The Twelfth Child

by Bette Lee Crosby

  I’m mostly to blame for what was happening to Destiny. I should have known that after the way Elliott claimed the money from the farm was rightfully his, he’d sure as certain be standing in line like a hungry wolf once I was gone. I meant to take care of things, specify exactly what my intentions were, but I always thought I had more time. Now I look back and ask myself, how long did I think I had?

  On Thursday morning, Detective Tom Nichols took his report, walked down the hallway and asked to speak to Morgan Broadhurst, the Assistant District Attorney.

  Under other circumstances Morgan Broadhurst may have been a pleasant enough person, but on this particular morning he had a scowl etched into his face, so deep that a person could easily believe it had been there since birth. Apparently a woman driver had rear-ended his brand new Lincoln Continental and sent a full container of coffee spilling into his lap. His trousers were dangling from a hat rack that had been moved alongside the heating vent and he was crouched behind his desk in a pair of damp boxer shorts. Anyone could see Morgan Broadhurst was just waiting for someone to cross his path.

  “I’ve got an unusual situation here,” Detective Nichols said.

  “Get to the point!”

  “Well, the point is, I’ve got an unusual situation.”

  Morgan Broadhurst grimaced. “Either you –”

  “I’ve got a case where a man named Elliott Emerson is accusing his aunt’s neighbor of swindling the old woman. He claims the neighbor, Destiny Fairchild, exercised undue influence on his aunt in order to gain control of her assets.”

  “Did she or didn’t she?”

  “It’s not cut and dry. The nephew claims the girl has gone on a wild spending spree using his aunt’s money and she’s made no attempt to have the estate probated. The girl, on the other hand, says she was a friend of this Abigail Lannigan and she has a handwritten document that supposedly is the old woman’s last will and testament.”

  “Then it’s a civil case.”

  “Yes and no. The will that the Fairchild woman produced is totally illegible. It also appears that she forged Abigail Lannigan’s signature to a title transfer on the car and all of Lannigan’s bank accounts have been transferred over to Fairchild.”

  “Fairchild got power of attorney?”

  “Nothing official. But, she swears this Abigail Lannigan told her to do it.”

  “Stop dancing around the issue. Is there an indictable offense here or not?”

  “Possibly. The nephew swears up and down that she was exploiting the old woman, but I gotta say the girl comes across as pretty believable. My gut instinct is to say kick it back and let them settle their differences in a civil suit.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about what your gut thinks! Is there enough evidence to indict her or not?”

  “Hmm. It could be a stretch.”

  “Tough shit, find a way to do it! If the press gets wind of a story where somebody’s swindled an old fart and we’re covering it up, our ass is fried! Charge the Fairchild woman with forgery, falsifying a document and exploitation of the elderly. How much money was involved?”

  “One hundred thousand give or take.”

  “Add grand larceny.” At that point Morgan Broadhurst stood up and strode across the office in his underwear to retrieve his trousers. He turned back to Tom Nichols and snapped, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  An uneasy feeling settled into my heart and I knew that Destiny’s streak of bad luck had not yet come to an end.

  That afternoon Detective Nichols brought Destiny into the stationhouse and started rattling off some long-winded statement about how she had the right to an attorney and such.

  “An attorney?” Destiny said, “Why would I want an attorney?”

  “If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you…” Stone-faced, Tom Nichols went right on with what he had to say before they launched into the questioning. Right then, Destiny should have called for a lawyer, but she didn’t. Instead she sat there and answered his questions, one by one, and she peeled off a truthful answer every single time. I can say for certain those answers were the God’s honest truth because I’d been there when it happened.

  “Now what exactly is your primary source of income?” Detective Nichols asked.

  “I do waitressing at Aristotle’s. Thursday, Friday, Saturday.”

  “Part-time?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How much does that pay?”

  “Six dollars an hour, plus tips. I’ve got the lunch hour so tips are pretty good.”

  “Good enough to afford a new Thunderbird?”

