Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  She knew it to be selfish, but she found herself relieved that he had passed so quickly. As his destiny played out to the end of life, Claudia knew that the wretched disease could have gone on for years. She and her children had suffered long enough. She had heard of a new breakthrough drug but Paul Childs’ Alzheimer’s had advanced too far beyond what any new medical miracle could deliver.

  Good.

  While trying to include the children in on the final plans for their father, Claudia made the decisions. There were to be three memorial services. One for the team, one in the largest church in all of Tucson that would accommodate as many of the grieving public as possible, and a private ceremony at her home.

  While an extraordinary party planner herself, the self-created burden of holding three services overwhelmed her. While downing her second martini and making an allowance for it being six o’clock on the east coast, she placed two calls. The minister of the church would help take care of the service for the public, and the head coach of the Scorpion’s would assist her with the organization’s own memorial.

  The first service would be held at the stadium and on the field. Invited guests included only the Scorpion’s management, coaches, team players, and cheerleaders. The coach suggested he would handle all of the details. She would only need to bring the urn.

  “Thank you so much,” she whimpered as she spoke to the coach from the luxury of her deceased husband’s office.

  Her words and tone of voice then became firm. “I only insist upon one thing. I want the sculpture of the scorpion to be placed on center field.

  “The one in the Stinger’s Stadium Club? No problem. It’s meant to be private viewing for only our most loyal fans, but it’s not like it will be on display to the public,” he said.

  “Hell, no! I want the one on top of the roof in front.”

  “Mrs. Childs, with all due respect, that thing is bronze. It’s thirty-three feet high and weighs in at almost nine thousand pounds. That’s about four and a half tons! No way can we—”

  “Get a crane out there and move the damn thing to center field,” she interrupted.

  “But, it’s not just the moving. The groundskeepers will have a conniption fit. It will destroy the turf.”

  “No excuses. It’s off season, anyway. You’ll have plenty of time for any necessary repairs. Is this clear?” Claudia’s voice raised.

  “My husband commissioned that piece and worked side-by-side with the artist. This one effort will please him,” she continued.

  Claudia retrieved an index card from her clutch purse and handed it to the head coach as she turned to leave him alone in the office. On it was the designated time and date of the memorial to be held, one week from Saturday.

  She turned back and said, “Go ahead and grab the sculpture from the Stinger’s Club. Place it around the draped tables you’ll have set up.

  “Oh, and one more thing. Invite the local press, but under no circumstances are you to include that asshole sportscaster. The one with the two missing front teeth and broken nose that looks like a crooked house in Amsterdam. You’d think the man could afford a decent plastic surgeon and cosmetic dentistry. What a jerk, intent on showing off his old football war wounds as if he was some great player.”

  Claudia Childs slammed the mahogany office door shut. The head coach started his search for crane companies. Big mother cranes.

  THAT NEXT SATURDAY Claudia arrived early at the stadium to find the sculpture centered on the fifty-yard line. Three tables were draped in the teams’ colors of gold and brown. One offered an assortment of waters, sodas, the proverbial Gatorade, and beer. The third table displayed memorabilia including trophies and framed photographs. She looked over at the center table.

  “That’s for Paul’s urn,” the special teams coach said from behind her.

  No chairs had been set out, per Claudia’s additional instructions. The temperature would be in the nineties and the guests wouldn’t linger.

  Seth’s plane, delayed departing LaGuardia, would mean he might miss the entire ceremony. The family limousine delivered the other children with the exception of Hunter, who simply declined the ride.

  The family, management, and coaching staff had gathered in a small circle, the cheerleaders appeared with a small band. After a few routines they ran to the water station as a lone bugle played the National Anthem. The players then stormed the field from the locker room with the team announcer calling out their names, as if it were the beginning of a game.

  “Where are the other players?” Claudia asked the general manager.

  “Mrs. Childs, we’re off season. A lot of them are out of state. Even the country. They all sent their deep regards.”

  “Sure they did.”

  Five persons from the entire organization spoke. Twenty minutes later all had taken a few moments to peruse the memorabilia, and then hit the beverage station.

  Claudia’s face turn red, not because of the heat but rather the fury that brewed inside of her.

  Where were the prayers?

  No food?

  And, where the hell was the smaller five-foot tall sculpture from the Stinger’s Club?

  Seth ran across the field to meet up with his mother. Out of breath, he apologized for missing the memorial and set about to help with the cleanup of the tables.

  Claudia looked for her other children. True to her nature, Taylor surrounded herself with her collection of football players and, standing out with his bald head and short legs, the team’s general manager, Bill Michaels. Stacie, Nick, and Mason stood amongst a circle of band members, the defensive office coordinator, a college scout, and Paul Childs’ personal assistant.

  Hunter and his buxomly girlfriend du jour moved to stand by her. Claudia realized it was a ploy for the attention of the press photographers.

  Seth’s voice called out loud enough for Claudia to hear. “All these things belong to the league. Where’s Dad’s urn?”

  She turned toward Seth, shook her head, and mouthed the words, “No urn.”

