by Leslie Meier
Fran was zipping along the country road, past old farmhouses and mobile homes, hay fields and woods. “Things are not always what they seem,” she said. “And people rarely are who they seem to be, at least that’s been my experience. I think we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. I don’t think it’s about personalities and loyalties. I suspect it’s all about the money.”
“But Van and Maxine didn’t have much money,” said Lucy.
“Everything’s relative,” said Fran. “It might not have seemed like much to them, but I bet their bank accounts are a lot larger than yours or mine.”
“That wouldn’t be hard, at least in my case,” said Lucy, who had just paid the mortgage and now had a balance of one hundred and thirty-nine dollars. “But Van and Maxine probably left whatever they had to Juliette—and she’s making lots of money as a top model.”
“Yeah,” agreed Fran. “If Juliette can afford me, she’s doing pretty well.” She braked, coming to a stop sign and turning onto Route 1. “Anyway, VV’s got the real money in this case. She can’t go on forever; she’s got to die sometime, probably soon, and somebody’s going to become very rich.” She accelerated, picking up speed, as they passed motels and gift shops. “The question is, who?”
Lucy dug around in the big African basket she used as a purse and eventually found her cell phone. She dialed Bob’s office, then crossed her fingers while she counted the rings, hoping he’d answer himself and she wouldn’t have to convince his secretary to let her talk to him. The secretary, Anne, picked up on the third ring.
“Hi,” Lucy said, giving her name. “Any chance I could talk to Bob?” she asked.
“Sorry, Lucy. He’s awfully busy these days.”
“Well, you see, with all this stuff about VV, I realized my husband and I don’t have wills.”
“I can make an appointment for you.”
“I think it would be better if I could talk to Bob. You see, my husband isn’t all that keen and I was hoping to kind of make him think it’s a social thing. I’d like to meet outside the office.”
“Oh, well, you’re in luck,” said the secretary, a note of disapproval in her voice. “He’s just come in.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Lucy. A moment later, she heard Bob’s voice.
“What can I do for you, Lucy?”
“Bill and I need wills, but Bill doesn’t agree. He says we don’t have anything to leave anybody and once we’re dead, it won’t be our problem anyway.”
Bob chuckled. “I’ll drop by the house and talk to him,” he said. “But right now I’m tied up with the Van Vorst thing.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Lucy, who knew Bob had been appointed by the family court judge to represent VV. “In fact, I was just wondering about VV’s will and all. Is she leaving any money to Tinker’s Cove charities?”
“Lucy! You know the terms of a will are confidential.” He sighed. “Besides, at this point, there are so many versions, not to mention codicils, it’s going to take forever for the court to sort it all out. And that, by the way, is strictly off the record.”
“It’s hardly news,” said Lucy.
“Well, I don’t want to read about it in the Pennysaver,” said Bob, a warning note in his voice. “I wouldn’t want to have to take legal action.”
Lucy figured he was bluffing, but she wasn’t about to press the point, either. “I understand,” she said. “But since we’re off the record, can’t you give me some idea who’s going to be the lucky winner when VV dies?”
“No, I can’t. Have a nice day.”
“You’ve got quite a technique,” said Fran dryly. “I’m amazed you get anybody to talk.”
“I mostly write puff pieces, features about the new hair salon, or the rare salamander that was spotted in the Audubon sanctuary.” Lucy smiled. “I did get a photo of that cute little guy, but no quote.”
She was dialing once again, this time calling Rachel, who was back on the job at Miss Tilley’s. “You’re sounding a lot better,” she began.
“Just a little cough,” she said.
“Keep up the fluids,” advised Lucy. “Guess what? I’m working with a private investigator . . .”
“A real private eye!” Rachel sounded impressed.
“From New York City,” said Lucy. “Juliette hired her to look into her parents’ deaths. We’ve found some evidence that the deaths were suspicious and Fran needs some information. She wants to know who inherits when VV dies. Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t, Lucy, but I couldn’t tell you even if I did,” said Rachel, sounding a little annoyed.
