The white envelope sat in the center of his desk. Other than to pull out the invitations, he had been so busy yesterday that he hadn’t even looked through his mail.
But this hadn’t come through the mail.
Gingerly he opened it, as if it might explode. His father’s will. He read through it, studying the names of the two witnesses. His father’s closest friends. That didn’t surprise him. He didn’t even care.
He tossed the papers back on his desk and turned to look out the window. The sun was starting to set, and the churning in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t had lunch. The events from last night raced through his mind. In spite of Pamela’s desire to exploit the situation, he still felt something was off about this whole scenario.
Elizabeth’s stoicism. Her unabashed calm. Fear was inbred in Elizabeth. And a situation like that would have had it oozing out of her.
He slapped the palms of his hands down on the desktop. Of course she wasn’t afraid. Why would she be afraid? She had planned this entire thing. “She thinks she is going to run off with Dad’s inheritance to get back at me. To get back at him. I can’t believe I didn’t realize this earlier!” He stood up from his desk, propelling his chair so hard that it bounced off the walnut credenza behind his desk.
He grabbed the receiver and went to dial, then instinctively pulled the receiver away from his face. If Elizabeth was behind this, he wouldn’t put it past her to have his phone tapped. In the movies, people always unscrewed the mouthpiece, but the new kind didn’t screw on. He studied it carefully, tugging at the bottom of it, trying to see if he could get it to come apart. He lifted it up and studied its underbelly. No signs of tampering there. He replaced the phone and ran his hands around the edges of his desk. He felt stupid for checking but too suspicious to stop.
He inspected the full circumference of the desk, then climbed onto his leather chair and reached up to feel inside the light fixture.
The door opened. Helen raised both her eyebrows.
“I’m changing a lightbulb.” He pretended turning a bulb. His hand hit the scorching bulb and instinctively retreated.
She flipped the wall switch to cut off the light. “How many doctors does it take to change a lightbulb?” she muttered as she closed the door behind her. Obviously simply saying “good night” wouldn’t have been half as amusing.
His examination of the light fixture turned up nothing. He went back to the phone and pounded in the numbers. “You can bet your five-hundred-dollar-an-hour fee that I’ll find out who this Executor is and who you’re in cahoots with, little sister. I’ll bring this pretense crashing down around you. I will officially beat you at your own game.”
The call went through, startling him. “Littleton Investigators.”
“Oh, um—sorry. Wasn’t sure anyone would be answering this late.”
“This is my cell phone. I’m still working,” came the flat response.
He paused a moment wondering if he should give a false name; he decided it might be best, then figured it might not help to lie if he actually wanted to get information. “This is Jeffrey Wilcott.”
“Wilcott?”
Jeffrey wouldn’t help him try to figure it out. “Yes. I—I’m kind of in need of some help.”
“What can I do for you?”
Jeffrey thought the man sounded like he was eating something, but he didn’t ask. He offered him the essential elements of the previous evening’s activities. “I want you to find out the location and identity of this so-called Mr. Smith. The Executor. And see what his connections are with an Elizabeth Wilcott.”
“Didn’t you say your name was Wilcott?”
“No relation.”
They ended the conversation with a few housekeeping items—a retainer, Elizabeth’s address and phone numbers. By the time their conversation was over, Littleton Investigators had potentially one of their more lucrative assignments in years.
He disconnected the line only to punch in seven more numbers. Pamela answered. “Game on,” Jeffrey said.
“I’m home if you’d like to discuss the details.”
By the time the clock struck midnight, they had the entire game plan laid out. A late-night call to one of Pamela’s acquaintances netted him a one o’clock meeting tomorrow with one of the leading reconstructive surgeons in the nation—who just happened to be at the Medical University in Charleston.
Then they played their own familiar game.
When Jeffrey arrived home, not a single light was on in the house. The only illumination came from the streetlight that filtered through the front windows. He went upstairs in the dark and opened Jennifer’s closet door. That light came on automatically.
It was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and rested his weight against the door frame. She had finally gotten it. Now he just needed to call the credit card companies and see exactly how much she had charged. When Jennifer got angry, she spent money. His money.
She had come into this marriage with nothing but a fake Louis Vuitton and eight thousand dollars of debt from cosmetology school—a school she never even finished. Fortunately she had access to only one of his bank accounts, and he determined how much money was in it. This morning he had deposited enough for her to secure a place to rent until they could sort through their financials and she could be on her way.
He turned the faucet on and took out his toothbrush. His hand felt like lead as it approached his mouth; the day had been absolutely exhausting. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a slight figure standing in the doorway.
“Matthew, son, what are you doing here?”
Eight-year-old Matthew looked confused and disheveled. His T-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms hung from his skinny frame.
“You didn’t think she’d take me with her, did you?” The boy walked over and sat on the edge of the tub.
Jeffrey obviously hadn’t thought about it at all. He studied his son through the mirror. “Well, no, of course not. I guess I just thought she would have sent you to someone’s house to spend the night.”
