Before I could reply, he held up a business card. “I am J. Smith Rowley. I am an attorney representing a client interested in Ben Ventris and his estate.”
“Huh?” I asked just as Mom came up behind me.
Frowning at him, she asked, “Who? Who did you say you represent?”
Smiling, he said, “I don’t believe I said, Ma’am. May I come in?”
J. Smith Rowley’s colorless eyes seemed to slide everywhere. When he realized that we were about to refuse to let him in, he hurriedly added, “I have a document here that I think you’ll be interesting in seeing.”
Mom unlatched the storm door. We stood aside for him to enter but, once again, I stayed close to my dad’s hidden gun in the bookcase.
Sitting down on the sofa without being invited, J. Smith Rowley snapped open his briefcase and placed it on the floor. A diamond ring on his finger looked as if it cost more than my mother’s house.
Mom sat in her rocker facing our visitor while I stood against the bookcase. If I had anything to say about it, this man was going back out the door as quickly as he came in. He had better talk fast.
Rowley cleared his throat. “I am here as the legal representative of an heir of Benjamin W. Ventris and, as such, I have the authority to speak on my client’s behalf.”
Interesting information, this. “Please go on,” I said.
“I have here a petition that I am prepared to file, asking that the court appoint me as representative of the estate for Mr. Ventris’s true heir. Due to the fact that Mr. Ventris died intestate and . . . .”
“Wait a minute. ‘Intestate’?” Mom asked, looking at the lawyer as if he had just crawled out of a crack in the corner of the room.
Before Mr. Rowley could open his mouth, I said, “It just means that Ben died without a will.” Frowning at my parent, I briefly shook my head, hoping she wouldn’t say anything about the will Skye sent.
The lawyer nodded. “Actually, my purpose in coming is to ask you two ladies to help the proceedings move along by signing a document for me.”
We waited.
The smile that flitted across his narrow face was oily enough to grease wagon wheels. “This is a very unusual situation because, although we all know that poor Mr. Ben Ventris is dead, there was never a death certificate since the (ahem) body disappeared before the medical examiner could arrive on the scene. So, because of that horrible circumstance—and what a shock it must have been, dear ladies . . . . ” He gave us a look that I guessed was meant to be sympathetic. “The judge will require that we have a signed statement from both of you to present to the court, along with this petition from the heir as proof that the deceased is actually dead. It’s just a small, gracious gesture that will help expedite things.”
My mother smiled sweetly. “What makes you think we’d want to be gracious?”
Mr. Rowley’s eyebrows drew down. So did his mouth. “I am certain, when you stop to consider, you’ll realize that it is the only thing to do. As responsible members of society, you’ll want to do everything possible to see that Mr. Ventris’s property is handled in the way he would have wanted.”
If J. Smith Rowley had said “gullible” instead of “responsible” members of society, it would have described his evident opinion of us.
Stepping toward him, I said, “That goes without saying. May I see the petition that names the ‘true heir’ as you put it?”
Rowley raised his eyebrows. “Please, Mrs. Campbell, you should know that I can’t divulge that.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” I said.
Mom crossed her arms over her chest. “You are wanting us to buy a pig in a poke, Mr. Rowley.”
“A pig in a . . . that’s quaint, Mrs. Tucker. No, what I need are your signatures and then I’ll be running along. Won’t take a minute.”
As he spoke, he pulled an official-looking document backed in heavy gray paper from his briefcase. “I’ll be happy to notarize your statements right now so you won’t even have to make a trip to the bank for a notary public.”
“And what if we don’t choose to do that?” I asked.
Rowley’s tone became threatening. He half-closed his eyes. “Then I’ll just have to return another day with a court order that will require you to sign.”
He would do exactly that, I had no doubt. Although I had never heard of an estate being probated which belonged to an absentee body, I knew enough about the laws of probate and inheritance to know that this man was likely following the correct procedure.
