Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  Harry hesitated. “Yes. But it’s customary to meet with all the interested parties together, Mrs. Rowe. Whatever I say to one should be said to all.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, Frank Sasso has a stranglehold on my sister. We need to speak before he arrives.”

  “He’s coming?”

  Katharine smiled patiently. “Suzannah is rarely let out on her own. She can’t stand up to Frank.”

  “I’d normally exclude an outsider from our meeting.”

  “That would only make matters worse.”

  Harry nodded and ushered them into the library. Intending to avoid the semblance of secret dealings, he left the door ajar. In hopes of forestalling incriminating conversations, he offered coffee. They declined.

  Taking his seat, Harry began uncomfortably, “You understand, Mrs. Rowe, I’m somewhat in the middle here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Any estate lawyer has to be impartial in dealing with the beneficiaries.”

  Katharine nodded and said, “Don’t worry. We’re not asking any special favors from the estate. Gerry and I have retained a lawyer.”

  Anyone cut out of a will ought to get legal advice, but Katharine’s speed suggested a preemptive strike. “Shouldn’t your counsel be here?”

  “Not yet. We’ll make it clear to Suzannah that this is her only chance to settle with us, otherwise we bring in the lawyers and sue for undue influence. You saw Frank gloating over the new will he got Marjorie to sign. We won’t back down on undue influence. Frank’s in for a very expensive battle.” Katharine’s smile was cold and brittle. Gerry slunk back in the shadows. A well-coached client, thought Harry.

  “Whom have you retained?” Harry asked mildly, picking up his pen. He was not prepared for the answer.

  “Mr. Tony McKeown, of Cheney, Arpin.”

  Slowly, Harry set his pen down. McKeown was into everything. An offer submitted on Marjorie’s house. Representing the church in a rezoning application. And now, acting for two beneficiaries over Marjorie’s will. Closing his eyes, Harry saw shark fins cutting too close.

  “Mrs. Rowe. Mr. Deighton,” he began stiffly, “I must advise you that Mr. McKeown submitted an offer on behalf of one of his clients to buy your aunt’s house.”

  Katharine’s lips froze into a perfect “O.”

  Gerry covered his face with his hands and said wearily, “That’s just terrific, Katherine. See what you’ve gotten us into?”

  Harry recognized Miss Giveny’s peremptory knock. “Come in,” he said absently, his mind still lost in thickets of possibilities.

  Miss Giveny made way for Suzannah.

  Gerry was immediately on his feet. “Suzie! For God’s sake, what happened?"

  Katharine gasped. Tears of fury sprang in her eyes.

  Wavering in the doorway, Suzannah tried a weak smile. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of an accident.” Frank loomed behind her. His massive hands dangled at his sides.

  Suzannah’s face was swollen. Her left eye was partially closed. Deep purple and yellow welts rose to her hairline and down into her cheek. Her lip, split open several inches, had required stitching.

  Harry was swept with rage. At the sight of Suzannah, every sinew in his body screamed. Visions of the hideous carvings and bruising on the paralegals leapt to his brain. “What in hell is going on here, Frank?” he demanded.

  Immediately, the pleading in her eyes silenced him. At last he understood why beaten women stayed with their men: gut-wrenching fear.

  “Good God!” Katharine bit her lip. “What have you done to her, Frank?” she hissed.

  Gerry pulled out a chair. Frank guided her to the table. He spoke as if she were a small child. “I always tell her to be real careful around the house. Tell them what you did this time, honey!”

  She brushed strands of hair from her blackened face and whispered, “It really was stupid of me.” She twisted a Kleenex around her fingers. “I was trying to wallpaper one of the bedrooms. I was up on a ladder. I reached over too far and fell off.” She shrugged. “That’s really all there is to it.”

  She glanced up at Frank.

  “Poor baby!” he said. “You just have no sense of balance with heights.”

  Katharine had witnessed the same fear and pleading in other women’s eyes at the shelter. Those victims rarely broke free of their men alive.

  Satisfied that no further challenges were coming, Frank continued, “Now what’s this meeting all about, counselor? How come you still figure in this?”

