Desperate for Death (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery Book 6)

by Judy Alter

  “I think you’re right, but you’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “What do I do if he isn’t the same person? In fact, what do I do if it is the same person?”

  “Nothing except keep your cool. Benjamin Cruze will defend the will as written, and Terrell will represent you. Nobody will take a knife after you in the courthouse.”

  Small comfort, I thought.

  ****

  Terrell came for coffee the next morning, claiming he’d already had breakfast but wanted to escort me to the courthouse. Since I was a basket of nerves, I was grateful. If he noticed that my hand shook when I poured his coffee, he said nothing. I had eaten a few small bites of oatmeal, but my stomach was churning. I never liked going to court, the few times I’d had to do it, but the thought of Charles Sanford made me all the more nervous.

  We sat on a wooden bench outside the probate court until we were called. Terrell, Benjamin Cruze, and I were on one bench. I introduced Terrell, and Cruze said polite things to both of us. Then he turned to me and in sotto voce said, “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  This was still a dilemma for me: was I right to accept money from a man I barely knew, if at all, and whose life I had ruined, no matter what he said in his will?

  A middle-aged man, slightly rumpled, graying hair, arrived and spoke to Benjamin. They shook hands, and Benjamin introduced Terrell and me to Charles Sanford. I stood and gaped, barely able to offer a hand and mutter, “Nice to meet you.” This Charles Sanford was someone I’d never met. He was pretty much as Benjamin Cruze described him.

  I couldn’t believe this was the man who wanted me dead. Not just withdrawn from the inheritance, but dead. I recovered myself enough to look into his eyes, but I didn’t see the steely-eyed killer I expected. They were pale blue, watery, neutral—not particularly kind but certainly not menacing. He moved on to Terrell whom he seemed to know, and they shook hands cordially as acquaintances will do.

  We each sat down on our respective benches again, and Sanford began pulling papers out of a scuffed brief case and studying them. I watched him, but he never looked at me, and if he knew who I was, he gave no indication. Yet, something about him made me think he lacked cunning…and I had known some cunning people. I couldn’t quite figure him out.

  I wanted to ask Benjamin questions, but we were too close to the others. I wanted to know if he was with a firm or in private practice. Certainly, he wasn’t Robert Martin’s lawyer—Benjamin represented that firm. So how did he come to represent Jo Ellen, who was supposedly not contacting anyone? And why had he let Greg Davis use his name? Or maybe Greg Davis used it without his knowledge. I sat and stewed.

  Neither Benjamin nor Terrell seemed to need to review papers, so they chatted about legal matters, their talk going around me and over my head.

  Finally we were called into the small courtroom. Judge MacDonald was a portly older man with outright white hair and eyes that shone with kindness. There was no grief in this courtroom today, but I suspected over years of dealing with probate he had seen too much grief and too much greed and developed empathy for people. Today there was only greed, a thought that made me cringe.

  After introduction, the judge said, “I understand, Mr. Cruze, you have the latest will, countersigned by you in the presence of an independent notary and witnesses.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “And you were present when Mr. Martin dictated the codicil?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was his mental state?”

  “He was physically frail, but mentally alert. He seemed quite determined that Ms. O’Connell had helped him and that his daughter had caused him great humiliation—that was his word.”

  “Did you try to dissuade him?”

  “No, sir that was not my duty. One of the witnesses did speak to him confidentially until I reminded her she was there as an independent witness, not to influence the proceedings. I’m pretty sure she was speaking on behalf of Mr. Martin’s daughter and against the proposed change of the will. She was his nurse, a woman named Buxton. Mr. Martin told her his daughter would still get half of his estate, which is sizeable—in fact he said it was more money than she’d ever need if she survives her prison term. It will be held in a trust for her for the rest of her lifetime, after which he has designated several charities.”

  My mind was still reeling with the knowledge that Mrs. Buxton had been, as we suspected, Robert Martin’s nurse.