Mom rubbed her forehead as if she was massaging away an ache, and I spoke sharply to Mr. Rowley. “We understand that Mr. Ventris lived in a small house in the country and drove an old truck. He owned ten acres by the river. None of that is worth much.”
I watched Rowley’s expression as I spoke and found out what I wanted to know. He squinted at something above my head, cleared his throat, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A lie was coming.
“Actually,” he said, “my client knows that Ben Ventris’s estate isn’t valuable monetarily. It’s just that he feels an obligation to undertake all the responsibilities associated with Mr. Ventris’s earthly belongings, few though they may be. In fact, Mr. Ventris told my client some time before his death, that he intended to make a will and name my client as the beneficiary. So you understand, of course, that my client is simply wanting to carry out Mr. Ventris’s wishes, as I’m sure you want to do also.”
If we signed those documents, Rowley’s client would be free to bulldoze his way through probate court. He would have no restraints in searching for any treasure that might be on Ben’s farm. Rowley hadn’t mentioned any western oil lands. Did he know about them? Were they important to his client?
Rowley pushed a little harder. “You are aware, of course, Mrs. Campbell, that your and your mother’s statements about Mr. Ventis’s body are already in official police records, so it’s not as though you’d be admitting anything people don’t already know.”
My mother’s chin jutted out, reminiscent of a bulldog’s. “Well, then, why don’t you just use those official police records?”
Ignoring her, Rowley turned to me. “What do you say? Shall I come back next week with a court order?”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Rowley,” I said. “I’m sure you can understand our hesitancy about signing a legal document we know nothing about. Neither of us understands the law but we can work our way through this.”
Mom looked shocked. She seemed about to speak, then pressed her lips together.
Smiling at Rowley, I opened the door. “Just put that affidavit you brought on the sofa as you are leaving. We want time to look it over.”
Rowley tried to become friendlier, but it was obvious he had not had much practice. “Well, that’s mighty fine, ladies.” His good old boy demeanor was in high gear. “I’ll just leave this with you and be on my way. It’s a pleasure to get to know you ladies.” He snapped the briefcase shut and stood.
“Mrs. Campbell, I’ve read several of your AP news stories and you’ve always done a fine job; mighty fine.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you plan to return to your reporter’s job soon?”
So, he was wondering how long I’d be a burr under his saddle. I wasn’t about to tell him my plans, especially since I didn’t have any.
“Actually, Mr. Rowley,” I said, “I have a contract with a Dallas newspaper to write a bunch of feature stories and that’s something I can do pretty much anywhere. I may be in Levi for several months or even longer.”
Rowley nodded as he went out on the porch. Striding to his car, and opening the door, he bent over and flicked another speck of dirt from his shoe. My grandpa’s criteria for sizing up a man was right on the money.
Locking the door behind him, I said, “I thought that ruse about giving us time to think things over was the best way to get him to leave. The gentlest way, anyhow.”
My mother drew a shaky breath. “I’m going to have to file Ben’s will for proba
te; I see that. There’s nothing else to do. I don’t want Ben’s money nor his property. I don’t think I have any right to it, but I sure can’t let somebody else get his hands on it; Ben wouldn’t want that.”
“Who is this mysterious client that Rowley represents, anyway?” I asked, following my mother into the kitchen.
She measured coffee and water and soon had the coffee pot going. We sat down at the table to wait.
“Maybe Ben’s killer is using another tactic to get at the gold. Maybe he’s decided going through a lawyer is safer than adding another couple of murders to his list,” I said.
“So you think Ben’s killer is the same as the supposed heir? Could his client be Jim Clendon?” Mom asked. “I’ve never had a problem with Jim but you don’t trust him, do you?”
“Only about as far as I could throw him, Mom.”
“Maybe Ray Drake, or Hammer Ventris, or . . . who?”
“In thinking about possible candidates as a murderer, we have a pretty wide field to choose from: Ray Drake tops the list, actually. A Chicago hit man? He probably reads the papers and maybe he’s heard a little bit about the possibility that Ben may have been rich. Yes, a hit man would think nothing of murdering a few more people.”