  “No. I traded in Miss Abigail’s Buick and bought the Thunderbird.”

  “They were the same price?” Detective Nichols made the question sound like some generalized point of information, but I could tell he was driving Destiny to say something she’d come to regret.

  “Of course not,” she replied laughingly, “The Thunderbird was a whole lot more.”

  “The money for the new car, where’d that come from?”

  “I took it out of Miss Abigail’s savings account.”

  “According to the bank, you’ve been running up quite a tally of charge accounts and paying for them with funds from Missus Lannigan’s account.”

  “Yes. But the money is mine now. Miss Abigail gave it to me.”

  “Gave it to you?”

  “Yes. She wrote a will stating that her intention was for me to have all her worldly possessions. That’s the exact way she put it, all my worldly possessions.”

  “What about her family?”

  “She didn’t have anyone but her brother and he died over five years ago.”

  “Doesn’t she have a nephew?”

  “Elliott Emerson? Miss Abigail didn’t like him one little bit. Said he was a bad-mannered money-grubbing leach.”

  “But she did give him money on numerous occasions, didn’t she?”

  “Because she thought her brother, Will, would have wanted her to.”

  “Why would he have wanted his sister to give Elliott Emerson any money if they weren’t really related?”

  “It’s very complicated. Will believed that Elliott was a twice removed cousin, but Miss Abigail found out he was a Baptist and she knew that never in the history of the world had there been a Baptist in the Lannigan family.” Destiny shrugged apologetically, “See, the Lannigan’s were staunch Methodists.”

  “Still, Missus Lannigan did on some occasions ask you to write checks for money she was indeed giving to Mister Emerson, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but it was not something she wanted to do.”

  “But, you knew Mister Emerson was in some way related, right?”

  “Yes, but –”

  “Yet, you chose not to inform him of his aunt’s passing?”

  “I didn’t have his telephone number.”

  “Um-hmm.” Detective Nichols nodded his head in the most doubting manner.

  Morgan Broadhurst, who had been watching this procedure through a mirrored window, was looking happier than he had been all day. Now, I was never a person to wish ill on others, but at that moment I was quite sorry it hadn’t been a tractor trailer that smashed into Mister Broadhurst’s Lincoln Continental.

  After almost four hours, Detective Nichols told Destiny she could go home, but he said she shouldn’t leave town as they might have more questions.

  That night Destiny was sitting on the blue velvet sofa drinking her third glass of wine when the doorbell rang.

  It was an narrow stick of a man with skin so black he would have disappeared into the darkness were it not for his teeth and a crop of snow white hair. “Evening ma’am,” he said and smiled real wide. “Name’s Elijah Blessing. I’d like to offer the word of the Lord to you in this authentic King James Bible.” He held out a red leather book.

  “You’re selling Bibles?” Destiny asked.

  “Yes ma’am, I surely am. And if I might say so, you look like a person who could ta
ke comfort in the Good Lord’s word. The word of God can ease a person’s load, bring peace to a troubled mind, shed light on the darkest path . . .”

  “Well, I don’t think –”

  “When you got troubles, you bring ‘em to the Lord, he’ll show the way. If you got a sorrowful heart, he’ll fill it with gladness. Ain’t nothing the Almighty Lord can’t do when a person abides by the Good Book.”

  It could have been the wine or a chunk of fear settling inside Destiny’s heart, maybe even the loneliness she’d been feeling ever since I died, but right there in the doorway she started bawling like a baby. Elijah Blessing dropped the red book back into the satchel he had slung over his right shoulder, then reached out and took Destiny’s hand into his. He didn’t look any more substantial than a winter-worn scarecrow, but I could tell Elijah Blessing was a mountain of strength.

  “You got troubles, don’t you Missy?” he said to Destiny.

  She nodded her head and kept right on sobbing.

  “I got the Good Book right here and I got two perfectly fine ears; you want a messenger of the Lord to listen for a spell?”

