Santa Fe Edge

by Stuart Woods

  “What did you do with the will at that point?” Waters asked.

  “I made two copies for Mr. Keeler and his wife, and I put the original in our safe, at his request.”

  “Can you give us a brief summary of Mr. Keeler’s bequests in the will?”

  “He left bequests for his alma mater and several friends, and a bequest to his personal charitable foundation. The remainder of the estate he left to his wife, Eleanor Keeler.”

  “How much was the total of the bequests left to others?” Waters asked.

  “Approximately four hundred million dollars,” Margie replied.

  “And how much was the residue left to Mrs. Keeler?”

  “Approximately one billion two hundred million dollars in liquid assets,” she said, “plus the San Francisco apartment; the Palo Alto apartment, which he planned to sell; the new airplane he had just bought; and several pieces of commercial real estate, including a hangar with an apartment in it at San Jose Airport.”

  “What was Mr. Keeler’s mood during his visit to your law firm?”

  “He was quite cheerful and happy. He had just been married, and he was very happy about that.”

  “What time did Mr. Keeler leave the firm?”

  “Around three in the afternoon,” she replied. “He wanted to beat the rush-hour traffic back to San Francisco, and he took the two copies of the will with him.”

  “And do you remember what happened after that?”

  “Yes, vividly. Half an hour after he left the office, someone had a local TV station on our office set, and they reported that a car driven by Walter Keeler had collided with a gasoline tanker truck on the interstate, and that he had been killed and his car destroyed by the flames.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Joe Wilen called Ms. Hight and me into his office and read us a letter from Mrs. Keeler’s ex-husband, which said some bad things about her. I didn’t think much of it, since people who’ve been divorced often say terrible things about each other, but Mr. Wilen took it very seriously. He told us he had shown the letter to Mr. Keeler and urged him not to leave so much to Mrs. Keeler, but that he had refused to even read it and said the will reflected his desires, something he also said when the witnesses were sworn.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Mr. Wilen told Ms. Hight and me that he despised Mrs. Keeler and was determined to see that she did not get the bulk of Mr. Keeler’s estate. He told us about his plan for doing her in and asked if the two of us would cooperate with him. He warned us that what he was doing was unethical, and that if it was ever found out, all of us might go to prison.”

  “What was the reaction of Ms. Hight and yourself?”

  “Ms. Hight agreed immediately, as she shared Mr. Wilen’s opinion of Mrs. Keeler, but I was reluctant because although I had met her only once, I thought Mrs. Keeler was a very nice lady.”

  “But you agreed to join them in this?”

  “I felt under a great deal of pressure,” Margie said. “I had worked for Mr. Wilen for more than twenty years, and he had been very kind to me, so, to my regret, I went along.”

  “Tell us how the will was changed, please.”

  “It was very simple: Mr. Wilen removed the two pages of the will that dealt with bequests and dictated changes to me which reduced Mrs. Keeler’s inheritance to the use of, but not the ownership of, the San Francisco apartment, and an allowance of fifty thousand dollars a month, both for life. I typed up the new pages and Mr. Wilen forged Mr. Keeler’s initials on them with the same pen he had used to sign the will, and he instructed me to destroy the original pages.”

  “Did you do so?”

  “I did not. I could foresee a time when I might have to reveal what Mr. Wilen had done.”

  “And did you do so?”

  “Yes. Mr. Wilen was murdered a couple of weeks later, and a few weeks later Ms. Hight was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. She died a couple of months later. Since they were both gone, I felt I should reveal what had been done to the will, so I wrote to the Ethics Committee of the California Bar Association and told them what had been done to the will.”

  Waters picked up four pieces of paper from his table and handed them to Margie. “What are these papers?” he asked.

  Margie held up two pages. “These are the original pages from the will, as Mr. Keeler had instructed them to be drawn.” She held up two pages with her other hand. “These are the two pages that Mr. Wilen dictated to me, eliminating nearly all of Mrs. Keeler’s inheritance.”

  The judge spoke up. “Hand them to me,” he said. He read all four pages carefully. “I understand that the chairman of Mr. Keeler’s foundation is here with her attorney.”

  A lawyer stood up. “I represent the foundation, judge.”

  “Have you read these four pages?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Judge, both the chairman and I have read them.”

  “Do you have an opinion as to the veracity of this witness’s testimony?”

  “Judge, we believe her testimony is accurate, and although accepting it reduces drastically the amount due to the foundation, we feel we must accept it.”

  “Is there any other person in the courtroom who has any objections to raise or wishes to contradict this lady’s testimony?”

  There was silence in the courtroom.

  “In that case I rule in favor of Mrs. Keeler and order that the original pages be restored to the will, and that it receive expedited probate. Mr. Waters, do you have any requests?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Waters said. “We request that the executor immediately transfer the sum of one hundred million dollars, or securities in that value, and that she be given the free use of Mr. Keeler’s airplane and its hangar, and that bills for the support and fuel of the airplane be paid by the executor until the will is probated and all the funds dispersed.” Waters held up a document. “I have prepared an order to that effect.”