  “Before we continue, Frank, everyone must agree to your presence.”

  Everyone looked about uneasily.

  “It’s up to Suzie,” said Gerry. “If she wants him here, then it’s okay with me.”

  Suzannah twisted her Kleenex and said, “It’s all right.”

  Katharine simply nodded.

  “I still figure in this, Frank, because James Fulford has renounced the executorship,” Harry said.

  “What does that mean?” Frank was wary.

  “It means he doesn’t want the job. He’s signed a renunciation. I have a copy for all of you.”

  “Now, wait a minute! That doesn’t mean the new will’s no good.”

  “No, Frank, it doesn’t. But now there are two wills and an offer on the house. The more recent one gives Suzannah the house, and the balance of the estate is split equally among the three of you. The prior will divides the whole estate, including the house, equally among the three of you.”

  “Let’s see the first will,” said Frank.

  “I can only show you a photocopy of it.”

  “How come?” Frank shifted in his chair. “Where’s the original?”

  “I don’t have it, Frank.”

  “You mean you’ve lost it?” Frank could not suppress a grin.

  “I didn’t say that,” Harry said quietly.

  Momentarily, Frank looked uncertain.

  “Just what are you saying, Mr. Jenkins?” asked Gerry. He glanced at Katharine, who was rigid in her seat.

  “I’m saying it’s gone. Taken from this office,” said Harry blandly. Instinct told him to tread carefully.

  Frank said, “Seems like you got yourself a bit of a problem, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “How so?”

  “The will was in your office, wasn’t it? Even in your vault. You’re responsible for a client’s will, aren’t you?” Frank’s fists clenched as he spoke.

  “I’m saying that the will was stolen. My office was ransacked. I called the police. I’m told they’re following up some interesting leads. Somebody wanted it very badly.”

  “Where does that leave us now?” asked Katharine.

  Harry shrugged. “It’s not all that serious. The court will approve the will, under these circumstances.”

  “You’re telling us a court’s gonna allow a copy?” Frank pushed back his chair.

  “Yes, of course. Particularly if the original has been stolen.”

  “Well, just a minute. I hear different!” Frank was on his feet, looking down on Suzannah. “Listen. I talk with some of the best legal minds in the city, you know. And…” Frank stopped. “Well, they’re always saying you gotta have the original of anything for court!”

  “Good thinking, Frank. That’s probably what the thief hoped,” Harry added mildly.

  “Listen, Jenkins—you accusing me of taking it? Why would I take an old will, when she’d already made the new one, fair and square?”

  Gerry interrupted. “Look! This is a waste of time. If a copy of the old will is as good as the original, what does it matter? I thought we were here to look at an offer.” Gerry glanced about the room for support. “We could all use some money now, couldn’t we? I know I certainly could.”

  “We can look at an offer, can’t we?” Katharine asked.

  “Of course. If all the beneficiaries agree, then the property can be sold and the proceeds held in trust until the issue of the wills is decided in court,” Harry replied, distributing copies of the offer among them.
“The offer is far above the estimated fair market value of the house. It is submitted by a numbered company through the law office of Cheney, Arpin, courtesy of Mr. McKeown. The problem with a numbered company is that it’s very difficult to ascertain the true owners of the company. We don’t know whom we’re dealing with. The sale is to occur on June twentieth. The purchase price is two million, five hundred thousand dollars. If accepted, the value of the estate will be over five million.”

  Suzannah’s voice broke the dead silence. “Don’t any of you understand? We must think about Aunt Marjorie. She’s not just dead; she’s been murdered. Yet here we sit, fighting over the spoils, without a thought for her. I am not going to decide about the wills or the offer until we know who murdered her. And that’s final, Frank.”

  Harry intervened. “Suzannah is making an important point. I’m sure everyone here cared for Marjorie and wants to know what happened.”

  Katharine spoke. “Suzannah, I’m sure you are acting out of loyalty to Marjorie. But I want to be perfectly clear about one thing. I’m not waiting to straighten out these wills. I have an appointment to see my lawyer, Mr. McKeown, immediately after this. You’ll be hearing directly from him.” Katharine pushed back her chair and stood up. “Gerry, I’m going to do this myself. You don’t need to come with me.”

