“But that’s almost the same as her old will,” Miss Giveny said.
“Exactly! They’ll argue that Marjorie simply wanted to return to her old pattern of distribution. Because Suzannah is over thirty, why not give it to her outright?” Harry returned to his study of the alleyway below. “By the way, did you ever see the secret trust? I never found the instructions in the file.”
Miss Giveny shook her head slowly, then asked, “Did she name Gideon Trust as the executor?”
Harry was overwhelmed with weariness. Helplessness was settling over him. He leaned on the windowsill. “No. Gideon got tossed out, too. Some lawyer named Fulford has the executorship now.”
“Fulford? He’s called three times this afternoon.
Harry turned abruptly from the window. “He has?”
“Yes, James Fulford. He’s demanding all the Deighton files.”
Harry kicked hard. The full wastebasket shot across the room. Both of them watched the contents fly everywhere, then slowly flutter to the carpet. Harry slouched into his chair.
“That bastard has no right to my files,” he whispered, after a long while.
Miss Giveny rose to go. From the file, an aged, tattered envelope slid onto the desk. Harry retrieved it. “What’s this?” he asked.
Her hand shot out. “Nothing. Let me have it for the file.”
The desperate note in her voice alerted Harry. “What’s in it?” Slowly, he began opening the envelope.
“Please, Mr. Jenkins, don’t!”
Harry was alarmed. “Is it to do with the Deighton file?”
Miss Giveny’s lips pursed into a knot. “Yes,” she admitted.
“Then I shall open it.” He tore the remains of the envelope and spread the sheet on the desk. He began to read carefully.
Dear Suzannah,
I love you with all my heart, in a very special way. Conventions and restrictions of my time have forced me to keep a secret. Now that I am free, I can tell you. You are my only child, whom I have loved from a distance. My heart has ached constantly throughout the years to tell you. As a young woman, I was governed by passion. The times were very restrictive. I fell deeply in love with an older married man: Richard Crawford, my lawyer. You can understand how a woman can be swept away by a man. Thralldom makes you risk everything, without fearing loss. You were born of my secret passion, and I have always known we are one of a kind. We yearn to break free. But I greatly fear for you. You are bound by fear, not passion, to Frank Sasso. I have always wanted you to have this house for yourself, but I am worried that he will cheat you out of it someday. I cannot let him do that. Be sure to ask Harold Jenkins about the secret trust. It is your safety and your freedom, my darling. In time, you will break free of that man.
With my enduring love,
Your mother,
Marjorie Deighton
Slowly, Harry looked up at Miss Giveny. “You were keeping this from me?” he asked quietly. Almost overwhelmed, he remembered Crawford’s drawings and his declarations of love, or rather lust, just before he pitched onto the floor. “If you have not experienced the passion, the thrall, you have not lived.” He should fire Miss Giveny on the spot.
Gladys Giveny’s reaction was unexpected. Her face was red with blotches. She bunched a Kleenex up to her nose. “Yes,” she spat out angrily.
Surprised, Harry peered closely at her. He struggled for calm. “But why?” he asked. “Surely you understand how important this is. It explains why Marjorie left the house to Suzannah.” He felt the anger rising fast within him. “What explanation could you possibly have?”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “You’d never understand! I had to protect Mr. Crawford from such accusations. Besides, Mr. Crawford swore me to secrecy.”
“And you kept this from me out of some misguided notion of privilege?” Harry’s voice was rising fast. His face was flushed. Miss Giveny cringed. “Jesus! Who else knows this?”
“Nobody.” she insisted.
“Not Suzannah?”
“Of course not.”
“What about Katharine and Gerry?”
“Who would tell them?”
Harry pondered his legal position. In his hand, he held the evidence substantiating Suzannah’s claim to the house. Regardless of the executorship, he would have to reveal it.
Miss Giveny bowed her head and began muttering darkly, “No man could have resisted her. That brazen hussy flirted shamelessly with him.”