  The judge nodded. “Yes, I’m familiar with the background of this case.” He turned toward me. “Ms. O’Connell, did you wish to address the court?”

  Terrell and I had talked about this and decided I should not speak. I could have rambled on forever about blood money, guilt money, and my error in taking it. On the other hand, I could have explained that I believed Mr. Martin was giving it as a legacy to my daughters in the hope that they would turn out differently than his daughter. All I said was, “No, thank you,” which earned me a sharp, sudden look from Mr. Sanford.

  Just then, the judge turned toward him. “Mr. Sanford, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my court before.”

  “No, sir, your honor. I’m a tax lawyer and don’t generally do probate work. I’m doing this as a favor to a friend.”

  “Pro bono? Not that it matters.”

  “Yes, sir, as a matter of fact. My friend is not in a position to pay legal fees at the time.”

  “And your friend or client is Jo Ellen North, who is contesting the will. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. North believes with her…er…unavailable, her father was coerced into adding this codicil.”

  There it was. Right out in the open.

  “By whom?”

  “She is not sure. She thinks perhaps it was his nurse.” Turning to Benjamin, he asked, “Was that the woman who spoke to him?”

  Benjamin had his mouth open to say, “Yes,” when the judge said, “Mr.Sanford, please address the court. Mr. Cruze, regard the question as irrelevant.” Turning back to Sanford, “Is your client angry at Ms. O’Connell? Remember I know the background here. I believe your client killed Ms. O’Connell’s ex-husband, tried to kill her, and threatened her children.”

  “Yessir, all that is true. And, yes, Mrs. North is very bitter about Ms. O’Connell because she hashed up a scandal that had been hidden for many decades.”

  “Angry enough to object to the codicil?”

  I wanted to shout, Angry enough that she wants to kill me or my daughter! Terrell’s restraining hand was on my arm.

  “She feels after she cared for her father and hid her mother’s secret all these years, it’s only just that she inherit the entire estate.”

  “She does realize that she won’t be eligible for parole until she’s an old woman, if then?”

  “Yes, she does. And she knows she gets only a small allowance monthly as long as she’s in prison.”

  “All right then, back to coercion. What proof does she have?”

  Again, I wanted to jump into the fray and shout, Only her demented state of mind, but Terrell restrained me.

  “She believes that since the codicil was signed well over a year after she was imprisoned and therefore had no contact with her father, he was vulnerable to persuasion. He was unable to travel to Gatesville to see her so she had no influence on him. Sort of out of sight, out of mind.”

  My inner voice said, And oh my, did she influence him when she was around him. Terrell didn’t even have to hold me back that time.

  After lengthy discussion, during which it was clear Mr. Sanford didn’t have a lot of supporting evidence, the judge retired to his quarters, asking us to wait.

  “Usually,” Benjamin whispered, “he takes a day or two. This is a good sign.”

  Within an hour, the judge was back and announced that the codicil would stand. He signed some papers, a notary made them official, and the lawyers packed up to leave. Although we seemed to have been there for hours, it was only 11:30.

  Mr. Sa
nford slunk away, without speaking, looking defeated and worried. Maybe he was afraid of Mrs. Buxton or Greg Davis or both.

  I sat stunned, as though I was hearing again a crashing noise—a rock through a window, a threat now come to reality.

  “Kelly?” Terrell asked gently. “You coming with us?”

  I pulled myself together and smiled up at him. “Of course.” If he noticed my paleness, my troubled expression, he was good enough not to mention it.

  The three of us left together, Terrell carefully taking my elbow to be sure I didn’t fall down the entire length of the steep courthouse stairs.

  “Lunch?” Terrell suggested. We all agreed and headed for a restaurant on the new Sundance Square. Since it was a cold, January day, we opted for an upstairs table where we could look out over the square.

  We were barely seated when I pounced on Benjamin, but before I even got my question out, he said, “The woman who talked to Robert Martin was his nurse.” His eyes glinted with laughter because he’d known that question was on my mind since he’d mentioned the incident. “But why would she be so interested in having you inherit?”

