end of the sofa. “Lucille, that was it. And I believe her married name was Fanning. From the way Sylvia talked about her, I gathered that the sister was dead. And that they’d been estranged for many years.”
That would explain why no one among Mrs. Littlejohn’s contemporaries seemed to know that she’d had a niece, until the two women claiming kinship had shown up at the funeral.
I asked if I could look at Sylvia Littlejohn’s address book, the one Mrs. Chao had used to notify people of the funeral. It was a worn leather volume that looked as though its owner had used it for many years. I leafed through the pages slowly, looking at the names listed, as well as for scribbles in the margins and bits of paper tucked into the pages. As Mike had said, neither of the purported nieces was listed in the address book.
Which struck me as odd. Presumably Mrs. Littlejohn really did have a niece. Why else would she have designated the niece as the person to look after Ermengarde?
Mrs. Chao interrupted my thoughts with a question of her own. “What happens if they’re not really Sylvia’s nieces?” She scratched Ermengarde behind the ears, and I heard a contented purr rumbling from the blue-eyed cat.
“I guess we’ll have to figure that out when the time comes,” I said. “I might be up to the probate judge.”
“Well, if nobody else wants her, I’ll take care of her,” Mae Chao said. “I don’t care about the money. But I’m getting to be quite fond of this cat.”
The law firm of Burke & Hare, where Bruce Cathcart had rented an office, was located in a suite on an upper floor of a high rise near Lake Merritt. The whole building was lousy with lawyers. I was surprised the management company dealt with anyone who didn’t have a juris doctor.
The office manager at Burke & Hare wasn’t all that thrilled about discussing the missing perpetrator of Mrs. Littlejohn’s will, at least not at first. But in my business all it usually takes is a little cajoling. In the end, she and the secretaries in the firm dished the dirt.
They hadn’t liked Bruce Cathcart much. He was arrogant, they said, and treated the administrative staff as though they were talking pieces of furniture. The attorneys at Burke & Hare didn’t care for him either. In fact, the office manager finally admitted Cathcart had been asked to leave. She wouldn’t tell me exactly why, but something in the way she skated around the edge of it indicated that it was about money. Wasn’t paying his bills, I guessed.
What about Cathcart’s secretary? I asked. Which one? came the reply.
Cathcart had several secretaries. Several left, no doubt because of the way he treated them. Others he hired through staffing agencies, then fired before he was due to pay the agencies for their fee for finding the employee. After pulling that stunt several times, word got out and the staffing agencies refused to work with him anymore. So he’d resorted to ads in the local newspapers to find temps and part-timers, none of whom stayed for very long.
Except the last one. She’d worked with Cathcart for several months. And she’d registered on the view screen at Burke & Hare for reasons other than her job proficiency.
“They were having a thing,” the office manager said. “It was more than just a working relationship, if you know what I mean.”
“Office romance?” She nodded. “What was her name? And do you remember what she looked like?”
“Kay Loomis. She was... ” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Late twenties, medium height, dark hair, blue eyes.”
I went back to my office and cruised several investigators’ databases, looking for information on Bruce Cathcart and Kay Loomis, as well as the purported nieces, Cathy Wingate and Mary Hooper. Cathcart seemed to have vanished completely. A look at his credit report gave ample evidence why. The attorney’s finances had gone down the tubes long before he took a powder.
Interestingly enough, Loomis had dropped out of sight about the same time Cathcart had. Maybe they’d run off to a desert island together. I quickly squelched that romantic notion. It was more likely they were in this scam together. I just had to figure out exactly what the scam entailed, and how they were pulling it off.
There wasn’t much information on either Wingate or Hooper. It looked like they’d both surfaced in San Francisco earlier this year, just before Mrs. Littlejohn had signed that new will Cathcart drew up for her. And not long before the attorney disappeared. Wingate lived in Bernal Heights, Hooper in the Richmond District. When I dug further, I discovered that both women worked as secretaries, temping for one of the staffing agencies that specialized in legal support staff.
I had a late lunch at the nearby deli, then drove across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. My first stop was in the city’s Financial District, which was also lousy with lawyers. The firm of Bestwick, Martin & Smithson, where Cathcart had worked before hanging out his shingle in Oakland, occupied several floors in another highrise, on California Street.
I took the elevator to the Bestwick reception area and worked my way through a receptionist and an office manager before I found anyone with an axe to grind. She was an associate in Wills and Trusts. Her opinion of Bruce Cathcart was, in her words, lower than snail snot. But she really couldn’t go into detail, not right here in the office. She told me to meet her downstairs in the lobby in fifteen minutes. It was more like twenty. We went outside, then across the street to one of the espresso joints that spring up in this part of town like weeds in a garden.