  Relieved, Gerry nodded dumbly.

  At the door, Katharine turned on Frank. “Touch Suzannah again, Frank, and you’ll have to deal with me.”

  After the others had left, Harry stretched and massaged his neck. Suzannah was right. Marjorie was still at the center of the maelstrom. Settlement was impossible until they knew who killed her.

  Miss Giveny appeared in the doorway. “Your corporate searches were just delivered,” she said.

  Harry took the envelope and rifled through the searches. After several moments of study, he examined the connection between Zaimir and the numbered company. He said, “Sit down, Miss Giveny, please. What do you think of Frank?” he asked.

  Miss Giveny’s eyes widened. “He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “Capable of extreme violence?”

  “Anything could crawl out of that skin, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Harry simply nodded. “Do you think he beat up Suzannah?”

  “Who else? Only a fool would believe that story of falling off a ladder.”

  “Who do you think murdered Marjorie?”

  Miss Giveny made a face and quietly said, “Frank. Who else?”

  Harry stared into space.

  At last, Miss Giveny cleared her throat loudly. “Mr. Jenkins?”

  “What?”

  “You look like you’re lost in a brown study. Do you want me for anything else?”

  “No, that’s it. Thank you.” Pocketing the key to Marjorie’s place, Harry rose from his desk, found his coat, and headed out the door for her house. The secret trust had to be the missing piece in the puzzle of Marjorie’s wills.

  Harry swore he would find the secret trust, even if he had to tear the house apart.

  He took the steps two at a time to her bedroom. It was still exactly the same as when he had found her. There was a slight depression in the bedspread where she had lain. Even the wastebasket was full. Carefully, he smoothed the crumpled papers on the desk. There was nothing but discarded shopping lists and birthday cards.

  After searching her drawers, he decided to try the parlor. His eyes rested upon a side table with a locked drawer, but no key. Running his hand underneath the drawer, he came up dry. He reached behind the mantelpiece clock, and there it was—a small silver key.

  The drawer opened with surprising ease. He saw neatly organized packets of papers, elastic bands, and paper clips, along with a deed, a survey, her living will, and a journal from a trip. About to close the drawer, he noticed a small black metal box at the very back. He unfolded the papers inside, and read.

  SECRET TRUST OF MARJORIE DEIGHTON, TO BE READ WITH ANY VALID WILL OF MINE:

  IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, any interest in my estate, whether a conveyance of my house, or a share in the residue of my estate, or any legacy in favor of my daughter, Suzannah Deighton, shall only be given to her PROVIDED THAT she is not living with or in any way influenced by FRANK SASSO. The determination of these issues shall be made at the sole and absolutely binding discretion of my solicitor, HAROLD JENKINS, (regardless of whether he is an executor of my estate or not) of the firm Crane, Crawford and Jenkins, whose judgment and diligence I implicitly trust. IN THE EVENT THAT the said HAROLD JENKINS determines that my daughter is living with FRANK SASSO or is influenced by him in any manner, he may instruct any executor of my will to hold such interest in trust for her and pay out only income in such amounts and from time to time as the said HAROLD JENKINS sees fit in his sole and incontestable discretion.

  Harry stared out the leaded glass windows of the parlor. Yes, Marjorie had signed and dated the trust several years back. He’d had her confidence, right from the start. Richard Crawford was too personally involved to exercise sound judgement. She had probably witnessed Richard’s increasingly bizarre behavior at very close quarters. Laura never understood how much Harry valued the trust and confidence of a client—nor did he until he read Marjorie’s secret trust.

  According to the secret trust, Suzannah would get no interest if she had anything to do with Frank. Since the trust applied to any will, Marjorie had felt safe in changing it. Slowly, he inserted the document into his breast pocket, and then locked up the house.

