A Peach of a Murder

by Livia J. Washburn

  “We don’t need to go back that far,” Phyllis said. She didn’t know exactly when old Mrs. Boatwright had died, and she supposed they should have come armed with that knowledge. “Maybe fifty years or so.”

  “Any records in particular?”

  “Last wills and testaments,” Phyllis said.

  Doris lifted a gate in the counter. “Well, come on back. I’ll show you where those record books are.”

  When Phyllis saw the long rows of file cabinets, she realized what a daunting task she and Sam had set for themselves. It might take days of looking through the record books before they found the last will and testament of Donnie Boatwright’s mother.

  “Any particular year you want to start with?” Doris asked.

  Sam took his cell phone out of his pocket and said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Phyllis hadn’t heard the phone ring, but maybe he had it set to vibrate. But rather than answering a call, he opened the phone and appeared to make one, poking at keys on the keypad for a good five minutes instead of talking into the blasted thing. Doris looked like she was starting to get a little impatient when Sam finally closed the phone and said, “Nineteen sixty-eight. Starting with May of that year, if you need it narrowed down more.”

  Doris nodded and turned to the file cabinets, opening one of them and running a fingertip along the spines of the large, leather-bound books that were filed inside it. While she was doing that, Phyllis tried not to stare at Sam.

  “Here you go,” Doris said as she hauled out one of the books. “What you’re looking for should be in this volume. It covers April, May, and June of that year, and then the volumes continue on after that if you need any more of them.” Again she ran her finger along the line of books.

  “Thank you for your help,” Sam said.

  “Oh, it was no problem. And I’m sorry about that marriage license mix-up before.”

  “Don’t you worry about it,” Sam told her.

  “Y’all can use this table right here,” Doris added. She set the book on the wooden table in front of the filing cabinets. “Thank you, Doris.” Phyllis said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Not as big a help as you were to me, Miz Newsom. I always enjoyed your class.”

  “That’s nice to hear. You were a good student.”

  Doris smiled, nodded, and went back to the front counter, leaving Phyllis and Sam there with the record book. As they sat down, Phyllis opened it, but before she began looking through it, she asked quietly, “How in heaven’s name did you do that?”

  He tapped his shirt pocket where he had slipped the cell phone. “Oh, I got Wi-Fi on this phone, so I Googled Donnie Boatwright and found out his mother’s name, then Googled her and got an obituary for her, and that gave me the date of her death, May 27, 1968. We can figure it took a while after that for her will to be probated, but it ought to be within the next few months. That’ll cut down some on our looking.”

  “It’ll cut down a lot,” Phyllis said. “Oh, and by the way… I was lost after you said Wi-Fi.”

  Chapter 23

  Phyllis’s comment hadn’t been completely true. She had understood some of what Sam said. She knew that Google was a search engine on the Internet, and she thought Wi-Fi meant that he had wireless access to the Internet on his phone. But she wouldn’t have had the slightest idea how to accomplish what Sam had done in a matter of minutes. That made her feel a little resentful at first, as if he had been showing off, until she told herself that he probably couldn’t have come up with a recipe for spicy peach cobbler, nor could he have cooked it and made it fit to eat. Everyone had their own particular talents, she had always told her students, and she believed that.

  They sat side by side, their blue Jean-clad legs almost touching but not quite, and leaned forward in their chairs to peer at the documents in the massive book. These were only photocopies; the actual documents were probably in the files of the various attorneys who had handled these wills. But copies would do just fine for their purposes.

  Phyllis recognized quite a few of the names she saw as they paged through the volume. Back in the sixties, she had been a young teacher and had known many of the families in town due to her associations with her students. Weatherford had seemed like a much smaller place back then, the sort of town where everybody knew everybody else. That hadn’t been true, of course, even then, but that perception had been a lot closer to accurate in those days. Now, with the town sprawling out in all directions and new housing developments springing up seemingly overnight and new businesses pouring in, Weatherford was … well, it was getting to seem a lot like Fort Worth or Dallas. That unique small-town atmosphere still existed, but it was fading.

  Like Mattie said, you couldn’t stop change. Most of the time, you couldn’t even slow it down.

  By the time they reached the end of the book, they hadn’t found Oletha Boatwright’s will. Sam got up, carried the volume back over to the filing cabinet, replaced it, and took out the next one in line. He set it in front of Phyllis, who opened it and began turning the pages as Sam sat down again.

  This volume covered the third quarter of 1968, and when they came to the pages for August of that year, they found what they were looking for. Mrs. Boatwright’s last will and testament included enough legalese to fill up three pages, but once Phyllis and Sam waded through all the verbiage and figured out what it meant, the upshot was pretty simple. Mrs. Boatwright had directed that her outstanding debts be paid, had made a couple of small bequests to charities, and then had left the balance of her estate to her son, Donald Wilson Boatwright.