Harry struggled to visualize Marjorie Deighton consumed with aggressive, libidinous intent.
With tears glinting in her eyes, Miss Giveny said, “I typed up the paternity agreement. Mr. Crawford put fifty thousand dollars in trust for that baby, although there was not a shred of proof it was his. George and Mildred Deighton agreed to raise Suzannah as their own. I’m the only one still alive who ever saw that agreement.” After a pause, Miss Giveny continued fiercely, “Mr. Crawford was a true gentleman. It might have been anyone’s child. But he didn’t complain. He took responsibility.”
“Do we still have the paternity agreement?”
“No. I destroyed it after Mr. Crawford died.”
Harry caught his breath. “Good God! What other evidence have you hidden or destroyed?”
She looked up at him. When she spoke, her voice was strong. “None!” She glared at him. “What do you know about these things, anyway? You’ve lived with your wife all these years. You’ve no idea what it’s like to love someone from afar, but work with him every day. I loved Mr. Crawford. I had to protect him.”
Only then did Harry understand the depth of Miss Giveny’s lonely passion. Visions of Merle slipped into his mind. If he tried, he could feel sympathy for the woman trembling across the desk from him. I suppose I should fire her. It certainly was more than warranted. But where would she ever find another job? It would be like turning an orphan out on a cold winter night.
Quietly, he said, “Get me Fulford on the phone.”
Fulford’s voice was high, reedy, and quavering. Harry had an instant picture of an absurdly thin and mottled crane wavering in a pond.
“I assume you are aware, Mr. Jenkins, of Miss Deighton’s new will?”
“And I assume you’re aware, Mr. Fulford, that you’ve got a fight on your hands.”
There was a short pause, and then Fulford continued briskly, “The will is completely valid, although I can understand why some people may be angered by the changes.”
“I want to meet with you.”
“When? Let me get my book.”
“Now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Harry hung up.
***
Fulford’s office was in an old but stylishly renovated house on Bloor Street; tarted up to look like a British barrister’s chambers. A brass knocker and nameplate adorned the oak door, and fake gas lamps were set on either side. With some malice, he imagined the Deightons’ horror of such grand quarters.
Fulford was foolish to keep Harry waiting. Flipping through old magazines, Harry had plenty of time to develop his strategy. When the lawyer finally beckoned him from the hallway, Harry recognized him instantly. It was none other than Jimmy, also known as “the Inflator,” for his outrageous fees. In court, Harry had seen him wring his hands in supplication to wrest the last nickel of compensation out of each estate.
Harry sat in the wing chair in front of Fulford’s desk. He pushed a file to one side and set his briefcase down. Fulford remained standing behind his desk. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I haven’t much time, Mr. Jenkins. What can I do for you?”
“How did you get involved with my client?” Harry demanded, snapping open his briefcase.
“That’s scarcely your concern now, is it?” Fulford’s thin lips drew into a tight line. Harry was close enough to see his nostrils twitch.
“Yes, it is. I couldn’t place you at first, but now I can.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that you’re the lawyer with the creative approach to estate accounting.
Listen, Jimmy, I was in court the day Judge Farley lit into you. Weren’t the beneficiaries alleging doctored appraisals?” Harry gazed benignly at Fulford. Compensation for executors was calculated on a percentage of the value of the estate assets. A good photocopier made it easy to increase the value of appraisals.
“Get the hell out of here, Jenkins!” Fulford rose to his full height behind his desk. He towered over Harry, but he was trembling.
“Listen, Jimmy,” Harry said in the most soothing tone he could find. “You know this Deighton estate won’t be easy money. There’s bound to be a nasty fight. Sit down and we can fill each other in.”
Fulford hesitated and then sat down. Harry continued, “Now, how did you get involved in this one?”
“All right, but there’s not much to tell. I got a call from the vicar at St. Anne’s Parish Church.”
“That’s not Marjorie’s church.”