  Hunter’s booming voice turned heads. “You fucking didn’t even have the decency to bring the urn?” He then began to clap his hands with a demonstrative slow movement.

  “And you?” Claudia retorted. “Did you even bring your heart or soul? No. You chose to bring another one of your bimbos while the only thing you mourn is that you have yet to learn the details of the trust. Poor little boy. You’re going to have to make it through two more services before that happens.”

  As his girlfriend backed away Hunter said, “You bitch! Watch it. Some day you won’t be allowed on this field or the Stinger’s Club, and certainly not the box.”

  AS HAD BEEN WIDELY announced, the public service for Paul Childs was held the following Saturday. While not regular attendees but for the holidays, the Childs were well known within the congregation for their generous donations. They showed their gratitude with tables full of delicious homemade dishes to be enjoyed after the services for all who had managed to squeeze into the large sanctuary. The urn made it to the church. Hunter did not.

  Claudia deduced his absence played a key factor in the ceremony going off without a hitch, in spite of the large gathering of grievers.

  PREPARING TO PULL OFF an amazing Celebration of Life, Claudia placed her focus on the private event to be held at her home. She scheduled it for the day following the church memorial. Seth had registered for a stock investors’ conference in Phoenix that would keep him busy during the work week between the three memorials. With his need to return to New York on the redeye first thing Monday morning, Claudia had informed all of the children that they were to stay after the conclusion of the celebration for a family meeting.

  She had planned ample time for the many tributes to her husband and on cue a servant went through the room ringing a bell and signaling that the doors to the early buffet were now open.

  Claudia loathed buffets but her caterer had insisted it would be the only practical way to serve so many gues
ts. To make up for what she found to be a distasteful food presentation, she compensated with the items chosen for the buffet. Appetizers included caviar, oysters, crab legs, and pâtés, with pig wings to satisfy the heartier cravings. Next came rows of side dishes and salads that led to the end of the table and two carving stations offering both prime rib and poached salmon.

  As guests began to pour into the room Claudia rang the bell again.

  She smiled as she fondled the diamond-adorned gold scorpion necklace that dipped down deep into her cleavage.

  “This is a celebration of life. In keeping with the tribute this is an expression of all that was Paul. My husband wouldn’t want to see us make do without his favorite food,” she said.

  Two waiters lifted the gold lame cloth to reveal a mound of hot dogs.

  The guests nodded in approval. Some chuckled as a few others clapped their hands.

  By six that evening the guests had departed. All seven of the children stayed behind and Claudia instructed them to refill their glasses, go to the restrooms, and make any calls necessary. They had fifteen minutes before they were to be seated in the living room.

  Claudia walked in to see all were seated and accounting for all cell phones being turned off.

  “I see you didn’t take long to claim your father’s favorite chair. I think we had it cleaned of your father’s excrements,” she said to Hunter.

  He grinned and kicked over the ottoman.

  She didn’t even try to disguise it as a compassionate gathering of the bereaved.

  The facts and details of the family trust were now known to all.

  It was Hunter that ranted, “You are fucking telling me that you had no say? Do you think we’re all idiots?”

  Claudia took her favored chair and answered to all, “I have made that perfectly clear. I had no knowledge of the terms of the trust and I have no vote. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a say. I am free to comment to the board of trustees during these next twelve months and comment on any prior antics.”

  “We have a full year to be the best and beat out our siblings, try to erase any history of bad behavior, and it’s all up to the ultimate decision of three men?” Nick said.

  “Shit,” Taylor whined.

  “That’s probably the one true sentiment only you can verbalize, Taylor,” Claudia said. “As your dad would say, let the game begin.”

  Claudia looked over the flock of his, hers, and theirs. Hunter’s fake grin had returned to his usual scowl but still with the demeanor as the one with the true birthright. Manny and Nick both wore faces of confidence with sparkles in their eyes. They even bumped shoulders. Mason moved to stand against a wall bearing a wide-eyed look. He appeared disheveled, but it had been a long road for the final goodbyes. He didn’t say anything. Seth remained silent, too, but he sat forward in his chair, intent on listening to the others in the room. Stacie tried to fold her legs up to her chin. She whimpered on the sofa. Taylor arched her back and stiffened her posture. With eyes looking down, she wore the sentiment of what she had just said. Shit.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TAKING INTO ACCOUNT that his step-brother, Manny, had once but all called him a nutcase and had certainly insinuated it, Nick contemplated his situation.

  Manny made some good points that made sense. Nick did have female admirers. Plenty of them. While not a womanizer, he had scores of women that he knew wanted him. He just didn’t want them.

  A woman at his gym overtly flirted with him. Without shame but with intent, she would frequently rub her breasts up against him and always blame it on her clumsiness. Bending over in front of him to showcase her perfectly sculpted butt seemed to be another of her mating rituals, but he looked the other way. Last week she had slipped him her phone number.

  The woman at his office asked if he could join her for drinks after work on more than one occasion. Drop dead gorgeous, he felt the temptation. Still, he adhered to his pledge not to socialize with anyone from his place of business with the exception of a few guys.

