Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Credible eyewitness? So when does Karl testify?”

  “Probably tomorrow. As near as I know, he’s the prosecution’s whole case. I’d like to see the show, but I suppose I’d better set my mind to making a living.”

  “Do you think Celeste killed Ralph?”

  I had asked myself that question a thousand times since Ralph's death. “I don’t know. Is she capable of it? Yes, I imagine so. But did she do it? I don’t know.”

  “And I know Casey hasn’t said anything.”

  “Not a word. We have an understanding that there’s a brick wall between us as far as discussing the case is concerned. Discussion about any of the Wainwright matters is verboten. You and I know lawyers deal with that all the time, but most other folks don’t understand it. That’s why Casey turned down your invitation to make use of our office and library while she’s in Borderview. It’s hard to see, though, how she can stand camping out in Prince Albert’s office, if he’s around much.”

  Will smiled knowingly. “Since you’ve built this brick wall, I gather you and Casey expect to see each other now and then.”

  “Occasionally. I spoke with her for a few minutes after this morning’s court session and prevailed upon her to join me for a late dinner at the Fremont. She has to do some trial preparation and I have a ton of work here, so I’m staying in town tonight. Mandy took the morning train to Lincoln with George and Martha and some of the Washington brood . . . including Rosemary, of course. George is dealing with a Lincoln bank on some of his financing for the Wainwright Savings stock, and they’re going to stay a few days and take in the state fair.”

  “Speaking of the bank stock, how is the deal coming along?”

  “That’s one of the things we need to talk about. I told you George’s condition. He’s being damn stubborn about it. We’re friends, but George builds a wall of his own between business and friendship. He says I can keep my finger in the law firm, but the bank has to come first. I don’t think I want to be a banker the rest of my life, but this is an interesting challenge, and George has promised a good salary. You’ve got some say in this, Will. I made a commitment to you about a partnership, and I won’t break it. Or, if you want, and I decide to be a banker, I’ll just turn the practice over to you. There’s nothing for me to sell or for you to buy. As Abe Lincoln said, ‘a lawyer’s time and advice is his stock in trade’ and our reputations don’t have a market value to anybody else. All you’d have to do is take over the rent on the office, and I’d take a note for what little I’d ask for the library and furnishings.”

  Will’s brow furrowed, and his face took on a grim look. “I just don’t think I want to practice alone, Ian. Some lawyers like you don’t seem to be bothered by working alone, but I’d want somebody to talk things over with. I don’t think I’ve got the disposition to be a lone wolf in this business. I won’t lie to you. I really had my heart set on Ian Locke’s name being on the shingle with mine.”

  “Could you get along with a part-time partner, at least for a while?”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem. As long as I can drop by the bank with a question from time to time and you can be here for some of your special clients when need be, I don’t mind carrying the day to day load.”

  “I wouldn’t try to suck up profits off of your work. I know we can come up with an equitable division of the profits if you’re doing most of the work. Frankly, you’d make a hell of a lot more money your first year in practice with me only working part time.”

  “Being treated fairly by you isn’t one of my worries, Ian.”

  “Okay, Will. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but if the county court approves the bank proposal and I decide to meet George’s condition, I’ll keep a connection with the firm. It will be Locke and Heasty.”

  Will gave a sigh of relief and his face brightened noticeably. “Thank you, Ian. This eases my mind greatly. Do you think Reuben will approve the proposal?”

  “It depends some on Prince Albert. I’ve spoken with Emily as the sole interested party under our will, and she will consent to the sale of the bank stock. She sees it as the best way of preserving what’s left of her uncle’s reputation, and she doesn’t want a failed bank as his legacy. I’d like to have you draft a stipulation for her signature. I think you’ll find one close to what we need here in the Seacrest estate file.”

  “I’ll have it in the morning if you want to ask Emily to stop by.”

  “But I still have to maneuver Albert to at least a passive position on the issue. As long as his client’s a potential heir, he has to be persuaded that the proposal is to her benefit . . . and that it’s his idea.”