“It’s completely off the record,” said Lucy. “It’s just for the investigation.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” She hardly got the words out, due to a coughing fit.
“Maybe Miss T knows?” suggested Lucy, when the coughing subsided.
Rachel sounded resigned. “I’ll ask.”
There was a long silence but Rachel eventually returned. “Miss T says VV told her years ago that she’d made some changes to benefit Juliette. She doesn’t know if it was a small bequest or the whole kit and caboodle. She doesn’t even know if she’s changed her will since then. It was a very long time ago; Juliette was very young. Miss T says she was too young at the time to do anything that would have upset VV, unlike Little Viv and Van.”
Lucy could just imagine Miss Tilley making a crack along those lines.
“Miss T says VV used her will to control her family. She was always making adjustments, giving one more, taking some away from another, sometimes disinheriting them entirely. She says she doesn’t entirely fault Vicky, that VV brought a lot of this on herself.”
“I’ve wondered about that myself,” said Lucy.
“I sure hope the jury doesn’t think like that,” said Rachel, sounding indignant. “Not after all the work Bob’s done, trying to sort things out.”
“Don’t worry—the DA’s got a strong case for elder abuse. And nothing excuses Vicky’s and Henry’s behavior. Remind the old fright of that,” said Lucy.
“She heard you,” said Rachel.
“I meant her to,” said Lucy, laughing.
Turning to Fran, she gave her the results of her inquiry. “The only name that came up was Juliette’s and there’s some doubt that even she is still in the will.”
“Well, this would be a first for me,” said Fran.
“What would?” asked Lucy.
“Getting hired by the guilty party.”
“Actually,” said Lucy, speaking slowly. “It would be a smart move, wouldn’t it? If Juliette did murder her parents, what better way to divert suspicion? Maybe she’s playing a role here—the grieving, distraught daughter—in hopes of casting suspicion on Vicky and Henry. She’s the innocent, sweet young thing and they’re the evil, conniving, greedy relations.”
Fran gave her a look. “You have a mind like a sewer,” she said.
“It’s from living in a small town,” said Lucy. “You wouldn’t believe what goes on here.”
“I’m getting the feeling it’s a real nest of vipers,” said Fran with a shudder. “And people think all the crime takes place in the big city. I’m going to be glad to get back to the city!”
As they drove along, Lucy thought about an interview she’d done for the feature story on elder abuse she wrote while she was in Florida. She’d gone to the local senior center, where she spoke with a friendly caseworker who had been only too happy to vent her frustration. Eloise Walker was in her fifties, with a mop of curly gray hair, sharp blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing, and a reassuring smile.
“To state the obvious, we have a lot of retirees here in Florida,” Eloise had told her. “There was quite a flood when the economy was good, back in the nineties, but now those folks who came here to play golf and watch birds are getting very old and frail. Most of them don’t have any family locally and they’re sitting ducks for swindlers.”
“What is the state doing?” Lucy had
asked.
“Oh, the legislature passes laws and the police set up special units to investigate elder abuse and we hold seminars to inform seniors, but the truth is that a lot of it is closing the barn door after the cows have gotten out. No sooner do we identify one scam—say, fake home health aides or phony reverse mortgage schemes—than the crooks come up with a new one. The latest involves going after folks who die intestate—who don’t have wills.”
“How does that work? Wouldn’t the money go to the state?” Lucy had asked.
“Yeah, but what these crooks do is they find people who’ve died and have no heirs, then they produce fake birth certificates and present themselves as long lost relatives so they can claim an inheritance.”
“Isn’t that awfully complicated? And it must be a lot of work,” Lucy had said. “And isn’t it easy to check the validity of the birth certificates?”
“Not if you happen to have a girlfriend working in the county records office,” Eloise had replied.
“I didn’t think of that,” Lucy had admitted.
“My point exactly,” Eloise had said. “The crooks are way ahead of us.”
