Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “What did she want to talk about?”

  “What happened to the money that was in Uncle Robert’s accounts.”

  “Do you know what happened to it?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve told you that.”

  “Did Macy believe you?”

  “No. She got loud. She stood over me. When I tried to leave, she grabbed me and twisted my arm.”

  “But you kept insisting you didn’t know anything?”

  “Uncle Robert and I were real close, but he stopped talking to me five or six weeks ago. I don’t know why.”

  “So you didn’t tell her anything at all?”

  “I didn’t have anything to tell her. I did say that if Uncle Robert had taken anyone into his confidence, it would have been his friend Jack Packard. But he may not have trusted even him at that point, you know?”

  “Whitney?” called a voice from the counter.

  She looked around, noticed the line nearly to the door. “I’m sorry. I’ve been longer than I meant to. I’ve got to go.” Her hand closed over the glasses case, which she’d put back on the table between us, and she stood.

  “I guess Macy was alive when you left the house?”

  She leaned toward me. “You don’t think I killed her, do you?” she whispered fiercely. “Killed her and left Brian to take the blame for it?”

  “When did you leave her?”

  “About three, I think. I found her note when I got home after we closed up here, and she doesn’t live more than ten minutes away. I don’t think I was in her house twenty minutes. I got out as soon as I could. Look, I’ve got to get back behind the counter.”

  When she’d gone, I looked at Brooke. “So, did she kill Macy?”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “She never actually denied it.”

  “Well, no. Did you notice her skin?”

  I smiled. “She does have incredible skin.”

  “No pores at all that you can see, just that light dusting of pinpoint freckles on her cheekbones.”

  “No girl with such incredible skin could be a killer,” I said.

  “I just don’t think she did it.”

  “I get the idea you approve of Brian’s girlfriend.”

  “I did before this happened anyway.”

  Nodding, I took a sip of my coffee, but it had gone cold.

  Deeks was glad to see us. Only about half of his beef rib was left. After he’d greeted us, he spun around for it, turned again, and presented it to me. I didn’t know whether he was offering to share or whether he thought I might renew it somehow and make it whole. I took it from him, but he took it away from me again and jumped into the back seat with it.

  “So what did we learn?” Brooke asked when we were on the Downtown Expressway.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. If we believe her, then Macy was alive at three o’clock. There’ll be a medical examiner’s report that will tell us if that much is true.”

  “You haven’t talked to Nathan, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If he and Macy were engaged, he’s somebody you need to talk to.”

  “I know,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ll set it up.” She got out her phone to search for his number. Just as we reached my exit, she said, “Here it is.” She tapped the screen and held the phone to her ear. After a moment, she said, “This is Carly Price, calling from the law offices of Robin Starling. She needs to meet with you to talk about the death of Macy Buck.” She gave him her mobile number. “Please call at your earliest convenience to schedule an appointment.”

  She punched off. “Do you think we’ll hear from him?”

  “Might,” I said. “You never know.”

  We didn’t hear back. We got to my house, talked a bit more, looked at each other, then turned on the TV. A church service was on, a local one we’d watched together from time to time back when we’d been roommates. Actually, we rarely watched more than the first half. We liked the music—the church choir was about sixty strong and accompanied by a small orchestra—the sermon, not so much. The pastor had one of those deep and resonating Baptist-preacher voices, which made it easier to mock than to listen to. When he started to preach, I clicked off the TV.

  Brooke said, “So do you think Jesus was giving the okay to adultery?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear the Bible reading? It was about the woman caught in adultery.”

  “I’m sure Jesus wasn’t saying adultery was okay,” I said, trying to recall the Bible reading. “He just didn’t want the crowd to stone her for it.”

  “Because the punishment was too much, or because adultery shouldn’t be punished at all?”

  “Maybe he was just granting mercy in that particular situation.”

  “He didn’t say anything about that particular situation. He said, ‘Let the one without sin cast the first stone.’ ”

  “He can’t have meant it that way. It would go way beyond the issue of adultery.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It would be like saying, ‘Everyone has sinned, so no one has the right to judge or punish.’ It would undercut the whole system of criminal justice. It’s all about judging and punishing.”

  “I think he was just talking about adultery.”

  “Let’s see.” I clicked back on the TV, and we listened to the sermon, but it was about forgiveness and mercy in general and addressed neither adultery nor the legitimacy or illegitimacy of sinful judges. When it was over, I turned off the TV again and said, “So who is he?”

  “Who is who?”

  “This married man you’re thinking about having an affair with.”

  “I’m not thinking about having an affair with a married man.”

  I looked at her.

  “I’m not.” After a moment she added, “I’m just tired of being alone.”

  “You want to move back in with me?”

  “It’s not that. I want a man.”

  Deeks seemed to have worked his rib down as far as it would go. He left it and put his chin on the sofa next to Brooke to get his head scratched.

  “A dog is a pretty good substitute,” I said as she scratched him.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Well, maybe not,” I conceded.