“Yeah, well, no such luck. I’m still here. But I’ll tell you this much, I sure am glad she’s gone. That woman about drove me crazy.”
Jeffrey laid his toothbrush down and turned around. “Yeah, me too.”
“Gretchen will come get me from basketball camp, but you know how she is about working after five. So that means you’ll have to be here, or else I’ll be staying by myself.”
“Gretchen?”
“Gretchen. She’s my nanny, Dad.”
“Oh, yes, Gretchen.” Jeffrey nodded his head and slapped his leg as if he and Gretchen were old friends. They’d met twice. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” Jeffrey looked him over. He looked pretty unscathed for his evening alone. “I mean, you could probably stay by yourself.”
“Yes, I probably could. But I’m only eight.”
“Yeah, I know. You should have called me tonight when you were here alone.”
“I did call. Three times. You never answered.”
Jeffrey remembered now. He had figured if it was the home number, it might still be Jennifer. “My phone has been acting up. Sorry about that, son.” He walked over to him and pulled him up from the tub. “Now, get back in bed so you’ll be ready to go in the morning.”
Matthew walked to the door.
“About Gretchen—she picks you up for basketball too?”
Matthew never turned around. “Yeah, Dad, you won’t have to worry about doing that either.”
Jeffrey would deal with finding someone to watch Matthew tomorrow. Right now he would just enjoy the silence of Jennifer’s absence.
Will left the frat house around 2 a.m. Instead of trying to figure out what in the world was going on with the reading of his dad’s will, he had decided just to drown himself in the fraternity’s pre-initiation parties. Most of the new students had already arrived, but rush didn’t start until next week, so he hung out with the regulars and washe
d the night away.
Registration was next week too. The late evenings would come to an end soon enough. Still, five years of college had taught him never to schedule classes before noon.
Besides, none of it mattered—or wouldn’t, at least, once he got his hands on his inheritance. He could quit this stupid archeology degree. He had never liked rocks much anyway, and had gotten into it his freshman year when he heard about a class called “rocks for jocks” and figured he’d fit in pretty well. None of it made much sense to him, but the program worked well with his social life and he had a couple of girls who were willing to help him study, even take his tests and write his papers.
Getting the degree had always been his father’s stipulation for receiving a house. College graduation meant college gift. College gift was a paid-off mortgage. But his father had purchased the town-home he lived in, so he guessed he owned it now since his dad was dead. The power of the Porsche’s engine vibrated beneath him.
“My pitiful family,” he mused to himself. “Not a one of them with enough sense to know when they’ve been hoodooed.”
chapter seven
In the still darkness of the early morning, Elizabeth made her way through the back gardens and past the recently remodeled carriage house toward the garage. The floodlights flicked on as they detected her motion and brought into focus the head of a rose from one of the rose bushes. The aroma lay heavy and pungent on the predawn air.
She raised the garage door and the overhead light came on, harsh and artificial in the blackness. Her ringing cell phone proved there was actually someone else other than herself awake at such an hour. She fumbled for the earpiece, stuck it in her ear, and clicked on the phone. “Elizabeth Wilcott.”
“Elizabeth Wilcott. This is James Cavanaugh. I got your message last night. Good to hear from you. What’s going on?”
She had tried to plan out what she would say when he called back; now that he was on the telephone, she hesitated. But Elizabeth never hesitated long. “Well, James, this is actually something more on the personal side.” She climbed into her Jeep and began to back into the alley.
“Your husband cheating on you?”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m not married.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No. If you’ll quit trying to guess, I’ll tell you.”
He waited while she related to him as discreetly as possible the events of the previous evening. “And to be perfectly honest, this Executor’s accent could be as phony as half the breasts in Charleston.”
“So let me get this straight. You want me to find out who this man is and where he is?”
“Yes. And one more thing.”
“Could you give me the one more thing, then? It helps to know what you’re looking for when you’re an investigator.”
“I need you to do some checking on a Jeffrey Wilcott as well.”
“Jeffrey Wilcott, the big-time plastic surgeon?”
“That’s the one.”
“I thought you said you weren’t married.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And what am I checking on for Mr. Wilcott?”
“I want to know if he and this Executor have had any interactions. Check bank records, phone records—shoot, check birth certificates too. I’ve always wondered if Jeffrey and I were really related. I believe they are conspirators in will forgery.”
Cavanaugh gave a low whistle. “That’s a big accusation.”
“I’ve got a big checkbook.”
“Excellent. Because I’ve got plenty of time and resources.”
“I expected as much. Are you always up this early?”
“I do a lot of my job in the dark.”
Elizabeth pressed the disconnect button on her earpiece and exhaled loudly. The streetlights began to flicker off as the first rays of the sun channeled their way through the darkness. A single ray illuminated the tall white steeple of St. Michael’s Episcopal, the oldest church in Charleston.