  Destiny wiped her nose on the tail end of her shirt and nodded again.

  It was a funny thing with those two, something passed between them, something that didn’t require any words whatsoever. He draped his arm across her shoulder in a real tender way, like a daddy or grandpa would, and together they moved back inside the house and sat down on the sofa. Praise the Lord I thought, for I was pretty certain it was His doing – Elijah Blessing showing up on Destiny’s doorstep this way. At first they just sat there, Mister Blessing with one arm still wrapped around Destiny’s shoulder and the other hand holding onto hers. She kept right on sobbing, shaking all over and sobbing like her poor little heart was going to break. Mister Blessing told her to go right ahead and cry, get it out of her system; he said he had nowhere to go and nothing to do but share the word of God with folks who needed it. The world sure could use more men like that Mister Blessing.

  When the heaving and sobbing had eased off to a trickle of tears and a puff of air that she’d suck back every so often, Mister Blessing said, “You got a notion to tell me what sort of troubles is weighing on you?”

  Destiny started sobbing all over again.

  “I got plenty of time,” he said and patted her hand real soft.

  When she was finally dry-eyed enough to talk, she poured out the whole story; she told Elijah Blessing that we’d been the best of friends, like mother and daughter she said. Then she went on to explain how I’d died without a proper will and how the police now thought she’d swindled away my car and money.

  He listened to every word, not once did he interrupt or remind her that she’d already told him this or that part. Instead he sat there patting her hand and listening with every ounce of hearing he had. When she finally finished, he said, “The Good Book can show a person the pathway to righteousness, but Missy, I believe you need a lawyer.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing more than Elliott trying to cause trouble,” Destiny replied. “Perhaps I’m making more of it than need be; Detective Nichols did say they would assign a lawyer if I needed one.”

  “You don’t want one of those lawyers!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because you need somebody who’s gonna stand up and fight them bureaucrats! Last year my boy got arrested for robbing a liquor store. He never did no such thing, but he could of been sent to prison for life if it weren’t for that lawyer who proved he was home studying. In matters such as these, the truth needs to be dug up and aired. Now, the only person capable of doing that is an honest lawyer.”

  “You mean –”

  “I ain’t saying those charity lawyers are out and out no good, but they got a lot of other stuff going on and they ain’t always got time to pay full attention to your problems. Missy, the Good Lord is always willing to lend a hand, but you gotta give him something to work with.”

  “Your son, did he have an honest lawyer?”

  “Sure did. If it wasn’t for Charles McCallum, there’s no telling what would have happened to my boy.”

  “Charles McCallum?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’ll give you the kind of lawyering you need!”

  “You think he’d be willing to represent me?”

  “I sure do. Mister McCallum, he’s got a Christian heart. He won’t stand for nobody getting railroaded by a bunch of bureaucrats.”

  When I saw how Elijah Blessing was reaching out to help Destiny, I had a truly joyous heart. If I was still walking the face of the earth, I’d have latched hold of Mister Blessing’s skinny face and planted a kiss on it. Why, that man even gave Destiny one of his bright red Bibles free of charge; he told her that along with Mister Charles McCallum, she could trust in the miracles of the Lord, seeing as how he had parted the Red Sea for Moses.

  Destiny was so touched by his gesture; she bought three more Bibles and set them on the top shelf of the new bookcase she’d purchased from Sears and Roebuck.

  The morning after Elijah Blessing told Destiny she ought to have a lawyer; she called Charles McCallum’s office and made arrangements to see him in the afternoon.