  “You’ve got Paul, and I like him a lot, but a lot of times I feel like you two let me hang around out of charity. I mean, I’ve got to be in the way.”

  “In the way of what? Paul and I can’t always be pumping and grinding.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You and Paul…”

  “No, no.” I looked at her sideways. “I did spend the night at his place Friday.”

  She smacked me with a sofa pillow. “And you didn’t say anything about it? Spill.”

  “There’s really not much to tell.”

  “Robin…” Her tone was threatening.

  “Okay, okay.” I spilled what there was to spill, though of course it really wasn’t much.

  “You’ve got a talent for keeping a man on the hook,” she said when I was done. “Really, I mean it. You give him next to nothing, and he pants around after you just like a second dog.”

  “Well,” I said defensively. “I did pat his cheek when we said good-bye.”

  Chapter 11

  On Monday it was back to work, though I was late, a bad habit that had been growing on me since Deeks came into my life. Carly was waiting for me. Before the glass-paneled door swung shut behind me, she had begun to vibrate behind the reception desk. “Guess who has joined us,” she said, her fists quivering by her face. “Guess who your new suitemate is.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “It’s Rodney Burns!” she said, squeaking out the last word. “He moved in his computer and a box of office supplies this morning!”

  I smiled. “And I get a commission?”

  Her smile faltered. “Uh, no. You don’t.” Revving back up to full flutter, she repeated, “But you have a new suitemate. And
he’s here…right… now!”

  “That’s great, Carly, that really is. I’ll go welcome him.”

  I went through the archway in the exposed brick wall. The door of my office, the rightmost in the group of three, was closed. Brooke’s, in the middle, was open, and now the door on the far left was open as well.

  “Hey, Brooke,” I said, but she was on the phone and merely lifted a hand to me. I went next door and saw Rodney Burns, his feet already on his desk next to his computer monitor, his Edgar Alan Poe coffee mug held in the fingers of both hands.

  “Hello, wanderer,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve joined you.”

  “I think I suggested it.”

  “I’ve got some background information for you on the various members of the Walsh clan … when you’ve set down your briefcase and have your coffee and are ready to hear it.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I opened my office to set down my briefcase and hang my coat on the coat-tree in the corner. In the suite’s kitchen, I filled my mug two-thirds full of coffee with equal parts decaf and coffee from the pot labeled “6 Scoops.” It would be all the caffeine I’d have for the day and was probably more than I needed, but at thirty-one I’d finally joined the human race with my morning cuppa joe. To confirm me in my new habit, a recent news story reported a study that showed coffee drinkers had lower mortality rates than noncoffee drinkers. Who was I to abstain from coffee and shorten my lifespan in the name of good health?

  Back in Rodney’s office, I dropped into a client chair, one that had come from his old office. He had his feet back on the floor.

  “I see you kept the desk that was in here. What did you do with your old one?”

  “Left it. My gift to the new owner.” His face spasmed in a pained smile.

  “When did you move your stuff in? All this morning?”

  “I started over the weekend. I’ll do a little each day and be moved in completely by the end of the week. To business?”

  I nodded.

  “We can do more small talk, if you want. I’m getting good at it. Carly was in here this morning for nearly an hour.”

  “By the end of the month, you’ll be the best small-talker in the commonwealth,” I said.

  “To business then.” He opened a folder on his desk, the surface of which was still relatively clear of the papers, yellow pads, pens, and stacks of folders that had cluttered his desk out on Broad Street. “You know Robert Walsh had his career in banking. Was with First and Merchants when it merged with Virginia National to become Sovran Bank, stayed with it when it merged with NCNB to become NationsBank, retired when NationsBank bought out Bank of America and took the new name for itself.”

  “Okay.”

  “At his death, he had about a half-million in retirement accounts, about ten thousand or so in his checking account, a hundred thousand in life insurance. He owned his house free and clear and had a ten-year-old 4Runner.”

  It was from the inventory filed with the probate court. I hadn’t thought to give it to him, which meant I’d be paying him for his own trip to the courthouse. “According to his surviving relatives and their attorney, the assets should have come to a lot more,” I said.

  “I guess they’re not laughing as hard as they expected to be.”

  “Huh?”

  “Laughing heirs.”

  “Ah.” Laughing heirs are beneficiaries who weren’t particularly close to the deceased during his lifetime: Their joy of inheritance outweighs their sorrow at his passing. It did seem an apt description of Robert’s surviving relatives.

  “They hadn’t planned to wait for his death to celebrate.” He dug in a briefcase and came up with a manila envelope, which he pushed across the desk to me. I flipped it open.

  It was a petition Jared Walsh had filed in the circuit court of the city of Richmond, petitioning the court to declare one Robert Wilson Walsh to be incapacitated and to appoint Jared Walsh as his conservator to manage his estate and financial affairs. The petition had been filed January 3 and served on Robert January 5. With it was a court order appointing Rupert Propst as Robert’s guardian ad litem to represent his interests during the competency proceedings. I looked up.