The coffee pot was still so I went to the cabinet and pulled out two cups.
Mom shivered. “It still gives me chills to think Drake was sitting right here in my house.”
Putting two napkins on the table, I set down our full cups. “He could be a tobacco chewer, too. However, that Red Man wrapper we found clearly points toward Jim. I’m sure his deputy’s salary isn’t that great. Maybe he has decided to go through a lawyer to try and become suddenly rich.”
“Maybe the murderer is Rowley himself,” Mom said quietly.
“Could be. Or, bad as you hate to think about it, Mom, Jasper may be involved some way.”
Coffee sloshed from Mom’s cup. “I can’t believe you said that, Darcy. That boy is as honest as his mother, and Pat and I have been friends for a long time.”
“Okay, Mom. Sorry I mentioned it.”
She got up and went to the kitchen window. “That rose bush is so pretty this year,” she said. “Ben always liked to putter around in his flowers. Darcy, I don’t understand why any of this is happening. Ben didn’t ever bother anybody. He was happy out there in his house by the river. I could see, though, that he had changed in the last few weeks, maybe about the time he went to New York City. He was worried that something was going to happen to him.”
I got up to stand beside her. “Do you think he knew the person who was a threat to him?”
“Looking back, I believe he did. I wish he had told me or somebody else who he suspected.”
“I wish he had kept you entirely out of the whole thing,” I muttered. “If his handwritten will holds up in court, you are going to be a wealthy woman, whether you want to be or not, and more of a mark for a killer. And, if Rowley manages some sleight of hand, somebody else is going to get his hands on a lot of wealth.”
“My head is splitting,” Mom said. “If I am declared Ben’s legal heir, it’s going to make somebody awfully mad.”
“Yes. I think we need some legal advice, Mom.”
She nodded. “As soon as I take a couple of aspirins, I’m going to make an appointment with Jackson Conner.”
I had not seen Mom’s lawyer friend since my return to Levi. If anybody could give us direction on which way to go, it was Mr. Conner.
Chapter 18
At 9 o’clock the next morning, my mother and I were in the offices of Jackson Conner, a man who had been a lawyer in Levi longer than I could remember. Among his clients were numbered the school board, bank, and the biggest farmers and ranchers within a hundred miles. He drew up wills for every one of Levi’s citizens who owned enough property or had enough children to need estate direction. I felt comfortable in talking to him. More importantly, my mother trusted him.
As soon as she had those aspirins yesterday, Mom phoned Mr. Conner. Then, she and I had a long discussion about what might happen if Ben’s handwritten will became public knowledge. My, oh my, how tongues would wag! I could hear the gossips having a field day: “Did you know that Flora Tucker got all of Ben Ventris’s money and land? That looks to me like they were a little closer than just friends.”
This future gossip was another thing for which I could thank Ben. I was beginning to think that I liked Ben Ventris a whole lot better before I knew about that gold.
More deadly than malicious gossip was the trouble the will would stir up for us from those who wanted Ben’s gold. Somebody had committed murder, not once, but three times, to be rid of anyone who stood between him and a fortune. Perhaps he thought he had pretty much cleared the field. After our local newspaper printed the notice of Ben’s will, I could only imagine the rage that would fill the heart of that unknown killer.
First, though, we would need to determine whether a court would conclude that Ben’s will, handwritten on a sheet of notebook paper, was valid. My mother assured me that anybody would recognize Ben’s strong, backward-slanted writing. It was certainly distinctive but I doubted that Ben had written many letters. My mother could not be the one to verify that his will and signature were authentic, since she was the person who would gain from it.
How did one go about the process of validating a handwritten will? Were other samples of Ben’s handwriting available? Most wills were certified by two witnesses. This will had no witness at all, so did that make it invalid?