  Thank Heaven, I thought; figuring that, at the very least, Destiny was switching herself onto the right track. With Mister McCallum being such a well spoke of lawyer, I anticipated he’d be a silver-haired man with a great big office and four secretaries typing fast as their fingers could fly. Of course that wasn’t the case. He was young – to look at him you’d guess nineteen or twenty, but according to the diploma hanging on the wall, he had to be closer to thirty or thirty one – a bit gangly, rumpled hair that made you wonder if maybe he’d forgotten to run a comb through it. Right away it struck me how he was so like my brother Will – the same smile, the same loose-jointed way of moving from one spot to another as if there was no hurry whatsoever. I loved Will dearly, but I’d hoped Destiny’s lawyer would be a powerful man with a booming voice, someone who could stand in front of a jury and demand that justice be done. I looked at how small Mister McCallum’s office was – two rooms, him in one and a woman struggling with some hunt and peck typing in the other – and started worrying again.

  Being the problem was of such a serious nature, you’d have thought Destiny would get dressed up proper; maybe wear one of those new outfits that were hanging in her closet with a price tag still dangling from the sleeve. But Destiny is just Destiny, and she’s not the kind to put on airs, so she showed up at two-thirty wearing blue jeans and a real pretty pink tee-shirt. Despite the way she was dressed, Mister Charles McCallum’s eyes lit up like he’d caught sight of an angel when she walked into the room.

  “You must be Destiny Fairchild,” he said, scrambling out of his chair and nearly tripping over his own feet.

  She smiled and nodded then when she stretched out her hand, Mister McCallum took hold like he was afraid she’d get away. “Would you like something cold to drink?” he asked.” Soda? Juice? Water?”

  “A Pepsi would be great.”

  Charles McCallum called out to the typist, “Gracie, would you please bring us a couple of cold Pepsis?”

  “I didn’t get Pepsi!” she hollered back. “It’s cream soda or beer.”

  “Sorry,” Charles mumbled, the rim of his right ear turning red.

  “Cream soda?” Destiny smiled, “Why, that’s one of my favorites!”

  A few minutes later, Grace, a pair of yellow bedroom slippers on her feet, shuffled into the office and set a can of soda and a straw in front of each of them. “Here you go, honey,” she said, then shuffled back out.

  If Charles McCallum had known Destiny as I did, he might not have felt the need to apologize, but as it was, he said, “Please excuse Gracie, she’s new to the business.” What he didn’t mention was the fact that Gracie was his aunt – someone he’d hired out of sympathy after her husband died, someone who couldn’t type a letter without at least seven mistakes, someone who would have no reason to ge
t up each morning if it weren’t for her job. A kindness such as that was enough to make me start liking the young lawyer.

  Not long after that, they got down to business and Destiny told Charles the entire story, including the part about how I wrote my intentions on a scrap of paper and stuck it in the nightstand drawer. “Miss Abigail was always doing nice things –” she said, and then she stopped talking for a few seconds and snuffled, like a person trying to hold back a river slide of tears.

  When she finished the story, Charles McCallum smiled and said, “Miss Lannigan sounds like a wonderful woman.”

  “She really was,” Destiny replied, and pulled another tissue from her pocket.

  “Emerson,” Charles asked, “he’s the nephew who filed a complaint against you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, didn’t you say he’s not actually related to Miss Lannigan?”

  “That’s what Miss Abigail said, but –” Destiny shrugged and spread open her palms as if to signify she had no knowledge of the true answer. “Miss Abigail was the only Lannigan I ever knew,” she went on, “so how can I say for sure whether or not there were any other Baptists in the family.”

  “Baptists?”

  Destiny started explaining how I told her Elliott couldn’t be a Lannigan because he was a Baptist – and as I listened to her giving voice to such a silly thing, I felt my toes curl. Preacher Broody always said the Lord didn’t hold with lying or trickery and those who did would someday suffer. Of course, it would be a lot fairer if I was the one suffering; but it was beginning to seem as though Destiny would be held accountable for my doings. See, all along Elliott was just pretending to be a Baptist to get hold of Will’s money, I knew that, but never said so.

  When she finished telling the tale, Mister McCallum asked, “Is that the only reason for believing him to be unrelated?”

  Destiny shrugged again.

  “What about his lineage?”

  “His what?”

  Charles rephrased the question. “Did he and Miss Lannigan have any common ancestors? People related to them both?”