“No. Apparently the vicar had been contacted by a man named Frank Sasso, I think.” Fulford made a show of consulting his notes. “Sasso wanted him to recommend a solicitor to do a simple will for Miss Deighton.” Fulford shrugged. “I was called and went to see her.”
Harry took a long yellow pad from his briefcase and began making notes.
“When I got there, the housekeeper let me in, and I met with Miss Deighton in the living room.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How did Marjorie seem?”
“You mean, did I think she was competent?”
Harry nodded, not wanting to interrupt. Fulford consulted his file.
“Yes, she was alert—well aware of her assets and who would be the natural objects of her bounty. Actually, she was quite concerned about the family members.”
“Do you have any notes of your interview?”
“Of course.” With a mildly offended air, Fulford turned to the few pages in his file. “I asked if she had made a will before. She smiled at me rather sadly, I thought, and said ‘too many.’”
“Did you ask to see them?”
“No. Miss Deighton made it quite clear that she simply wanted to instruct me, after which I would prepare the will and return for her signature. Which I did.”
“Then you went back on the eighth?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she appoint you as her executor?” Harry held his breath, steeling himself for the answer.
“She didn’t want you to know about the changes.” He looked at his notes and continued. “In fact, she thought you’d try to talk her out of them.”
Harry was astounded at Fulford’s candor.
“Also, she said, and I quote, ‘He’s a dear, patient man, but not incapable of telling me I’m a foolish old woman.’”
Harry smiled. Indeed, that was something she might well say. She must have felt pressured. That was why she had turned to him on the day she died. There was evidence of suspicious circumstances surrounding the making of the new will. But was there enough to make a case of undue influence? Frank was the instigator: that alone was more than suspicious. But suspicious circumstances were only small clouds casting shadows; Harry needed a thunderstorm. He stood and began to pace. Fulford watched in wary silence.
“What did she say about the family?”
“Not a lot, really. She did say that she’d left the house in trust for Suzannah in a prior will and now she wanted to give it to her outright, after what she had undertaken to do. Those were Miss Deighton’s words. Suzannah apparently made some sort of promise.”
“Which was?”
Fulford shrugged. “She didn’t say.”
Harry turned on Fulford. “Didn’t she tell you that the most recent will divided the estate equally three ways?”
“No, she didn’t.” Fulford seemed genuinely surprised. “Had she said so, of course, I would have inquired further.”
Pompous little prig, thought Harry. But he was pleased. The will had been prepared without complete information, maybe under duress. If not, there were at least lots of suspicious circumstances. Her words could be interpreted to mean that she had replaced him as executor against her better judgement.
“Did you know she called me in on the 16th to make another will?”
“She did?” Fulford seemed surprised, but this time it might have been feigned. “What happened?” he asked.
“I found her dead.” Harry stared at Fulford, who was now twisting his fourth paper clip into a knot. He debated how much to reveal. “At first, the police thought it was a natural death, but since they found the body of the housekeeper, they think it’s homicide. They’ve got a court order to exhume the body tomorrow.”
Fulford stared back at Harry in shock. “But who would murder her?”
“You guess, Jimmy!” Harry snapped. “Lots of funny things happen in estates, especially when there’s plenty of money to fight over.” Harry waited to let him digest everything. Although very pale, Fulford gave away nothing.
Harry said quietly, “I think you’ve been used.” He had succeeded beyond his fondest dreams. Fulford was scared. No doubt he knew more than he let on.
“Yes, it is a terrible mess,” Harry continued casually. “First, there’s a murder investigation. The niece and nephew left out in the cold will certainly challenge the will. There’s even a big chunk of money to fund the litigation. Their lawyer will have fun cross-examining you.”
Fulford tossed the knot of paper clips onto the desk and shut the file. He massaged his temples, but remained silent.
Harry prodded further. “I expect the police investigation will drag the administration out.” He concluded softly, “The executorship is hardly worth all the trouble, is it?”
Fulford’s eyes flickered. “Of course, that’s what you’re after, isn’t it, Jenkins?”
