The Serpents Trail

by Sue Henry

  Don Westover met us just inside the door with another welcome. For this second meeting he was more professionally dressed in shirt and tie, and I saw a suit jacket draped over the back of his office chair.

  “There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you were lost.”

  “Almost.” I related my brief tour of Main Street as I took the chair he indicated in front of his desk and gratefully accepted the coffee he offered. Stretch lay down at my feet as usual.

  “Everything okay at Sarah’s?” he asked, back in his chair behind the desk.

  I told him about the second intrusion the day before and how Tomas the gardener had accompanied me in making sure the trespasser was no longer lurking in the house. What was now old news to me was not to him and he questioned me about it with concern lowering his eyebrows.

  “You should at least report it to the police,” he suggested when I had answered his questions. He couldn’t know that my nod meant only that I had heard him, so when he took it for agreement I didn’t enlighten him with my opinion. But those two sets of footprints in the attic did cross my mind.

  He opened the file that lay before him on his desk and took out a list.

  “Before I show you the will and the papers you will need,” he said, “I should make sure that we are on the same page on exactly what an executor is required to do to carry out the provisions and instructions. And, if you want to be picky, the term for a female is ‘executrix.’ ”

  I couldn’t resist. “Does using that term make the job any easier or different?”

  “No, of course not.” He grinned.

  “Then I won’t be picky,” I told him. “I always thought aviatrix might be rather dashing, but executor is fine.”

  If he could be Don to his secretary, I could be executor.

  “Okay. Now, because Sarah started this a couple of years ago and anticipated a lot of things concerning her estate, it’s very clean and this is going to be much easier for you than for a lot of executors. She made a complete inventory of all her assets and has kept it up to date. It’s pretty straightforward—the orchards, vineyard and winery, the house, its contents, and whatever will remain in the bank accounts in her name after paying any remaining bills, federal and state income and estate taxes. She has no outstanding debts, except her last hospital bills and whatever utilities are owed for the house. The accountant I mentioned to you the other night will take care of those. You’ll need to see him for final totals, but not just yet. You are aware that this is a significant estate, I imagine. Somewhere in the neighborhood of three and a half million.”

  Astonishing! Though I had known Sarah was well-off, it was more than I had imagined. That figure did, however, include the house, its antique contents, and both businesses.

  Westover went on.

  “She made all her own arrangements for what she called a gathering and her cremation with the Callahan-Edfast Mortuary. It’s already paid for, but you’ll need to visit and find out what those arrangements are, then set the date and time.”

  How like Sarah, I thought. Not only had she figured out how to diminish the decision-making burden for someone else—me, evidently—but, by making her own arrangements she guaranteed things would be done the way she wanted when she wasn’t there to make sure.

  With a half smile, I turned back to what Westover was saying.

  “She had a life insurance policy and an investment or two that all name her son Alan as beneficiary, so those should go directly to him without going through probate. In fact, what is subject to probate is very simply defined and Sarah and I have it all set up. We will only have to file the proper paperwork, which I have ready for you to sign—petition to open probate and admit the will, that sort of thing. When the time is right, you can notify the beneficiaries, of course, and transfer the allocations of the inheritance.

  “There are only a couple of things that we need to—”

  He paused in midsentence and turned his attention from me to the door of his office and the sudden sound of a loud voice filtering through it from the area of reception outside. Stretch stood up, attention also focused.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t—”

  “Watch me!”

  Almost immediately the door flew forcefully open, rebounded from the wall with a crash, and a muscular man stomped in, looking back over his shoulder at June, who was on her feet and indignantly protesting his interruption.

  He turned to where we sat at Westover’s desk and strode across to stand next to me and glare at us. “What the hell is going on here?” he shouted, fists clinched.

  Stretch growled. He may be small but, when he decides I need protection, sometimes thinks he’s a Doberman pinscher.

  “Good morning to you, too, Alan,” Westover said in a level voice. He remained in his chair, keeping the desk between them, and not offering the warm greeting he had afforded me. “I didn’t expect you until our appointment this afternoon.”

  “And meanwhile you and her screw up and steal what belongs to me? What is this shit? I’m supposed to take care of what my mother left.”

  “No, Alan, you’re not. Your mother left specific instructions that Mrs. McNabb was to execute her estate.”

  “Right!” Sarah’s son cast a contemptuous glance in my direction, as he demanded, “Since when?”

  “Since two weeks ago, when she had me come to the house and make a few changes to her will. She didn’t tell you?”

  “She did not! And I don’t believe it. Besides, if she did, she wasn’t in her right mind and you know it. Whatever’s going on here is illegal and I’m not going to stand for it.”

  “I assure you there’s nothing at all illegal, Alan. Stop yelling, sit down, and I’ll explain it to you. I was going to anyway, when you came in—later. Your mother was perfectly rational and there are witnesses to that fact.”

  “You are full of shit!” Alan barked, pointing an accusing finger at Don Westover. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll make sure you don’t. And you,” he said, turning toward me, “have no right to have anything to do with this. So don’t get in my way. You understand?”