  “And how do you expect to do that?”

  “Albert’s not a total imbecile. I toss the cards on the table, show him the financial reports. And then I make it clear if the sale doesn’t go through, I’ll file a motion with the court to subject any other estate assets to payment of the bank obligations. I think there’s a reasonable basis for personal liability against Ralph for fraud or embezzlement. Whether I have authority to do this in the absence of a third party lawsuit remains to be seen, but the remainder of the estate, one way or another, is at risk. Albert seems to believe there is additional estate, and if so, he’ll want to preserve it for Celeste.”

  “Do you think Albert knows something we don’t?”

  “He might, but at this point it doesn’t matter. It would take years to litigate liability issues, and by the time the lawyers were done talking, the bank would be long since buried. I’m a great believer in solving problems one bite at a time. We save the bank first . . . then we take the next bite.”

  “None of this is a concern if the holographic will is invalid.”

  “True. But that may not be known for months. We need to direct more of our effort to that issue now.” I took several sheets of paper from the top of my desk and handed them to Will. I’ve written out some questions for Greta Kleine. I’d like to have you look them over and add to them if you see fit. I’d like to learn more about Ralph's state of mind during the period when the new will was supposedly made. I know she’ll be called to testify at the trial later this week, so wait till that’s over and then talk to her again. She may not realize how much she knows until we ask the right questions.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Will said. “Greta stopped by today. Just a minute.” Will got up and hurried to the outer office. Momentarily, he returned with a book in his hand. “Greta left this for you. She said that Ralph told her if anything ever happened to him, he wanted you to have this book.”

  I took the book and examined it. Eight Cousins by Louisa M. Alcott. A fine leather cover, the pages unusually worn for Ralph's library. This was a book Mandy had been looking for, but Ralph would not have known that. Louisa Alcott, for God’s sake. Why would Ralph think I would covet a book by Louisa Alcott?

  24

  Ian

  I LAY IN my bed at the Fremont, knowing that sleep would not claim me soon, because my brain was not yet ready to close down for the night. The crisp sheets were welcome though, and a pleasant breeze caressed my naked body. A flash of light burst through the window and briefly illuminated the room. Dry lightning, I thought. That’s what farmers called the lightning storms that occasionally teased for a spell in the midst of drought and then quickly swept away, leaving only parched dust in their wake.

  My mind drifted back to dinner with Casey McGlaun. It had been a quiet meal, and while I savored Casey’s presence, I sensed that her thoughts had been elsewhere tonight, as were mine. Casey’s mind was obviously focused on the trial that loomed again at next daybreak, and my own could not disengage from untangling the web of mysteries Ralph Wainwright had left behind. The deceased banker had unquestionably been an uninvited guest at our table. It was unfortunate, I thought, that we were constrained by the firewall we had necessarily erected between our cases, for I would have embraced Casey’s insights about my case, and I would hav
e enjoyed debating the strategies of Celeste’s defense. Still, after dinner we had joked amiably about our stimulating conversation. But no sooner had I said goodnight after escorting Casey to her room than I descended into a rare melancholy. I felt very lonely as I walked to my own room at the opposite end of the second story hallway.

  What was the nature of this unspoken bond I had so quickly forged with Casey? There had not been so much as a stolen kiss between us, nothing that romantically went beyond the casual offering of her hand when she had thanked me for a pleasant dinner as we parted at her doorway. Yet her touch had left me weak in the knees, giddy as a pubescent boy at first love.

  I had best shake loose of the feelings, I decided. There was no future between me and this woman. In a week or so, she would step on the train and exit from my life, leaving me with nothing but a haunting memory of an enchanting friendship that might have blossomed into something more, given precious time to grow and be nurtured.

  A clap of thunder rattled the building, then, another and another like cannons roaring on a raging battlefield. Spikes of lightning set the night sky on fire. The curtains billowed like phantoms from the gusts of wind that suddenly burst through the open window. I sat up in bed and reached over to lower the window some and was interrupted by a light, tentative tapping at my door.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Casey,” responded a soft voice.

