I heard her drain her cup. I can even tell that. When Charlie returned, she asked him for the bill. He tore off a slip from his pad and handed it to her. She passed him a banknote, and he gave her back some coins.
“Thank you, madam,” said Charlie effusively. It must have been a generous tip.
“Good-bye,” she said, her voice directed toward me. “It was nice to talk to you.”
I rose from my place, gave her a slight bow, and said, “I do hope you enjoy the service.”
“Thank you,” she replied. As she walked away I heard her say to Charlie, “What a charming man.” But then, she had no way of knowing how acute my hearing is.
And then she was gone.
I sat waiting impatiently for Charlie to return. I had so many questions for him. How many of my guesses would turn out to be correct this time? From the buzz of cheerful chatter in the café, I guessed there were a lot of customers in that morning, so it was some time before Charlie was once again standing by my side.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Trevathan?” he teased.
“There most certainly will be, Charlie,” I replied. “For a start, I want to know all about the woman who was sitting next to me. Was she tall or short? Fair or dark? Was she slim? Good-looking? Was she—”
Charlie burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“She asked me exactly the same questions about you.”
WHERE THERE’S A WILL*
5
Now, you’ve all heard the story about the beautiful young nurse who takes care of a bedridden old man, convinces him to change his will in her favor, and ends up with a fortune, having deprived his children of their rightful inheritance. I confess that I thought I’d heard every variation on this theme; at least that was until I came across Miss Evelyn Beattie Moore, and even that wasn’t her real name.
Miss Evelyn Mertzberger hailed from Milwaukee. She was born on the day Marilyn Monroe died, and that wasn’t the only thing they had in common: Evelyn was blonde, she had the kind of figure that makes men turn and take a second look, and she had legs you rarely come across other than in an ad campaign for stockings.
So many of her friends from Milwaukee commented on how like Marilyn Monroe she looked that it wasn’t surprising when as soon as Evelyn left school she bought a one-way ticket to Hollywood. On arrival in the City of Angels, she changed her name to Evelyn Beattie Moore (half Mary Tyler Moore and half Warren Beatty), but quickly discovered that, unlike Marilyn, she didn’t have any talent as an actress, and no number of directors’ couches was going to remedy that.
Once Evelyn had accepted this—not an easy thing for any aspiring young actress to come to terms with—she began to look for alternative employment—which was difficult in the city of a thousand blondes.
She had spent almost all of her savings renting a small apartment in Glendale and buying a suitable wardrobe for auditions, agency photographs, and the endless parties young hopefuls had to be seen at.
It was after she’d checked her latest bank statement that Evelyn realized a decision had to be made if she was to avoid returning to Milwaukee and admitting she wasn’t quite as like Marilyn as her friends had thought. But what else could she do?
The idea never would have occurred to Evelyn if she hadn’t come across the entry while she was flicking through the Yellow Pages looking for an electrician. It was some time before she was willing to make the necessary phone call, and then only after a final demand for the last three months’ rent dropped through her mailbox.
The Happy Hunting agency assured Evelyn that their escorts were under no obligation to do anything other than have dinner with the client. They were a professional agency that supplied charming young ladies as companions for discreet gentlemen. However, it was none of their business if those young ladies chose to come to a private arrangement with the client. As the agency took 50 percent of the booking fee, Evelyn got the message.
She decided at first that she would only sleep with a client if she felt there was a chance of their developing a long-term relationship. However, she quickly discovered that most men’s idea of a long-term relationship was about an hour, and in some cases half an hour. But at least her new job made it possible for her to pay off the landlord, and even to open a savings account.
When Evelyn celebrated—or, to be more accurate, remained silent about—her thirtieth birthday, she decided the time had come to take revenge on the male species.
While not quite as many men were turning to give her a second look, Evelyn had accumulated enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. But not enough to ensure that that lifestyle would continue once she reached her fortieth birthday, and could no longer be sure of a first look.
Evelyn disappeared, and once again she changed her name. Three months later, Lynn Beattie turned up in Florida, where she registered for a diploma course at the Miami College of Nursing.