  Rodney said, “The hearing was set for last Tuesday.” The day of Robert’s funeral.

  “Shouldn’t there be reports here from the guardian ad litem and maybe an examining physician?” I asked.

  “They were both under seal. I couldn’t get copies.”

  “Things are beginning to fall into place.” I told him about the safe-opening ceremony the previous week. “Evidently, Robert had begun emptying his financial accounts before his death. His nephews thought he was buying gold, but they can’t find any of it.”

  “And Rupert Propst has gone from representing Robert Walsh’s interests to representing…”

  “His estate’s,” I finished. “Technically anyway. In practice he’s representing Jared, Nathan, and Whitney, or some subset of the three.”

  “You know what would be nice to know,” Rodney said.

  “What?”

  “What happened first. Did Robert begin pulling money out of his accounts, and that’s what motivated this petition for conservatorship? Or did Jared Walsh file this petition, and that motivated Robert to start liquidating his assets to put them out of reach of his grasping relatives?”

  “In other words, was Robert losing his mind or not?” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  I tapped a finger on the petition for conservatorship, wondering whether Whitney could give me access to Robert’s house and any papers he might have kept there.

  Someone coughed behind me. It was Carly, being discreet. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but you didn’t answer your phone, and there are people here to see you.” She seemed to be looking at me. “A Rupert…” She hesitated.

  “Propst?”

  “That sounds like it. There's a younger man with him. Nathan Walsh.”

  Well, well. “Bring them back,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Rupert was wearing a gray cashmere topcoat over a double-breasted suit, a bright blue tie knotted at his throat. Nathan wore jeans and a parka.

  “Have a seat,” I said, standing behind my desk when Carly brought them in.

  They remained standing behind my client chairs. Rupert said, “I know you’re representing Brian Marshall, who’s been arrested for the murder of Macy Buck.” He smiled his shark teeth at me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So I also know that you’ll be looking for a scapegoat, someone you can implicate in the crime or at least someone you can smear sufficiently to create reasonable doubt. I know how you criminal defense lawyers work.”

  I opened my mouth to respond to this calumny, but Rupert barreled on.

  “I’m here to serve notice that my client will not be your scapegoat. You are not to talk to him unless I am present, and any attempt to contact him should be through me.”

  “Which client?”

  “You can’t pretend to be so dim as not to know that I am representing Nathan Walsh, the young man who is standing right here beside me.”

  “Until this moment I had assumed you were representing the estate of Robert Walsh,” I said, “having previously represented Robert Walsh himself as guardian ad litem.”

  His head went back. I try not to get mad unless someone is paying me to do it, and there was nothing to be gained by letting Rupert know I wasn’t a clueless blonde—but, on the other hand, Rupert Propst was about the biggest prick who had ever walked into my office.

  “I assume you’re representing Jared Walsh, too, personally and as executor of the estate?”

  He inclined his head. “You assume correctly.”

  “Lot of fees there,” I noted. “I guess you’re not worried about a conflict of interest.”

  “There is no conflict of interest.”

  I looked at Nathan. “You probably know that a person convicted of murder can’t inh
erit from the person he’s been convicted of killing. If Jared was convicted of killing his uncle, for instance, your inheritance would increase by fifty percent.”

  Rupert gaped for a moment like a fish out of water. “That’s outrageous,” he said. “That’s defamation.”

  “I was just giving a hypothetical example to illustrate a legal principle,” I said. “I’m not saying Jared killed his uncle. I have no reason to think he did. I have no reason to think he’d try to frame his brother Nathan to increase his own inheritance, for that matter.”

  “I said you were not to address my client…”

  “…except in your presence. I understand, but you’ve got to admit it’s just the kind of conflict that can come up in cases like these. I understand your position, too. Three clients mean three fees. As a solo practitioner I certainly understand. If I had any clients that weren’t locked up, I’d be trotting them around to lawyers’ offices to make pointless declarations, too. A billable hour is a billable hour, after all. Isn’t it, Rupert?”

  Rupert had his hand on Nathan’s elbow, pulling him toward the door. “We don’t have to stand here and listen to these groundless accusations. And you won’t get away with this. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  “Something else to bill your clients for,” I said, but Rupert had his client out the door, using his own body to shield him from my pernicious influence.

  “You got me out of bed for this?” Nathan said, speaking for the first time.

  “Now don’t let her manipulate you. She’d like nothing better than to set us against each other. Nothing would serve her better…” They passed out of earshot, Rupert still going on about my manipulative, scheming ways.

  I took a breath, and Brooke appeared in my doorway.

  “Bravo,” she said. Rodney was at her elbow.

  “Is it always so exciting around here?” he asked.

  “Only when I lose my temper.” I tried a quick smile, and it evidently reassured them enough that they filed in and plopped down in my client chairs. I sat down myself.

  “Did Whitney Foster have anything to do with that petition you showed me?” I asked Rodney.

  “Not as far as I can tell. She may not have known about it.”