  “Just a minute.” I stumbled out of bed and made a quick, unsuccessful search for my underwear, gave up and yanked my trousers from the back of a chair and clumsily pulled them on. I opened the door and found Casey there, clad in a flimsy cotton robe.

  “May I come in?” she said, her voice calm and almost businesslike.

  “Of course.” I stepped aside, and after she entered, I closed the door quietly behind her.

  Thunder boomed again, and a flash of lightening illuminated her face revealing determined eyes. In an instant she was in my arms, her lips locked firmly to mine. I held her closely, relishing the faint scent of ambrosia, keenly aware of the firm breasts that pressed against my body, helpless to smother my arousal. Casey pulled her head back momentarily, her face tilted upward toward mine and our eyes fastened and answered all of my questions. I kissed her now, gently at first and then hungrily. My fingers traced a path from the nape of her neck, down her spine to the small of her back. Suddenly, Casey pulled away from me and stood there momentarily as if pondering a decision. She then shrugged off her robe and it slithered down her naked body and collapsed in a heap at her feet. She took my hand and led me to the bed.

  I slipped out of my trousers, and in a matter of moments we coupled urgently, with a near savage frenzy, until we climbed together to the pinnacle, oblivious to the torrents of rain that poured from the black sky and splattered off the windowsill into the dusky room. Afterward, we lay silently on the bed, her body molded to mine and her head nestled against my neck as I raked her hair gently with my fingertips. Only then did I become aware of the steady pounding of the rain outside. A mortgage lifter.

  I dozed off and figured an hour must have gone by when I felt Casey’s lips brushing my neck before she moved onto me, and this time there was only tenderness, the two of us rocking gently like a single vessel on a placid lake.

  It was still raining when I next awakened, a soft, steady rain that promised to be a soaker, one that would bring resurrection to a dead and dying prairie. It was a bit cool in the room now, and I reached for Casey but found only the warm depression left on the sheets by her body. I sat up and looked around groggily. Her robe was gone. My trousers and lost underwear were the sole occupants of the floor adjacent to the bed. She must have slipped out just moments before I woke up. For a second I wondered if it had all been a dream, but, no, Casey McGlaun had been no apparition. And what we had experienced together during our almost wordless encounter had been more than sated lust, for me anyway. This was another one of those forks in the road. Would Casey and I choose to take a path together or, at the time of decision, embark on our separate roads?

  25

  Ian

  I WAS BACK at my office desk. I had hoped to speak with Casey before the trial resumed, but by the time I had cleaned up, shaved and dressed, she had already left her room and was, presumably, ensconced in Albert Sweeney’s library for pre-trial preparation. It still chafed that she nested in that bastard’s office, but I knew that propriety and ethics dictated she work there. I convinced myself it was just as well I had not caught up with her. I didn’t know how she felt about last night. Perhaps it had meant nothing to her. Maybe now, in the light of day, she found herself embarrassed by the interlude. Hell, I was baffled myself as to how to handle our next meeting, so perhaps it was best that our feelings lie fallow for a while. But one way or another I would see Casey tonight.

  Will knocked lightly on the door and stepped in. “Going to take in some of the trial today?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d better tend to business. I should talk to Prince Albert, and then I need to spend a few hours at the bank.”

  “I have the stipulation ready for Emily to sign. I suppose she’ll be at the trial.”

  “Yeah, I’ve hardly spoken to her. She’s busy pressing pen to paper during the trial. Then she’s burning up the typewriter in her room at night. I guess she sends the guts of her story to the Bee by Western Union and follows up by shipping out the rest by rail. I invited her to dine with Casey and me last night, but she was too rushed.”

  “How was your evening with Casey?”

  “Uh, nice. Very nice. She’s so wrapped up in the trial we didn’t get much chance to talk.” That was true enough. We didn’t talk much.