  At this insult, Stretch, who was now tugging at the end of the leash I had shortened to keep him close, snarled a warning, and, had I let him, would have launched himself at whatever he could reach of this threat.

  Alan glanced down at him, curled a disdainful lip, wheeled, and abruptly left the office as angrily as he had entered it, leaving a void of silence in his wake.

  Stretch sat down, proudly assuming responsibility for ridding us of menace.

  “I’m sorry, Don,” June apologized from the open door. “There was no stopping him.”

  Westover sent a sympathetic look in her direction and sighed.

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t believe in martyrs, so you did well to stay out of his way. Are you all right?”

  She nodded and closed the door.

  The two of us sat staring silently at each other for a long moment.

  “Well,” he said finally. “Maybe this isn’t going to be quite as simple as I hoped. Sarah was afraid he’d make a fuss, but she made sure he can’t do anything and will, eventually, have to accept her decisions. I had just hoped it would go better.”

  When we had finished discussing what my responsibilities would be, I signed the necessary papers, and he gave me a copy of Sarah’s will, her inventory of assets, and a short list of the final arrangements she had wanted and already made. “I’ve got to be in court in half an hour, so you can read them for yourself,” he suggested. “If you have any questions, call me.”

  Finished for the time being, I asked for just an additional minute or two of his time and took out the papers and envelopes I had brought along. I told him briefly exactly how and where I had found them and the jewelry that I had put back where Sarah had hidden it for safekeeping. Then I mentioned my conviction that somewhere in the house was a letter she had written to me that I hadn’t yet located.

  He took the
envelopes, agreed they shouldn’t be opened, and offered to keep them in his safe until it was time to gather the beneficiaries of Sarah’s estate together for the distribution of her assets. He questioned the name Jamie Stover on the third envelope.

  “Do you know this person?”

  “No. I thought maybe you did.”

  “Never heard of him,” he frowned, laying it down. “Alan, of course, we know—possibly too well. Ed Norris is an old—ah—friend of hers.”

  “I know Ed,” I said, assuring him that I knew about the relationship between Ed and Sarah. “He’s here. Showed up at the hospital yesterday morning. We talked last night—after someone ran us off the road up on the Monument.”

  Then I had to explain about the accident and Ed’s take on the identity of the other driver.

  “Good God!” he said when I had finished. “And you’re sure you’re okay?”

  I assured him that, except for a bruise from my shoulder hitting the door frame, I was.

  “And he really thought it was Alan?”

  “Yes, he really did. And from what I just saw of Alan, it might have been.”

  “Good lord! This gets more and more complicated. What’s wrong with that kid?”

  He laid the envelopes with the will and the rest of the legal papers, and thumbed quickly through the draft letter, family group sheets, and pedigree charts that had been partially filled in with names, dates, and places of birth and death. “Strange,” he said, finally laying them down. “The letter she was trying to write doesn’t really tell much except that she was concerned about something she didn’t make clear. There’s nothing in the group sheets that she ever mentioned to me. But Sarah evidently felt the draft letter was important enough to keep with the rest of these pages and those envelopes. Maybe it has something to do with what she was trying to tell you and she finished it later. If you find it, or anything else about it, give a holler, okay? I’ve got to run.”

  He asked June to make copies of the letter and pages for me and keep the originals in a file with the sealed envelopes. Folding the copies to a size I could carry in my bag, I wondered again about that “FHL,” the phone number, and the name “Wilson” written in pencil on the bottom of the typed family group sheet, and copied it before handing it back to June. Perhaps I would call again when Mr. Wilson was available.

  Leaving Westover’s office, I half expected Alan to be lying in wait for me outside with more invective, but thankfully saw nothing of him.

  The whole question of Alan’s anger and resentment worried me. Could he really think that either Sarah or I would be unfair to him in terms of the inheritance, or was there some other cause for it? I wished I had had more contact with both Sarah and her son when he was growing up. It would have been helpful to have had our children play together, get to know each other, and for me to know more about Alan. It did not make sense to think that Sarah had been anything but a good and caring mother to any child, adopted or not, but I knew that he had always been a study in contradiction. Though he could be a happy, sunny child, he had a quick temper and could change moods without warning, as if a small dark personal cloud had floated in over his head to release lightning and angry thunder. I longed to be able to go to Sarah for a long talk about Alan—for help in understanding his resentful and unwarranted behavior in Westover’s office.

  Feeling frustrated and insufficient, I decided to ignore the whole situation and take a little time out to recharge my personal batteries. As I was only a little over a block away, I left my rental car where it was and went to take that look at Main Street I had promised myself. Perhaps I could find an early lunch in the process, having skipped breakfast in the rush to keep my appointment.

  Stretch trotted contentedly along at my side on his leash as I took in the shopping opportunities that lined the sidewalks. They were many and attractive. Books, gifts, clothing, jewelry, flowers, toys, even office supplies were part of what was available and tempting to those casually sauntering along beneath the trees. Low brick walls enclosed planters full of shrubs and flowering plants, and among them were the sculptures—some incorporating fountains, so the sound of falling water, as well as the many small birds twittering in the trees made a pleasant background music. Benches were available for the weary, or those who simply wanted to enjoy the surroundings sitting down.