  “I don’t think she is. If anything, she’d be interested in Jo Ellen getting all the money, hoping then that Jo Ellen would remember her kind care of her father.”

  “Did Mrs. Buxton work there before all the trouble started? Would she have known Jo Ellen?”

  I shrugged. “I suspect so because from what I understand from Mrs. Buxton’s current employer is that she took care of an elderly man for several years.”

  I sank back into myself. More parts of the puzzle were falling into place—principally Mrs. Buxton. But how and where did Charles Sanford fit in? And why had Greg Davis used his name the day he tried to kill me? In fact, how did Greg Davis and the Balcomb sisters fit in, because now I was convinced they both did?

  “Terrell, you seemed to know Charles Sanford. What do you know about him?”

  He shrugged. “Just a two-bit courthouse lawyer. Sometimes hangs around hoping to get a case. Office is downtown in one of those old buildings across from the courthouse. He’s not…uh…a power. I’ve just met him a couple of times. Never been in court with him before.”

  Benjamin spoke up. “He doesn’t seem to be much of a presence. Don’t worry, Kelly. It’s over and done. Half the estate goes to you. What will you do? I imagine after taxes you have just under two million. Robert Martin was worth a lot more than that in years past, but time and the government haven’t been kind to him.”

  Two million dollars! I thought about it. Slowly, I said, “I’d like to give some to Marie Winton’s family—she’s the young woman Martin’s wife shot and killed. Her family knew nothing of what happened to her for forty years or more, and I think helping them is a fitting tribute to her. Beyond that, I’d give some to the Edna Gladney Home, which could have helped Marie Winton and did help Lorna MacDavid, and I’d boost the college fund for the girls and the new baby…and who knows what else.”

  The thought of the new baby made me cringe. It was almost time for another checkup, and I did not want to see Mrs. Buxton. Ever again if I could help it! I shuddered thinking about it.

  “Kelly,” Terrell said. “Come back. Where did you go? We’re ready to order lunch.”

  “Sorry. I was off in space for a minute. Must have been Benjamin’s question about all that money.” They both ordered cheeseburgers, and I picked at a salad. When Terrell ordered a beer, I truly debated a glass of wine—one glass, when I was almost in the third trimester—surely it wouldn’t hurt. I settled for iced tea.

  What lingered in the back of my mind—more than the baby, and more than the questions about Greg Davis and Mrs. Buxton and Charles Sanford—was that crashing rock, the threat that hung over our heads now that my acceptance of the inheritance was finally a reality. When would the next shoe drop? And how many shoes were there? I didn’t mention it to my companions, not even to Terrell on the way home.

  What I needed to think about more was the shower and wedding this weekend…uh, four days away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Keisha had threatened, the invitation had gone out two weeks before the event, and I began to think email was a good idea. Greg or whoever couldn’t pilfer out of a mailbox to find out the date and place. Of course if he was also an accomplished hacker….Don’t go, there, Kelly. The gods can only stack the cards against you so much.

  Keisha had called lazy responders and bullied them into answering, until we had a guest list of nearly forty. Claire was baking hearty breakfast casseroles with sausage, cheese, bread, eggs, cream of mushroom soup—everything but the kitchen sink. We figured we needed four. My mom surprised me by offering to make cinnamon coffee cakes—for a moment I was carried back in time to when she made them for me as a child. I hadn’t seen her make one in years, but she said making four would be no problem. I was amazed and grateful.

  Anthony offered to bring fruit, if Theresa would arrange the platter, and Joe, admitting to stints as a bartender, would take care of making Bloody Marys, mimosas, and pouring soft drinks, kid wine, and other non-alcoholic beverages. We’d have white wine for the few who wanted it.

  Sheila O’Gara surprised me by calling and offering to do the flowers. “I never told you,” she said, “but that was one of my hobbies. I took some classes and got pretty good at it. I’d be pleased to do that for Keisha—she was so good to me.” We hadn’t seen Sheila and her partner, Don, much since the birth of Sheila’s baby, and I just guessed they were all wrapped up in caring for an infant and exploring their own new relationship. As I accepted her kind offer, it occurred to me that this was the first big event, the first “gala” that Ms. Lorna, her mother, would miss. My breath suddenly left me.