  CHAPTER 28

  The ritual gave the Florist great pleasure. Every Thursday night at eight o’clock, he took a small gold key from his bureau and unlocked his den. His mother had died at precisely eight o’clock on a Thursday night, almost twenty-five years ago. With growing apprehension, he wondered if she would speak to him tonight. It was so frustrating. Sometimes he felt as if she were right in the room with him. At other times, out of spite, she refused to appear.

  The lock turned and the door silently swung open. The room was in stark contrast to the rest of his apartment, which was sparsely furnished in a minimalist style. Three wooden tables were stacked high with chinaware. On the walls hung rows of prints of African masks, frighteningly primitive.

  According to ritual, he took five measured paces toward the window and then drew open the drapes, letting the moonlight sweep into the room. Light shimmered across the three wooden tables stacked with chinaware, the finest Spode, in a variety of floral patterns.

  The artist examined the round and heavy soup tureen (mother’s favorite), then caressed a sugar bowl, and then a creamer. With loving care, he set the pieces down and faced the window.

  “Mother, you would be so proud of me. Despite my deformity, I am becoming a very fine artist. I have worked very hard.”

  Holding the sugar bowl up, serenity crept over his features. Swiftly, he snapped the handles from the little bowl. He spoke softly, as if in prayer. “Mother, I have met a woman. Her name is Katharine Rowe and she is perfect. I want you to see her.”

  He carefully placed the shards of china onto a snowy white napkin and wrapped them up.

  “Goodnight,” he said. “I love you, Mother.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Donnie dragged himself up the stairs of the Dundas subway station. Tears ran down his face. Last night, he had talked to Frank when he was drinking and in an ugly mood.

  “Listen, kid,” Frank shouted, “I didn’t hurt your precious Gram. She just died in her sleep.”

  “But you made her change her will. My dad says so,” Donnie insisted.

  “She left Suzannah the house, fair and square, after she promised to look after her.”

  “My dad says she died of an overdose.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothin’ about that.” Frank shoved Donnie aside.

  He could tell, by the way Frank’s eyes were all shifty, that he’d poisoned her tea and then, worst of all, used him to deliver it. Frank was going to pay big time.

  In the chat rooms, they wer
e talking about the Florist and the cleansing power of fire. But that guy used a knife. Donnie loved the smell and crackle of fire, but that was no way to get rid of Frank. He knew he was too small and weak for a knife. It had to be a gun. But how could he get one? The next day, he asked around at school. The Flamingo Restaurant, he was told.

  Most of all, he wanted the bastard to suffer. Smiling, he decided to make Frank crawl on the floor with his fat ass waving in the air. Make him beg. He met the man selling guns in the back room of the Flamingo. It was easy! He gave them the money and he got the gun. Already, he could hear Frank pleading.

  ***

  On the morning Donnie got the gun, Frank drove to Buffalo to see Benny. He was at the Burlington Skyway. Below the high bridge, the bay glistened, but on the Buffalo side, heavy clouds made the water a dirty gray. Jesus! Chin had told him to see Benny about the missing money. A few years back, he’d met the Chinaman on some downtown condo sales. And when he had needed cash fast, he had introduced him to Benny. No problem. He could earn it by delivering bundles of cash from Benny to Chin. He kicked himself. It had been stupid to take a loan from the last delivery. Now he had to explain fast.

  Benny’s office was at the back of a convenience store. Frank parked in the back laneway.

  “Hiya, fat boy!” Frank did not move. “Benny’s expecting you. We’re going in the side door.” Two men led Frank down an alleyway and into an alcove. “Put your hands against the wall, fat boy.”

  “Come on, guys,” Frank said, but he set down his briefcase and leaned into the wall. He craned his neck around to see them. The first blow was the worst. Screaming, Frank crumpled to his knees. Writhing in the rubble, he almost blacked out from the pain radiating from the small of his back. A boot slammed into his neck, cutting off his air. Hot breath was on his cheek. The pavement scraped his chin.

  “Frank, Frank. The boss don’t like his men taking unauthorized cuts.” There was a low chuckle. “Just a friendly warning, fat boy. It’s payback time.”

  They dragged Frank to his feet and opened the door. “The boss is gonna see you now, Frank.”