  Early that morning he tied on his gym shoes. Intent on shaking off any paranoia, he decided to jog the four miles to the fitness center, hit the weights, jog back home and then prepare for his work day.

  With the first few strides on the quiet street, the solitary jog cleared his mind of any troubles. His purposeful slow pace allowed him to smell the fresh air laced with the first signs of the monsoon season to come. He breathed in the scant tropical moisture and imagined the salt of the ocean. The club opened at five. He had left his house at five. The sun had yet to rise but he could see the silhouettes of palm trees and cacti at his two sides.

  With a clear head he took inventory of his life’s accomplishments. The botched marriage had taken a toll but the end of the relationship, doomed from the beginning, had been amiable. No children, thank God, not that he didn’t want a batch of them one day with the right woman.

  Nick evaluated his life beyond personal failures. He soaked in as much education as he could and he believed in learning something new every day. A lifelong learner. Oh, and did he love the game of football. Maybe it wasn’t in his genetic blood, but it was in his very being. He liked math, probably more than his university professors. As a kid he was shy, so he worked at it. Sometime during his high school years the wallflower disappeared and he began to love interaction with people. At the football games he often chose not to sit in the team box but rather sit in the stands with the fans. Most of them didn’t know who he was but for another football fanatic.

  Manny made the accurate call. Both Manny and he had to be the top picks for the one to take over as the sole owner of the Tucson Scorpions.

  Deeming his self-analysis over for the morning, Nick slipped in his earbuds and cranked up the retro music of James Taylor.

  The sun had yet to rise but the sky lightened with the prelude. He could now make out more of the desert landscaping and felt more sure-footed on the dirt road that lacked the infrastructure of sidewalks. In another half-mile he would make the turn onto paved roads with cement walkways and marked bike paths.

  Two cars had passed him, respectfully sharing the road as they moved to the far left side.

  Dark enough that car headlights were still on, Nick saw the beams of an approaching car behind him.

  When the lights went dark, his instinct warned him to pull out the earbuds in order to better rely on his ears.

  He could hear the screeching of brakes. Tires on dirt.

  Nick reeled around and yelled, “What the hell?” The car was nearly on his heals.

  The car backed up and Nick thought it likely had missed its turn. Dumbass driving without lights.

  The headlights came back on and then switched to high beams. Temporarily blinded, Nick crossed his arms at his forehead to try and shield his eyes.

  It was what he heard next that caused his footing to slip and his urine to do a free-flow down the inside of his shorts and to the ground.

  The engine revved up and the car raced toward him. He’d rather take the piercings of the cacti on the side of the road but he found himself still blinded and paralyzed with confusion as to what was happening.

  Nick heard the crunching sound of his own broken bones. He knew both legs had been mutilated and one arm. Screaming in pain, there was no one to hear him. The car had disappeared.

  Sprawled flat on the ground, he winced in pain but couldn’t move. He then realized the source of the most excruciating pain. His crushed rib bones felt like carving knives cutting deep into his chest.

  The last thing Nick remembered on earth was his inability to breathe.

  MY PHONE ALWAYS RINGS as my head hits the pillow and I have drifted off into a deep sleep. I could have been gruff but it was after eight in the morning. I softened my voice.

  “Cassidy Clark. You’re on”

  “Ms. Clark, my name is Stacie Childs. I’ve been in contact with your associate, Breecie Lemay. I tried to retain her legal services. She suggested I contact you.”


  “I’m apprised of this. How can I help?” I asked with that gravelly morning voice, remembering that Breecie had said this might be trite, unnecessary, or bad-ass bad.

  “I’m hoping maybe the three of us could meet, if you will. I’ll pay you for your time, including this phone call. What I know is that my family is in deep danger. Most of us, anyway.” Her voice quaked. “I know Ms. Lemay isn’t my lawyer, but I’m hoping she’ll be there just this first time. Maybe this morning?”

  Our offices aren’t exactly intimidating but I like to take the very timid somewhere off site for our initial meeting. We chose my backyard. Nothing like a few palm trees and blue water to calm people.

  The introductions were brief and the socializing, minimal. Stacie Childs presented herself in a skirt and jacket a size or two too small for her, although I could deduce the designer label and price tag were huge. Time gave us some latitude, so the three of us sat in a comfortable silence while enjoying fresh iced tea on the patio under the shade of umbrellas and the palms.

  I’ve learned to wait for the potential client to speak first, rather than start pressing with any questions. Breecie seemed to get it and we continued to sit in a still hush. I offered to top off the teas, but Breecie moved to the bar for an iced coffee laced with brandy. I got it. Okay. She was there to be of unofficial help and off the clock.

  Stacie cleared her throat and fiddled with her napkin. “My name, again, is Stacie Childs and I am a daughter of Paul Childs. I think you know who my father is. Or, was.”

  Admittedly not my forte, I had done some quick research on the game of football and the Childs’ fresh legacy of team ownership.