“Well, of course. She was my client,” he answered mildly.
Fulford shook his head slowly and sighed. “I’m prepared to renounce the executorship. But we’d better come to terms first.” He picked up a pen and pad.
“What terms?” Harry was on his feet.
“Under the circumstances, I think twenty-five percent of the compensation is fair.”
“For what?” Harry demanded and strode around the desk.
Fulford lurched back in his chair.
Harry was within inches of the man. “Listen, you son of a bitch! You just don’t get it, do you? You’re sitting in the middle of a contested will case and a murder investigation. And somehow, like it or not, you’re personally involved.”
Fulford turned white.
Harry returned to his seat and shook his head in amazement. “You’re either stupid, or you’re such a greedy bastard that you just don’t care! You sign a renunciation before I leave this office, or I’ll make sure this case gets dragged out before Judge Farley!”
Twenty minutes later, Harry strode from the office with the renunciation in his briefcase and a broad grin on his face.
CHAPTER 22
Traffic crawled up the parkway in the early twilight. Frank sang along with the radio as he followed the string of red taillights. A perfect day. Time to celebrate.
Thinking of Jenkins and McCrea, he chuckled. They’d looked like they’d been kicked in the balls. He, Frank Sasso, had outsmarted them all.
The best part was getting back at that ballbuster Katharine. The frigid bitch was just like ice. Madder than hell about the will, too.
So what if dear Auntie called Jenkins about her will the day she died? She didn’t change it. Fact was, Suzannah promised to help her make an exit, if and when, she wanted. That ought to be worth a fucking house, he chuckled.
He fingered the buttons on his cell phone. With one quick call, he would settle the bitch down. He reached Katharine’s voice mail.
“This is just a friendly warning,” he said. The lights of the oncoming traffic made his face look pale and distorted. “Keep this crap up about lawyers and you’ll get what you’re really dying for. But next ti
me, babe, you’re gonna get hurt real bad, if you don’t stop this shit.” Laughing, he hung up.
Auntie’s timing had been perfect. She’d just died real peaceful in her sleep. Making the new will upset her so much, she just croaked. There was nothing to show up in the autopsy.
“Dear sweet Marjorie,” Frank sang out. Smartest thing he’d ever done was to visit her the night after her birthday party. She was too sick to come down, so he just went right up to her room.
***
“What brings you here, Frank?” Marjorie had asked suspiciously when he drew a chair up to her bed. “Where is Suzannah tonight?”
“She’s been out looking at nursing homes.”
Marjorie struggled to sit up. “What? For whom?”
“For you, Auntie dear.” Frank laughed at his own mimicry of Suzannah.
“You’re lying, Frank.” Marjorie reached for the telephone, but he caught her wrist.
“Don’t bother calling. She ain’t home.”
“But why would she be looking for homes?” Marjorie asked uncertainly.
A sly smile crept over Frank’s face. “I know what you asked her to do, Auntie. We gotta keep you from popping all those pills.”
Marjorie was horrified. “She told you?”
“Yup.” Frank grinned. “Didn’t you know assisted suicide is a criminal offence? You want your favorite niece to go to jail?”
Marjorie slumped back on the pillows. If Suzannah had told Frank, he must have bullied it out of her, she reasoned. “Well, what do you want Frank?”
“Now that’s a good girl. I always said you was smart. Me and Suzannah don’t ask much. You want her to help you? Then you gotta give something in return. That’s fair, right?”
Marjorie remained silent.
“All Suzannah wants, Auntie, is the house. Not till you’re dead, of course.”
“That’s it?”
“So that it’s free and clear from Katharine and Gerry.”
“And if I refuse?”
Frank smiled and shook his head. “You don’t want to do that. Believe me. We’ll put you into a nursing home for the criminally insane. We’ll tell people this nice little old lady is off her rocker, dancing around and collecting little bottles of pills.” Frank opened the bedside drawer and whistled. “My, my! Look what we got here, Auntie.”
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