Lucy was called back to the present when Fran pulled up in front of the Pennysaver office and braked. “You got awfully quiet there,” said Fran. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Lucy. “My mind was drifting.”
“You know,” said Fran, “I find that very helpful. When I get stymied on a case, I let it go and think of something else. Nine times out of ten, the answer just sort of pops up.”
Lucy found herself smiling. “I don’t think my boss will go for that, but it’s worth trying.”
“Well, thanks for your help, Lucy,” said Fran, checking her watch. “I’ve got those interviews at Pine Point and I’m heading back to the city tonight. If you get any bright ideas, let me know.”
“I will,” promised Lucy. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter Sixteen
Over the weekend, Lucy took Fran’s advice and refused to think about Van’s and Maxine’s deaths. Instead, she kept busy, taking the girls shopping at the outlet mall for summer clothes and working in the garden, where the weeds were threatening to get the upper hand. On Sunday evening, she admitted the experiment was a failure. Her subconscious had failed to come up with a solution, but she had made some awfully good buys at the outlet mall and the garden was free of weeds.
Dinner was over, the dishwasher was humming, and Lucy took a second cup of decaf into the family room and settled herself in front of the TV. Flipping channels, looking for something other than sports, she checked the cable news channel. There she found a favorite anchor person, Lynette Oakley, reporting that Vicky and Henry’s trial was scheduled to begin on Monday.
Lucy watched as the station played a tape of District Attorney Phil Aucoin, who was outlining the charges against them, which included elder abuse, fraud, and embezzlement. This was followed by a clip of the Allens’ attorney, famous defense lawyer Howard Zuzick, who had little to say except that he was confident his clients would be acquitted.
Lucy expected that would be that, and the coverage would switch to the region’s other big story—the continuing saga of unreliable electric service—when Bob Goodman’s familiar face filled the screen. “At the center of this upcoming trial is aged millionaire Vivian Van Vorst. How is she doing?” asked the off-screen reporter.
Bob smiled and nodded. “I’m happy to say that Mrs. Van Vorst is doing much better and her health has improved considerably now that the Allens are no longer in charge of her care.”
Footage then began to roll showing VV in her wheelchair, wearing a big sun hat and sunglasses and with a blanket covering her legs, being pushed about in her garden by the beautiful Juliette, who was wearing a floaty chiffon dress. The two were accompanied by Sylvia and another nurse, as well as a couple of polite young children carrying balloons who appeared to have stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Juliette parked the wheelchair in front of a particularly gorgeous rosebush and bent a bough down so VV could smell the flowers’ scent. After inhaling deeply, she raised her head and smiled, waving to the camera.
Points to Bob, thought Lucy, who hadn’t imagined he was this savvy about public relations. Which, she realized, he wasn’t. It was Juliette, the top model, who had arranged this little vignette. Those kids probably were professional models, hired for the day. The clothes, even the blanket on VV’s scrawny old legs, were all color coordinated and presented a carefully orchestrated picture of an old woman enjoying a perfect spring day in her garden. This is what VV’s final days should be like, Juliette was saying, and this is what Vicky and Henry tried to take away from her. Lucy thought it was a smart move and would certainly affect public opinion; she wondered, however, if it would have any effect on the trial. The jurors who were eventually chosen might or might not have seen it, and those who had would certainly be ordered by the judge to disregard it. On the other hand, the video clip made an impression that would be difficult to forget.
The trial began, as scheduled, on Monday, in the superior courthouse in Gilead. The courtroom, which dated from 1887, had recently been restored. The walls were freshly painted in cream with dark green and maroon borders, the oak paneling had been cleaned and refinished, and the massive gas-lit chandelier that hung from an ornate plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling had been restored and electrified.