  “So ruled,” the judge said. “Give me the order.” He signed two copies and gave one to the executor and one to Waters. “This court is adjourned.”

  BARBARA HAD TO SIT DOWN, and she had to work very hard not to pee in her pants.

  Waters sat down beside her and handed her the court order. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m very well, thank you. I just need a moment.”

  “Take your time.”

  The executor walked over and introduced himself. “Mrs. Keeler, if you will give me a voided check on your bank account, I will transfer the funds in cash immediately.”

  Barbara ripped out a check, wrote “VOID” across it and handed it to the man.

  “And as soon as I get back to the office I’ll fax a letter to the FBO ordering that you control the airplane and that bills are to come to me, until the estate is settled.”

  “Thank you so much,” Barbara said, giving him a winning smile.

  51

  Half an hour passed before Barbara could collect herself enough to allow Ralph Waters to walk her out of the court-house and put her into a cab.

  As Waters held the door for her, she grabbed him and gave him a huge, wet kiss. “Send me a big bill,” she said, “and on top of that, I owe you the best blow job of your life.”

  She got into the cab, and the stunned lawyer mustered enough control to close the door and wave her off.

  Barbara gave the driver the address of her apartment building, but as they were driving toward home, she saw an important sign hanging in front of a plate-glass window. “Stop!” she said, and the cab skidded to a halt before the premises.

  “What’s the matter, ma’am?” the driver asked, alarmed.

  Barbara handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Absolutely nothing,” she replied, opening the door and getting out. “Have a wonderful life!” She opened the door to the business and walked inside.

  A distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman, clad in a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, approached her with a welcoming smile. “G
ood morning, madam,” he said smoothly in a mid-Atlantic accent. “How…”

  “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Barbara said, interrupting and pointing. “Exactly what is it?”

  “That,” the gentleman said, “is the brand-new Bentley Mulsanne, and this is the first of its kind to reach the San Francisco market. By the way, my name is Charles Grosvenor,” he said, handing her an engraved and embossed card.

  “How do you do? I am Mrs. Walter Keeler. I don’t suppose this one is for sale,” Barbara said.

  “Actually, it was a special order by a regular customer, but we received word only this morning that he has suffered a serious illness and will be unable to complete the sale.”

  “How very sad,” Barbara said, looking through a window at the gorgeous interior. “I’ll take it.”

  “This example is in Aspen green with an interior of saffron and green leather, and trim of burled English walnut.”

  “I’ll take it,” Barbara said.

  “It has a twin-turbocharged, twelve-cylinder engine rated at six hundred horsepower.”

  “I’ll take it,” Barbara said.

  “The base price of the car is two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, but this particular Mulsanne is equipped with every option available for the car, bringing the total price to three hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, plus sales tax of nine-point-five percent, making a total of three hundred seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

  Barbara sat down at the salesman’s desk and withdrew her checkbook from her purse. “To whom would you like the check made?” she asked.

  “Bentley of San Francisco,” Grosvenor replied.

  Barbara wrote the check, ripped it out and handed it to the man. “I’m going to need a driver,” she said.

  “We will be pleased to supply you with a uniformed chauffeur until such time as you are able to hire your own person,” he replied. “May we arrange automobile insurance for you? We recommend Chubb.”

  “That’s fine. They insure my apartment. My address and phone number are on the check. Tell them to add the car to my policy.”

  “Do you require a personalized number plate?”

  “Yes. Make it KEELER.”

  He wrote down the name. “We will be happy to make that application for you. Will you excuse me for a very few minutes while I have the ownership paperwork prepared for your signature?”

  “Of course,” Barbara said, walking over to the car, opening the driver’s door, seating herself inside and closing the door with a satisfying thud. The man was calling her bank, of course.

  She explored the car’s interior, opening the glove box and the center console, running her fingers over the leather and walnut. She adjusted the seat and steering wheel, switched on the ignition and tried to figure out the radio. Soon she had a soft flow of lovely classical music playing through hidden speakers.

  Ahead of her along the showroom wall a door opened and a small man in a sharply cut black suit with a peaked cap under his arm emerged and walked toward the car and stopped outside the open driver’s window.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler,” he said in a cockney accent. “My name is Stanley Willard, and I have been assigned as your driver.”

  “What do you like to be called?” Barbara asked.

  “Willard is the usual term of address,” he replied. “No title is necessary.”

  “Willard it will be,” Barbara said.

  “May I give you a tour of the car’s controls?” Willard asked.

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  Willard walked around the car and got into the front passenger seat, and for the next ten minutes he took her carefully through each control and showed her how to operate the many systems that displayed on the car’s navigation screen.

  As they completed the tour Charles Grosvenor entered the showroom with a file folder under his arm and escorted Barbara back to his desk. “Ownership requires a few signatures,” he said. “You will receive a temporary dealer’s tag and registration. Your vanity plate and permanent registration will be mailed to your home address.”