  “The bailiff tells me Greta’s going to testify this morning before they call Karl Wainwright. I thought I might sit in on her testimony. Maybe it would help to have a friend there.”

  “That’s a good idea. While you’re over there, why don’t you try to get Emily to sign the stipulation? I wouldn’t think Greta’s testimony would take that long. She’s not an eyewitness.”

  “I suppose Jess is trying to shore up motive. Greta sure enough gave Celeste motives to feel like killing Ralph.”

  Will left and I remained at my desk working on a land contract that demanded my attention. The rain started hammering on the roof above me and I looked out the window to see sheets of driving rain. The streets were already turning to mush, and with the gully washer that was coming down now, the town square would be a lake by afternoon. And the corn would grow, and the pastures would green-up, and the cattle would fatten, and the merchants would sell, and the borrowers would pay their loans at the bank.

  I put my handwritten draft of the contract aside. I’d get Will to type it later. It occurred to me that after Will was admitted to the bar, I couldn’t expect him to do my clerical chores any longer. He would have his own projects, and it wouldn’t be an efficient use of his time anyway. I supposed we would have to employ a secretary or clerk. I wondered about Will’s belle, Elizabeth. Will had remarked once that she was faster on the typewriter keys than he. Women were finding their ways into some of the city law offices now as clerks and secretaries. I made a note to ask Will about it.

  Ralph's gift, Eight Cousins, still rested on my desktop, and I picked it up. I couldn’t imagine what Ralph was thinking. He knew I envied his fabulous library, and while I thought Louisa M. Alcott maneuvered the English language through a story quite well, her novels were never particularly engrossing to me. Also, Ralph was never a particularly thoughtful person, and it seemed out of character for him to be thinking about doing something kind for Ian Locke upon his demise. I started thumbing through the pages, which, I had noted earlier, were surprisingly well worn. Was Ralph a surreptitious reader? At page 84, noting a crimped corner, I stopped. In the left margin, subscribed in thick, black ink appeared the initials “R.W.” I studied the adjacent text, and then moved on through the book, before returning to page 84. This page seemed to have drawn Ralph's attention.<
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  It was the second page of chapter eight of the novel, so I began reading at the beginning of the chapter. The scene was set in the library of a home where a girl named Rose seemed to be reviewing a list of books with her Uncle Alec. There is evidently some issue about Rose’s handwriting, as Uncle Alec peruses the book list and asks, “Is that meant for Pulverized Bones ma’am?” Rose replies, “No, sir; it’s Paradise Lost.” And next to Rose’s reply appear Ralph Wainwright’s initials.

  I set the book aside and penned a note to Will to draft a motion for a court order to allow the special administrator to enter the Wainwright house owned by Celeste for the purpose of identifying assets that might constitute property of Ralph's estate. I was seeking particular assets, but to say more might tip our hand and abort the search.

  26

  Casey

  HALF A DOZEN buckets made annoying music as they caught the water that dripped from the ceiling of Borderview’s new town hall. The roof had been previously untested and now failed in its first battle against the elements. It was a miserable day, Casey thought, but the cheerful faces among the spectators granted an almost unanimous verdict in favor of the rain. Casey smiled to herself. She had to concede that the storm had brought its personal compensations.

  Greta Kleine’s morning testimony had inflicted no mortal wounds to the defense. Casey had taken a pass on cross-examining Greta. She was obviously a sympathetic creature to the male jury. Who could argue that Celeste did not have good cause to be angry and bitter at Ralph's indiscretions, especially one that had resulted in an impregnated paramour? Most of the jurors were married men who knew how their own wives might respond to such circumstances. Casey was not about to argue lack of motive, and a handwritten copy of the holographic will authenticated by the clerk of the county court was submitted without defense objection by the prosecution. The validity of the will was irrelevant. It clearly established motive. Ralph Wainwright’s death was in Celeste’s apparent financial interest. It all came down to one question: did she do it? The way Casey saw it, the outcome hinged on Karl Wainwright’s testimony.