You may well ask why Lynn selected the Sunshine State for her new enterprise. I think it can be explained by some statistics she came across while carrying out her research. An article she read in Playboy magazine revealed that Florida was the state with the greatest number of millionaires per capita, and that the majority of them had retired and had a life expectancy of less than ten years. However, she quickly realized that she would need to carry out much more research if she hoped to graduate top of that particular class, as she was likely to come up against some pretty formidable rivals who had the same thing in mind as she did.
In the course of a long weekend spent with a middle-aged married doctor, Lynn discovered, without once having to refer to a textbook, not only that Jackson Memorial Hospital was the most expensive rest home in the state, but also that it didn’t offer special rates for deserving cases.
Once Lynn had graduated with a nursing diploma, and a grade, which came as a surprise to her fellow students but not to her professor, she applied for a job at Jackson Memorial.
She was interviewed by a panel of three, two of whom, including the Medical Director, were not convinced that Ms. Beattie came from the right sort of background to be a Jackson nurse. The third bumped into her in the car park on his way home, and the following morning he was able to convince his colleagues to change their minds.
Lynn Beattie began work as a probationary nurse on the first day of the following month. She did not rush the next part of her plan, aware that if the Medical Director found out what she was up to, he would dismiss her without a second thought.
From the first day, Lynn went quietly and conscientiously about her work, melting into the background while keeping her eyes wide open. She quickly discovered that a hospital, just like any other workplace, has its gossipmongers, who enjoy nothing more than to pass on the latest snippet of information to anyone willing to listen. Lynn was willing to listen. After a few weeks Lynn had discovered the one thing she needed to know about the doctors, and, later, a great deal more about their patients.
There were twenty-three doctors who ministered to the needs of seventy-one residents. Lynn had no interest in how many nurses there were, because she had no plans for them, provided she didn’t come across a rival.
The gossipmonger told her that three of the doctors assumed that every nurse wanted to sleep with them, which made it far easier for Lynn to continue her research. After another few weeks, which included several “stopovers,” she found out, without ever being able to make a note, that sixty-eight of the residents were married, senile, or, worse, received regular visits from their devoted relatives. Lynn had to accept the fact that 90 percent of women either outlive their husbands or end up divorcing them. It’s all part of the American dream. However, Lynn still managed to come up with a shortlist of three candidates who suffered from none of these deficiencies: Frank Cunningham Jr., Larry Schumacher III, and Arthur J. Sommerfield.
Frank Cunningham was eliminated when Lynn discovered that he had two mistresses, one of whom was pregnant and had recently serve
d a paternity suit on him, demanding that a DNA test be carried out.
Larry Schumacher III also had to be crossed off the list when Lynn found out he was visited every day by his close friend Gregory, who didn’t look a day over fifty. Come to think of it, not many people in Florida do.
However, the third candidate ticked all her boxes.
Arthur J. Sommerfield was a retired banker whose worth according to Forbes magazine—a publication which had replaced Playboy as Lynn’s postgraduate reading—was estimated at round a hundred million dollars: a fortune that had grown steadily through the assiduous husbandry of three generations of Sommerfields. Arthur was a widower who had only been married once (another rarity in Florida), to Arlene, who had died of breast cancer some seven years earlier. He had two children, Chester and Joni, both of whom lived abroad. Chester worked for an engineering company in Brazil, and was married with three children, while his sister Joni had recently become engaged to a landscape gardener in Montreal. Although they both wrote to their father regularly, and phoned most Sundays, visits were less frequent.
Six weeks later, after a slower than usual courtship, Lynn was transferred to the private wing of Dr. William Grove, who was the personal physician of her would-be victim.
Dr. Grove was under the illusion that the only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having to do overtime, especially after he’d informed her that poor Mr. Sommerfield didn’t have much longer to live.
Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine that ensured her patient’s every need was attended to. Mr. Sommerfield’s preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favorite beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur—he insisted she call him Arthur—to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning constitutional round the grounds, during which he would always cling onto her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung onto.
After lunch she would read to the old man until he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favorite television sitcom, The Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.
At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt whiskey—it didn’t take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was acceptable—accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr. Grove, but encouraged by Lynn.
“We just won’t tell him,” Lynn would say before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something else she didn’t tell the doctor about.
One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only a few weeks to live.
“Much more pleasant to spend your final days in familiar surroundings,” Dr. Grove explained to Lynn. “And besides,” he added in a quieter voice, “it doesn’t look good if everyone who comes to Jackson Memorial dies here.”