  Barbara signed all the papers, and Grosvenor tucked them into a heavy cream-colored envelope embossed with the Bentley logo and handed it to her. “Is there anything else I may do for you, Mrs. Keeler?”

  “Yes, there is,” Barbara replied. “I would like to buy Stanley Willard.”

  Grosvenor smiled. “Willard is a free agent, Mrs. Keeler, and you may negotiate directly with him.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “You may like to know that he is currently paid five hundred dollars a week.”

  Barbara stood up and offered him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Grosvenor, for handling this transaction with such dispatch.”

  “It has been my very great pleasure, Mrs. Keeler, and I hope that I may continue to be of service. Please call me at any time for any reason.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Grosvenor?” she asked.

  “I was widowed two years ago,” he replied.

  “Would you like to have dinner this evening?”

  “How very kind of you, Mrs. Keeler. I would be delighted to join you.”

  “Drinks at my home at seven, followed by dinner at Boulevard? I’ll send Willard for you.”

  “Perfect. Willard knows my address.”

  “Now, how do we get the car through the plate-glass window?” Barbara asked.

  Grosvenor pressed a button on the wall next to him, and the window rose like a garage door. “There we are.”

  “I’ll drive, Willard,” Barbara said, sliding into the car and adjusting her skirt. “You ride shotgun.”

  “You may put the ignition key in your purse, if you wish,” Grosvenor said. “The starter button will operate any time you’re in the car, and the doors will lock or unlock as you arrive or leave.”

  Barbara settled into the seat, pressed the start button and was greeted with a sound like a distant Ferrari. She put the car in gear, drove across the sidewalk and turned toward home.

  “Willard,” she said, “I’d like you to come to work for me. How’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a week, paid vacation and medical insurance sound?”

  “I am delighted to accept, Mrs. Keeler,” Willard replied, fastening his seat belt as Barbara rounded a corner with a roar and squealing of tires.

  52

  Lieutenant Dave Santiago pulled up to the Beverly Hills address, stopped at the curb and switched off the engine. “Jeff, let’s get something straight before we go in there,” he said to the FBI agent, Jeff Borden, in the passenger seat.

  “What’s that, Dave?”

  “This is my investigation, and I take the lead in the questioning. Got it?”

  “In our book,” Borden said, “a murder in the United States takes precedence over a prison escape in Mexico.”

  “Good.”

  “Dave, I don’t have to tell you how thin the ice is that you’re skating on, do I? I mean, given the lack of direct evidence against Barbara Eagle in the murder of Bart Cross, you may have to settle for letting us send her back to Mexico. At least she’ll be off the streets of L.A. ”

  “I understand that, Jeff, but this guy is our best shot for hanging the homicide on her, if I can turn him. I’m going to be the good cop here-then, if it looks like I’m not getting anywhere, I’ll defer to you, and you can explain his other liabilities to him, okay?”

  “Okay. I’m good with that,” Borden replied.

  As they opened their car doors a big BMW swung into the driveway and stopped. James Long unfolded himself from the car and started up the walk toward the front door.

  “James Long?” Santiago called.

  Long stopped and looked at the two men in suits, their jackets unbuttoned, a badge showing on the belt of the one who had spoken to him.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Detective David Santiago, and this is Special Agent Jeff Borden of the FBI. We’d like to speak to you, please. May we go inside?”


  “Sure,” Long said. He unlocked the front door and set his briefcase on a table in the foyer, then led them into the living room and waved them to seats. “Would you like a drink?”

  “On duty, I’m afraid,” Santiago said, “but thanks for the thought.”

  “Mind if I have one?”

  “Certainly not,” Santiago replied. He didn’t mind questioning a man who was drinking.

  Long walked to a bar built into a bookcase, poured himself a shot of something, downed it, then put ice into his glass and poured another, then returned to where the two sat and took a chair. “What can I do for you?” he asked, taking a tug at his drink.

  He was trying to look calm, Santiago thought, but he wasn’t making it. “My department is investigating the murder of your former employee, Barton Cross.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I was very upset when I heard of Bart’s death. He was a good man.”

  “I’m sure he was, Mr. Long. Specifically, I want to talk to you about your relationship with Barbara Eagle.”

  “Okay,” Long said. “What would you like to know?”

  Mistake, Santiago thought. He should have asked how Barbara Eagle was related to the death of Cross. “When did you last see Mrs. Eagle?”

  “About a week ago,” he said. “She stayed here for a couple of days, and then I drove her to the airport.”

  “To LAX?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask,” Long replied. A light film of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

  “That seems odd, Mr. Long. You drive an old friend to the airport, and there’s no conversation about where she’s going?”

  “Well, Barbara is kind of odd about her privacy,” Long said, seeming to grope for an answer.

  Santiago took his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it to a blank page and stared at it for a moment. “Let’s see,” he said, “the day you drove her to the airport was the, what, twenty-eighth?”

  “That sounds about right,” Long said.

  “What time of day?”

  “Afternoon, I believe. I had just come home from work, and she said she had to leave.”