  “Kelly? Are you there? Can I come walk through the house and see where you’ll need flowers?”

  I breathed deeply, wondering if she felt what I did. “Of course.” We arranged she would come on Thursday night and do the flowers Friday so they’d be fresh Saturday morning.

  After school Wednesday, the girls and I went to The Party Warehouse, where you could get the most amazing party supplies for not the family fortune—we chose bright turquoise plastic flatware, good plastic wine glasses whose stems did not separate from the glass at unfortunate times, smaller glasses for non-alcoholic drinks, balloons, streamers, banners that proclaimed Happy Wedding. We should have forgotten Hallmark and come here first. All that schmaltz didn’t really appeal to me, but I knew Keisha would love it.

  Our guests would mostly have to eat standing up but it couldn’t be helped, and only the bravest would venture outside. Claire and I rearranged furniture a thousand times, trying to maximize space. Claire brought Liz and Brandon with her to move furniture—I was only allowed to direct. My “delicate condition” had some advantages, I reasoned. Finally we had it the way we thought would allow the best traffic flow. We had just settled down with wine for Claire, Perrier for me and Liz (who protested she’d prefer a beer), when Mike came in and demanded, “What the hell happened to my house?”

  “Our house,” I said gently. “We’re getting ready to have Coxey’s Army for breakfast Saturday, remember?”

  Keisha had been responsible for inviting family, including the minister, her mother, her sisters and some aunts, uncles, cousins I’d never heard of and who apparently weren’t coming to the wedding.

  “Are you close to all of them?” I asked weakly.

  “No, honey, not hardly any of them. But you know how folks is—leave one out and it grows from there to a whole big snowball.” I upped Claire to five casseroles, Mom to five coffee cakes (“Oh, dear, Kelly!”) and called the Party Warehouse for more supplies to be delivered Friday. Then I collapsed in bed, utterly exhausted at 5:30, and slept the clock around.

  By Friday night I was fairly confident. Everything seemed in order, so much so that Mike made supper—a favorite chicken casserole—and told me to stay off my feet. I had to admit my ankles were swollen, my low back ache
d, and it felt terrific to sit on the couch with my feet on the coffee table.

  “Mom,” Maggie remonstrated, “you don’t let us put our feet on the coffee table.”

  “You’re not almost six months pregnant,” I replied serenely.

  As we ate our dinner in the living room, another daily “no-no,” Em asked, “Is Keisha coming over to preview everything?” The room was strewn with streamers and banners, and bouquets of balloons hung from various places. A lovely flower arrangement decorated the dining table, and smaller arrangements were scattered around on coffee tables and bookcases. It really did look festive.

  “No, she wants to be surprised,” I said.

  I turned in early, knowing I’d have to be up early, and as I drifted off I heard Mike and Maggie in a heated chess game. Em was no doubt entertaining herself with a design problem. And I was completely content with my world. There had been no threat, and now I thought Greg Davis or whoever was all bluster and hot air. Maggie was safe. I slept soundly.

  Next morning, we were having an early breakfast when José burst in through the kitchen door. “Where’s Keisha?” he demanded. “I figured she came over here to spend the night but she’s not out in the garage apartment.”

  Mike held up a hand. “She’s not at your apartment?”

  “Nope. But as I said I just figured she was over here, so I went to sleep, got up early and came to surprise her. But she’s not out there…and she’s not in here.” He looked around the kitchen as though to confirm this conclusion.

  “Slow down, man. We haven’t seen her since yesterday. She didn’t want to come over here last night because she wants to be surprised.” Mike paused a minute. “Where’s her car?”

  “Right where she always parks it.”

  “Purse?”

  “On the coffee table. She always throws it there when she comes in. Her high-heeled shoes are by it too.”