Nobody was looking at the interior decor, however. All eyes in the crowded courtroom were on Vicky and Henry Allen, seated at the defendant’s table. Henry was dressed in a sober gray suit, impeccably groomed as ever, looking as if he might be in a pew at church rather than in a Maine courtroom. Vicky looked as if she’d strayed out of a ladies luncheon, in a pale blue suit with her light brown hair tied at the nape of her neck with a black grosgrain ribbon. She sat with her knees together, a ladylike purse perched on her lap. Their lawyer, Howard Zuzick, by contrast, was wearing a loud tie, printed with wild cats, and his wiry gray hair sprung out from his head in every direction. He was accompanied by a young woman lawyer who was busy arranging numerous folders stuffed with papers.
Phil Aucoin sat at the other table, along with a couple of young assistant district attorneys. They conferred together in low voices, glancing occasionally at the defendants and at the judge’s vacant bench. A group of family members were seated in the first row of seats outside the bar, including Juliette, Little Viv, Andrew Duff, and Peter Reilly. Juliette was dressed in a simple but stunning sleeveless gray sheath and seemed oblivious to the media attention she was receiving. Most of the photographers in the courtroom couldn’t resist focusing on her, but she was only interested in supporting her grandmother, Little Viv, who clung to her hand and was quite white with terror. Andrew, who was sitting on her other side, also offered support to his ex-wife, occasionally murmuring in her ear and patting her shoulder. Peter Reilly had the aisle seat, and, of the four, he was the calmest, seemingly at ease as he waited for the trial to begin.
Promptly at ten, the bailiff announced that Judge Anthony Featherstone was presiding and all should rise. Judge Featherstone had only been on the job a few months and Lucy had never covered one of his trials before, but he looked like a no-nonsense sort who entered the courtroom briskly and got straight to business.
Judge Featherstone soon revealed he had no tolerance for courtroom theatrics, and jury selection proceeded smoothly once he warned Attorney Zuzick that he was close to being declared in contempt of court when he accused a potential juror of reverse racism. From then on, it was smooth sailing; twelve jurors and two alternates were seated and court recessed for lunch.
Lucy was sitting next to Deb Hildreth from the Gilead Enterprise, who suggested an out-of-the-way café where they could get something to eat, avoiding the crowd. When they arrived at Pizza’n’More, they found Pete Withers from the Portland Press and Bob Mayes, the stringer for the Globe, already seated and enjoying bottles of beer and pizza slices.
; “Join us!” yelled Pete, when Lucy and Deb finished ordering their salads at the counter and picked their diet teas from the cooler.
“Beer? Really?” said Deb, sliding onto the padded Leatherette bench beside Bob.
“It’s a journalistic tradition,” said Pete, shoving over to make room for Lucy.
“Anybody taking bets?” asked Lucy, who loved hanging out with her local press colleagues and rarely got the chance. “That’s another journalistic tradition.”
“Long odds,” said Bob. “I’d say twenty-to-one, in favor of Aucoin.”
“Yeah,” agreed Deb, unscrewing the cap from her bottle of iced tea. “Vicky and Henry are going to need those stiff upper lips of theirs.”
When court resumed, Phil Aucoin refrained from delivering a lengthy opening statement, limiting himself to outlining the charges against Vicky and Henry—which included embezzlement, fraud, and elder abuse—and promising the jurors he would prove each one beyond a reasonable doubt. He then called his first witness, Little Viv.
Receiving an encouraging squeeze of the hand from her granddaughter, Juliette, she rose and stepped through the gate, which the bailiff held open for her. She appeared as sweet and vague as ever; even her walk was tentative as she almost seemed to be avoiding the witness chair. When she finally reached it, she perched on the edge, then popped up and raised the wrong hand to take the oath. She blushed furiously when the bailiff corrected her, then stammered as she promised to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” Seated once again, she leaned forward and waited for Aucoin’s questions, her eyes open wide.
“Please state your name,” he said, in a gentle voice.
“Vivian Van Vorst Duff,” she replied in a whisper.
“And you are the mother of one of the defendants, Victoria Allen?”
“Yes.”
“And the daughter of Vivian Van Vorst?”
“That’s correct.”