The intersection of Broad and Meeting Streets, where St. Michael’s called home, had been cited by Ripley’s Believe It or Not as “The Four Corners of Law.” The historic church, attended by both George Washington and Robert E. Lee, resided on one corner and represented God’s law. City hall took up another corner, representing municipal law. The county courthouse, originally the statehouse, represented state law. And the federal court and post office, built on the site of the old town guardhouse, represented federal law. The locals called the corner jail-bail-hell-mail.
Thinking of the courthouse reminded her of the waiver she needed to get for one of her clients at the Register of Mesne Conveyance, or the RMC. Maybe she’d simply call Campbell Harris, daughter of her father’s old ally Judge Harris. Campbell was on the planning commission and might be able to get it pushed through without Elizabeth having to bother. At the end of the day, knowing people was often the best way to get work done.
Elizabeth drove down Meeting Street savoring the beginnings of morning rush. Jeffrey and Mary Catherine had retreated to the privacy of offshore islands, but Elizabeth had enough of islands growing up at the plantation on Edisto. She didn’t need wide-open vistas, tourists riding bicycles, manufactured ambience like she saw on Kiawah, or forgotten spaces like Sullivan’s Island. She needed clustered, contained structures. Historical beauty merged with twenty-first-century appreciation. The eclectic mix of new and old.
She pulled into the small gravel parking lot next to her office. Parking space was a precious commodity in this area of prime Charleston real estate. Parking tickets, on the other hand, were passed out like beads at Mardi Gras. People still wondered how she had been so fortunate to get both the building that housed her law practice and a parking lot to boot.
Elizabeth picked her way over the uneven gravel, looking up with pride at the ivory-painted brick building. The truth was, her father had infused the treasure of this city and its islands into her blood. He had made his wealth in Charleston real estate, but it wasn’t just a business to him. He loved every square inch of it. And so did she. It was one thing, at least, that he had shared with her.
She climbed the staircase at the front entrance, the wrought iron railing already warm beneath her touch. She preferred to enter through the front doors so she could make sure her clients’ first impression met with her approval. She opened the large wood-and-glass- paned door, closing it and locking it behind her. Visitors had to be buzzed in.
On a marble inlaid coffee table, one magazine lay slightly askew. She straightened it, stood back, and nodded, then climbed the oak plank stairs to her office on the second floor.
The scent of an amaryllis candle still hovered in the air. She set her briefcase and purse down and removed the Bluetooth from her ear. She ran her hands along the back of her chair, letting her eyes take in everything, inhaling the flowery scent. She felt, oddly, as if she were seeing everything in her office for the first time.
Or the last.
Elizabeth knew this place as well as she knew her own soul—or better. Every floorboard, every pane of glass. The location of every file folder, every client’s name, how they liked their coffee, or if they preferred iced tea. She remembered the details of every pending deal. She felt safe here. This was her world. Perfectly controlled.
A tightness began to constrict in her chest, but she pushed it down. This was where she belonged, and the thought of having to spend a single day at this charade her father had cooked up—let alone a year—seemed utterly ludicrous. She didn’t need her father’s money. She had enough of her own. Life wasn’t about money any-way. It was about respect.
It was hard work for a woman to gain respect in a man’s world, particularly in her world of developers and real estate. She was determined to be the woman who got the job done, the woman who helped change the Charleston landscape. Her father had received his recognition for it. Now she wanted hers. As much as she loved the historic aspects of her city, there was a place for the new urban development as well. And she
was the one capable of making that happen.
Elizabeth pushed back her doubt and tried to steady her resolve. She would make a name for herself, but apparently it would have to wait for a year. Jeffrey had left her with no other choice. He wouldn’t beat her this time.
She needed coffee. Now. She walked over to the wet bar in the back corner of her office and smiled as the perfect cup poured out of her Miele Whole Bean Coffee System. The machine for the coffee connoisseur. The aroma pierced through the clutter of thoughts, and for one brief moment she was back in her mother’s arms, sitting on her lap sipping from a white china cup covered with baby blue flowers. Her mother shared her “special” coffee with Elizabeth every morning. Elizabeth would drink from her own pretty cup—more milk and sugar than coffee. But when her mother had died and Elizabeth had become the mommy, she graduated to straight black, the way her mother always drank hers. It had become her therapy ever since.
She took the coffee back to her desk, sitting down in her leather chair, allowing her body and mind to savor the moment.
The tap at the door sliced the moment in two. “Can I come in?” It was Aaron, looking quite different today than he had yesterday morning—his suit and tie immaculate, the stubble of beard shaved clean.
“What are you doing up so early?”
“Thought I’d come see you before I went to my own job.” He sat down on the linen sofa. “So, have you changed your mind?”
“Changed my mind about letting my brother manipulate himself into an inheritance he has no right to? Changed my mind about not stopping until I uncover who is at the bottom of this? Changed my mind about getting the best legal representation money can buy and suing his French cuff shirts right off his back?”
“I gather that’s a no.”
She sipped her coffee. “It’s a definite no. In fact, I’ve got my investigator on top of it, and as long as I have to play along with this little charade, I’m going to make this year work for me. Ever hear of the Benefactor’s Group?”
The Will of Wisteria Page 6