  Sam sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Not even a mention of the other two kids. It’s like Donnie was her only child.”

  “That would make me mad,” Phyllis said. “Wouldn’t it bother you?”

  “I’d probably be pretty peeved,” Sam agreed. “Maybe not so much about the money, but more about being ignored that way. I don’t hardly see how a parent could do that.”

  “I got the impression that Mrs. Boatwright relied on Donnie to take care of her. He had her power of attorney, after all.”

  “You know how much money was in the estate?” Phyllis shook her head. “No idea, and the will doesn’t

  say. But Donnie’s always been well-to-do, as far back as I remember him. I have only a vague memory of his mother being alive, but I think she lived in the same house where Donnie does now … where he did, I should say. It’s a beautiful old place on the western edge of town-not quite what you’d call a mansion, but close.”

  “So it was probably a valuable estate?”

  “The house had to be worth a lot. From what Bud Winfield said, Donnie had already gotten his hands on a lot of the other assets. But I’ll bet the estate added up to quite a bit, anyway.” Phyllis studied the photocopied document and then placed a slender finger on the date the will had been written. “May 21. A week before Mrs. Boatwright died. That’s changing your will at the last minute, all right.”

  “Wonder what the terms were of the will this one replaced,” Sam mused.

  Phyllis shook her head. “There’s no way of finding that out. Unless …” She turned back to the final page of the document and found the signature of the lawyer who had prepared it, feeling a sudden surge of excitement when she recognized it. “William Kinnison. He’s still alive, Sam. I think he’s mostly retired, but he still has a law office down by the square.”

  “You think he’d talk to us?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I think it’s worth a try.” There was a coin-operated photocopy machine near the table. They took the book over to it, made two copies of every page they needed, and then put the book back in the filing cabinet. As they were leaving, Doris Threadgill smiled at them and asked, “Y’ all find what you were looking for?” “I hope so,” Phyllis told her.

  They drove toward downtown, Phyllis handling the big Lincoln easily in the traffic. They went past the First Monday grounds and the farmer’s market, then Phylli
s found a parking place on the square. William Kinnison’s law office was on one of the side streets, less than a block off the square, she explained to Sam.

  “He may not be there,” she said. “I don’t know how often he comes into the office these days.”

  Luck was with them. The secretary inside the well furnished office told them, “Yes, Mr. Kinnison is here. Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Phyllis said. “We just need to talk to him for a minute, though.”

  “Could I ask what this is about?” “It’s about a will.”

  The secretary, who was in her fifties, shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kinnison doesn’t draw up wills or other documents anymore. He doesn’t take any new clients, either. He’s semiretired and only handles a few matters for his existing clients.”

  “That’s what we want to ask him about-one of his existing clients.”

  The secretary got a stern look on her face. “I’m afraid Mr. Kinnison can’t help you. He can’t discuss any legal matters pertaining to his clients. That would be privileged information.”

  Sam held up the copies they had made of Oletha Boatwright’s will. “This is public information, right out of the county clerk’s office.”

  The secretary frowned and started to say something else, but before she could, the door to the inner office opened and a tall old man with a white beard stepped out. “I heard someone come in, Debbie,” he said. “Who-” The man stopped and smiled at Phyllis and Sam. “You’re Mrs. Newsom, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I don’t think we’ve ever met, Mr. Kinnison-“

  He waved a gnarled hand. “No, but I know you. Saw your picture in the paper last week after Donnie Boatwright keeled over dead when he ate your peach pie.”

  Phyllis bristled. Trying to control her annoyance, she said, “My cobbler didn’t have anything to do with it.” “No, no, didn’t mean that it did. What can I do for you?” “We’d like to ask you about Donnie.” Phyllis said, “and the will his mother made that left everything to him.”

  Sam held up the photocopies again.

  Kinnison’s eyes widened a little in surprise. “Lord, I hadn’t thought about that in years,” he muttered. “Come in, you two, come in. I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

  Sam introduced himself and shook hands with Kinnison, as he, ushered them into his office. The secretary looked on in apparent disapproval, but Phyllis pretty much ignored her.

  Kinnison had to be close to ninety years old, but he was still spry for his age. He wore a brown, Western-cut suit and a string tie with turquoise and silver decorations, and he looked like he could still climb into a saddle if he wanted to. When he was settled down behind his desk and Phyllis and Sam were in the leather chairs in front of it, he said, “You must be mighty interested in the past to go to the trouble of digging up that old will.”

  “I was a history teacher before I retired,” Phyllis told him. “The past has always held a great deal of interest for me … especially the way it affects the present.”

  Kinnison took a long black cigar out of a humidor on his desk. For a second Phyllis was afraid he was going to light it, and she knew a stogie like that probably smelled terrible. He put it in his mouth and left it unlit, though, preferring to chew on the end and roll it from side to side occasionally. He held out a hand and said, “Mind if I take a look at those papers?”