  Several cafés and restaurants had outdoor tables and chairs for patrons. I picked one about halfway along and ordered a sandwich and iced tea, which I enjoyed while watching pedestrian and automotive traffic flow past and refusing to speculate about Alan’s behavior.

  It was a pleasant break, making up for what Alan had turned into a rather disturbing morning. How was I to know the whole equation was about to change again?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER LUNCH—AND BUYING A SET OF CUPBOARD HANDLES shaped like oak leaves from a gift shop I couldn’t resist—I went back to the car, intending to return to my home-on-wheels and read Sarah’s will before finishing the search of her house. The car had been sitting in the sun and was boiling hot inside, so I turned on the air-conditioning and let it run for five minutes, while I walked back to a travel agency in the next block and picked up several brochures on New Mexico, where I intended to spend the winter months.

  When I came back the interior of the car was cooler, so I risked it. Still, I could barely tolerate my hands on the steering wheel and found myself considering the return of the cupboard handles in favor of a pair of oven mitts. Stretch refused to scorch any part of himself on the sunny passenger seat and disappeared immediately into the shade of the rear. I couldn’t blame him. I squirmed a bit myself, but had a couple of layers of fabric between myself and that frying pan of a driver’s seat, so I endured until it cooled off—something I never have to do in Alaska. Northern winters are just the reverse. I start my car, turn the heater on full blast, and let the engine and interior warm up before driving anywhere. You learn so many new things when you travel—for instance, that all rental cars in desert country should come with one of those cardboard things you unfold on the dash to keep the sun from the front seats.

  By the time I arrived at Chipeta Avenue, the inside of the vehicle had cooled, but, knowing the temperature outside hovered somewhere in the nineties, I parked carefully under a tree that would gradually provide more shade as the afternoon progressed. I had started across the front lawn to the Winnebago, meaning to give Stretch a drink of water and myself some iced tea, when a voice from the front porch of Sarah’s house stopped me.

  “Hello. Are you Maxie? Sorry. I mean Mrs. McNabb?”

  A small, slender woman in her forties with short sun-streaked hair stood up from the porch swing where she had evidently been waiting in the shade, came down the steps, and walked toward me over the grass. She wore a cool-looking blue dress with a flared skirt of soft cotton material that swung gracefully around her tanned bare legs. Leather sandals confined her narrow feet, the silver links of a bracelet on one wrist gleamed in the sunshine, and matching silver swung from her ears as she moved.

  “Maxie will do fine,” I told her. I had never seen her before, but a hint of recognition stirred in my mind. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes,” she said, the faint suggestion of a smile lifting the corners of her full lips, “I think so.”

  I couldn’t help asking. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but I know who you are,” she said, stopping in front of me. “Sarah told me you would come and that I could trust you.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Without hesitation I knew who she was before she spoke again, for as she came closer I could see her eyes. They were a paler, grayer shade of green than the grass on which she stood, had small—familiar—flecks of gold in the irises, and were framed with long thick lashes. They were eyes I knew as well as my own.

  “I’m Jamie,” she told me softly, holding out a hand. “Jamie Stover. Sarah’s daughter.”

  When we were seated at the dinette in the Winnebago, each wi
th a glass of iced tea, I tried to think what to say first.

  I had turned up the air-conditioning in the motor home and it was running efficiently, but it took a while for the interior to become comfortably cool.

  Jamie sat facing me at the table, drinking her tea with appreciative thirst, and I couldn’t stop looking at her. When her glass was half empty, she noticed my attention, gave me an amused glance.

  “I am real,” she said.

  “I can see that. It just takes some getting used to.”

  It did. How could I have anticipated Jamie? Of course I hadn’t known that Sarah had a child of either sex until the evening before, when Ed had enlightened me about the reason for Sarah’s absence from college that long-past fall quarter. I had assumed it was a boy because he had assumed so—and that possibly that boy was Alan—at least according to Ed. Now, suddenly before me, was Jamie—very real indeed and definitely feminine.

  “Your eyes are very like your mother’s,” I told her.

  “She thought so, too.”

  “You called her ‘Sarah.’ ”

  “Yes—well. It didn’t work somehow to call her ‘Mother.’ I had a mother—a different, adopted mother. So she said I should call her Sarah instead. When I was born she somehow arranged for me to keep the name she gave me as part of the deal, but she didn’t give me a middle name, just an initial—S. When I finally met her she told me she had meant it to stand for Sarah. So I guess I’m Jamie Sarah Stover.”

  She hesitated for a moment, veiled her eyes with those incredible lashes as she looked down into her glass, and took another sip of tea. The gestures reminded me so strongly of Sarah that it added confirmation to their relationship. Ed had been so wrong in his suspicions and here was living proof. But was she his daughter as well? Studying her, I saw nothing of him in her appearance, not that that proved anything. If she was, how was he going to feel about having a daughter instead of a son? It was quite a switch to make.