Looking around at the walls of Jackson Conner’s office, I saw that it was truly a man’s room. Cedar paneling, two brown leather sofas, and a large chair were evidence of the owner’s taste. Photographs of local scenes hung on the walls: two deer among a stand of winter-bare trees, someone in hip boots (Mr. Conner, perhaps) standing in the river with a rod and reel in his hands, a lovely picture of a plain, white church with a bell at the top and several people going into its wide open doors. I had seen that little church many times on my way to Granny Grace’s land.
A pretty receptionist sat behind an oak desk in this outer room. As we were about to sit down, Jackson Conner opened the door to his office. The aroma of cherry-flavored pipe tobacco wafted out. I always associated that scent with this big, attractive man.
Holding wide his door, Mr. Conner smiled and boomed, “Come in, come in. Two of my favorite ladies. Have a seat, please.”
Mom and I sat facing the lawyer’s desk, in leather chairs similar to those in the outer office. Conner’s swivel chair creaked as he returned to it.
“I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays, Flora. And Darcy, it has been a long time since we’ve talked. I heard you moved back to Levi. Mighty sorry about your husband.”
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I smiled and said, “Thanks. I’m back home for a while, at least, maybe a long time.”
“Do you ladies mind if I smoke?”
We said, “No” at the same time. In fact, I would have been disappointed if he had put away his pipe. For some reason, that cherry scent was relaxing.
Jackson Conner rearranged some papers on his desk and got his pipe going to his satisfaction. Next, he gave us his full attention.
“Now, ladies, what can I do for the two of you?” he asked.
As a young man, he must have been quite handsome, and now, with his white hair and handlebar mustache, he was not only attractive but distinguished-looking too. He flashed a roguish grin.
“You didn’t hang out in a bar last night and get yourselves arrested on the way home, did you?”
My mother snorted. “You know better than that, Jackson Conner. No, our problem is not what we have done but rather, what we should do. And, I don’t know if you can solve it or if anybody can, for that matter.”
Mr. Conner’s white bushy eyebrows rose. “It may not be as bad as you think,” he said.
For the first time, I noticed the plaque on the wall behind him: “If God brought you to it, He will take you
through it.”
“I’ve cleared my schedule for the next couple of hours, Flora. They are all yours, if you need them. I’m prepared to listen to whatever is disturbing you,” he said.
Mom sat twisting the straps of her handbag for several seconds, then she blurted out the question that had kept her awake most of the night. “Why does all that stuff about a will being probated have to be published in the paper?”
Mr. Conner’s eyes registered surprise. He knocked a fragrant chunk of charcoal from his pipe, cleared his throat, and said, “It’s the law, Flora.” Reaching into the glass canister on his desk, he pulled out fresh tobacco and began tamping it into his pipe.
“If you’re talking about your will,” he said, putting a match to the pipe’s bowl, “it probably won’t be necessary to run it through probate since practically all your property is in your and Darcy’s names, jointly.”
Mom was about to twist her purse straps off. “But what if there’s no close family and the—what do you call it—the major heir in the will isn’t even related to the person who died?”
“It doesn’t really matter if the heir is related to the deceased or not. If the will is prepared correctly, nobody should object to its being made public. There’s a good reason for the law being written that way. For instance, suppose a person dies after borrowing money from a relative and hasn’t paid it back. In that case, filing a notice of probate alerts the person who made the loan. He could then appear before the court and present the signed document and be re-paid by the deceased’s estate.”
Mr. Conner paused, glanced at Mom, and realized he hadn’t yet quite answered the question she hadn’t quite asked.
“Also, Flora, it’s just to let all the relatives and other possible heirs know about the probate of the estate. There could be a person who thinks he should have been given something but wasn’t mentioned in the will. In that case, he or she might decide to file a claim against the estate.”
Mom leaned forward. “Do you mean that sometimes a person who isn’t mentioned in a will can file a claim and collect?”
The Darcy & Flora Boxed Set Page 11