On hearing the news of his imminent discharge—which, loosely translated, meant demise—Arthur refused to budge unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an agency nurse who didn’t understand his daily routine.
“So, how would you feel about leaving us for a few weeks?” Dr. Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.
“I don’t want to leave you, William,” she said, taking his hand, “but if it’s what you want me to do . . .”
“We wouldn’t be apart for too long, honey,” Dr. Grove said, taking her in his arms. “And in any case, as his physician, I’d have to visit the old man at least twice a week.”
“But he could live for months, possibly years,” said Lynn, clinging to him.
“No, darling, that’s not possible. I can assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.” Dr. Grove was not able to see the smile on Lynn’s face.
Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.
He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn’s hand. He didn’t speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick mansion.
“This is the family home,” said Arthur proudly.
And it’s where I’ll be spending the rest of my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in a public park.
She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur’s master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.
It was on a Thursday evening, after his second whiskey (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr. Grove wouldn’t be visiting his patient that day), that Arthur said, “I know I don’t have much longer to live, my dear.” Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved a dismissive hand before adding, “And I’d like to leave you a little something in my will.”
A little something wasn’t exactly what Lynn had in mind. “How considerate of you,” she replied. “But I don’t want anything, Arthur . . .” She hesitated. “Except perhaps . . .”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy cause? Or a bequest to your favorite charity in my name?”
“How typically thoughtful of you, my dear. But wouldn’t you also like some personal memento?”
Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some time before she said, “Well, I’ve grown rather attached to your cane with the silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson Memorial. And if your children wouldn’t object, I’d also like the photo of you that’s on your desk in the study—the one taken when you were a freshman at Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.”
The old man smiled. “You shall have both of them, my dear. I’ll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.”
Mr. Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins & Purbright, was not the kind of man who would easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie’s charms. However, he wholeheartedly approved when his client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected charities and other institutions to his will—after all, he was a Princeton man himself. And he certainly didn’t object when Arthur told him that he wanted to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.
“Just a keepsake, you understand,” Lynn murmured as the lawyer wrote down Arthur’s words.
“I’ll send the documents to you within a week,” Mr. Haskins said as he rose to leave, “in case there are any further revisions you might wish to consider.”
“Thank you, Haskins,” Arthur replied, but he had fallen asleep even before they’d had a chance to shake hands.
Mr. Haskins was as good as his word, and a large legal envelope, marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL, arrived by courier five days later. Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully. After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to be amended before the old man put his signature to it.
When Lynn brought in Arthur’s breakfast tray the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, “I don’t think Mr. Haskins likes me.”
“What makes you say that, my dear?” asked Arthur as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.
She placed a copy of the will on his bedside table and said, “There’s no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of my favorite photo of you. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to remember you
by.”
“Damn the man,” said Arthur, spilling his hot chocolate. “Get him on the phone immediately.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Lynn. “I’ll be passing by his office later this afternoon. I’ll drop the will off and remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that, my dear. But be sure you’re back in time for Phil Silvers.”
Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins & Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr. Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr. Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins & Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner. There were several other lawyers in the town who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr. Kullick’s favor was the fact that he was the vice president of the local branch of the National Rifle Association.
Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As she entered the lawyer’s office, Mr. Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his potential client into a chair. “How can I help you, Miss Beattie?” he asked even before he’d sat down.
“You can’t help me,” said Lynn, “but my employer is in need of your services. He’s unable to attend in person because, sadly, he’s bedridden.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kullick. “However, I’ll need to know who it is that I’d be representing.” When he heard the name, he sat bolt upright in his chair and straightened his tie.
“Mr. Sommerfield has recently executed a new will,” said Lynn, “and he wishes one paragraph on page thirty-two to be amended.” She passed over the will that had been prepared by Mr. Haskins, and the reworded paragraph she had neatly typed on Arthur’s headed notepaper above a signature he had scrawled after a third whiskey.
Once Mr. Kullick had read the emendation, he remained silent for some time. “I will happily draw up a new will for Mr. Sommerfield, but of course I’ll need to be present when he signs the document.” He paused. “It will also have to be countersigned by an independent witness.”
And Thereby Hangs a Tale Page 5