  Sam hesitated but handed them over. Kinnison studied them for a few moments, frowning as he read over the words he had written nearly forty years earlier.

  “Lawyers have always been long-winded,” he finally said as he dropped the papers on his desk. “I was just as guilty as any of ‘em. What do you want to know about this will?”

  “It was drawn up just a week before Mrs. Boatwright passed away,” Phyllis said.

  “That’s not a question, but I know what you’re getting at. It’s not that unusual for someone to have a will made when they know they’re not long for this earth. Oletha Boatwright knew she was dying.”

  Phyllis frowned slightly. “Are you saying she didn’t have a will until this one was drawn up? This one didn’t replace another one?”

  “That’s right, at least to my knowledge. I suppose some other attorney could have drawn one up sometime in the past, but if so, she didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  Sam said, “You seem to remember the circumstances pretty well, Mr. Kinnison.”

  “Nothing wrong with my brain,” Kinnison snapped. “Besides, I’ve got good reason to remember the whole business. I got threatened with a thrashing because of it.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last, but still memorable.”

  “Someone threatened to attack you over this will?” Phyllis asked.

  “That’s right. But I won’t tell you who. You might go blabbing about it, and then I’d wind up being slapped with a lawsuit for slander.”

  “You don’t have to tell us’” Phyllis said. “It had to be Charles Boatwright. Or possibly his brother-in-law, Kent Hughes, because of his wife, Sally. But it was because Charles and Sally were cut out of Mrs. Boatwright’s will and Donnie got everything.”

  Deep creases appeared in Kinnison’s leathery old forehead. “Just what are you getting at, Mrs. Newsom?” he demanded. “What business is this of yours?”

  Phyllis noticed that he didn’t deny what she’d said about Charles Boatwright and Sally Hughes being upset over their mother’s will. “Someone murdered Donnie Boatwright.” she said. “It seems to me like his brother and sister had a motive.”

  Kinnison stared at her for a second or two before he said, “That’s just loco. I’ve known Charles and Sally for many years. Neither of them would have killed anybody.”

  “You just implied that one of them, or Sally’s husband, Kent, was angry enough to threaten you over Mrs. Boatwright’s will. Are any of them clients of yours, Mr. Kinnison?”

  “No, I’ve never represented any of them,” the elderly lawyer snapped. “And just to set the record straight, it was Charles Boatwright who came in here foamin’ at the mouth after the will was read. He said Donnie and I were just a couple of cheap crooks and told me he ought to tear me limb from limb.”

  Phyllis had a hard time imagining the affable car salesman behaving in such a violent manner, but she remembered the flash of old anger she had seen in Charles’s eyes and found Kinnison’s story more believable.

  “But he never struck me,” Kinnison went on, “and he calmed down pretty quick after he blew up. I reckon he knew that if he took a swing at me, I’d put him on the ground and then have him arrested to boot.”

  Sam asked, “Did you call the police?”

  Kinnison snorted disdainfully. “No need. I wasn’t afraid of Charles Boatwright. Charles knew it, too. That’s why he backed down.”

  The old man seemed to be reveling a little in telling the story. Reliving the days when he had been young, or at least younger, and the prospect of a brawl didn’t phase him. Phyllis said, “So there’s no record of Charles threatening to attack you?”

  “Just my word,” Kinnison said. “That ought to be good enough.”

  “Oh, I believe you, Mr. Kinnison. Mrs. Boatwright still cut her other two children out of her estate, even if this will didn’t replace an older one.”

  “Absolutely,” Kinnison agreed. “If Oletha Boatwright had died intestate, things would have been divided up equally between the three children.”

  “So this will”-Phyllis tapped the copies on the desk “did cost Charles and Sally some money?”

  “Of course. Although Donnie already controlled most of his mother’s fortune through the power of attorney she gave him.” Kinnison’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “The only reason I’m telling you any of this, Mrs. Newsom, is that I suspect you already know it. And what you don’t know, you’ve guessed at. Now let me make a guess about you.”

  “Go ahead,” Phyllis said calmly.

  “You and this tall drink of water, whoev
er he is, are trying to find out who slipped that poison to Donnie at the peach festival.” Kinnison clasped his hands together on the desk. “I won’t ask why you’re doing it, but I’m here to tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Hell, all that business with the will happened nearly forty years ago. Nobody holds a grudge that long.”

  “You can’t be sure about that.”

  Kinnison snorted again. “I’m sure that neither Charles Boatwright nor Sally Hughes is a murderer. The very idea is preposterous! They’re both well-to-do in their own right.”

  “Money isn’t the only motive for murder,” Phyllis pointed out. “Maybe one of them finally couldn’t stand it any longer that their mother favored Donnie so much over them.”

  Kinnison shook his head and said, “I just don’t believe it.” “It doesn’t matter so much whether you believe it … as it does whether or not the police do.”