The Will

by Reed Arvin

  Henry got hungry around noon but decided to work through. He had just glanced at his watch when he heard a chair push noisily back at the other end of the bank. He looked up and saw Ellen rise and walk the length of the floor over to his desk. She tiptoed on high heels across the dark hardwood floor until she stood directly in front of his desk.

  “How’s it coming?” she asked. She was smiling again, yesterday’s mood apparently restored. “Getting anywhere?”

  “All right,” he answered. “One page at a time.”

  She nodded. “Tell me something, what exactly are you looking for?”

  “I’m just trying to straighten out a confusing situation.”

  Ellen leaned over the desk, displaying her abundant cleavage through a low-cut blouse. She was well tanned, but her skin was permanently freckled from overexposure to the sun. “Well,” she said in a low voice, “it’s just as well you came now, when Mr. Walters isn’t here.”

  “The manager? Why’s that?”

  Ellen ran her fingers along the edge of the desk. “He’s by-the-book. A real company man. I doubt he would let you do much snooping.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  She smiled intimately. “I could be wrong.”

  Henry returned her gaze calmly. “I wouldn’t want to put you in a compromising situation.”

  She leaned even closer. “Snoop all you want,” she murmured, looking into his eyes.

  Her pointed forwardness gave Henry a vaguely embarrassed feeling. Early fifties and still working it, he thought.

  “Don’t you need a break?” she asked. “Gonna work straight through?”

  “Love one,” Henry answered. “But I’ve got to get back to Chicago as soon as possible. Very soon, if I want to make my boss happy.”

  “At least you need some lunch. You can’t work all day without eating.”

  Henry smiled and was about to dismiss her. Then he hesitated. She lied about knowing Boyd. He stared down at the stack of papers. There wasn’t any particular reason to hope that the remaining few would be any more helpful than what he had already seen. At this point, a person might be a lot more help than more hours with canceled checks and loan statements. “I am a little hungry,” he said, putting down his pen and folding up his notebook. “Maybe I’ll just head over to the diner for a sandwich.”

  She smiled and leaned over the desk again. “I’ve got some fried chicken, if you don’t mind sharing. The food at the Trailside’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “Come on over to my place. It’s only a few blocks away.” Without waiting for a reply she turned and walked toward her desk.

  Henry watched her move away and packed up his things. Her place, he thought. She was already grabbing her purse, and there was nothing to do but follow her. She stopped at the door and turned to wait; he opened it for her. They stepped out onto the square and turned east, walking briskly.

  “I have to get out of the bank for lunch,” Ellen said. “It starts to feel like a prison sometimes.” They walked up Pawnee toward Benton, her street. “Not that it does much good,” she rattled on. “When I leave the bank I’m still in Council Grove. You could string a fence around this whole town and nobody would even notice.”

  Henry nodded. “I take it you don’t get out in the world much?” he asked.

  “The world,” Ellen repeated dreamily. “Where there’s more’n this trash around. People of quality.” They reached Benton Street and turned east for the remaining block to the house. They walked up her gravel driveway and onto the porch; Ellen pulled a key off the ledge above the door, standing precariously on tiptoes to reach it. Her skirt lifted up her legs, and Henry caught a glance at her thighs. They were still trim, and he had to assume she had worked hard to stay in that kind of shape. But to impress whom? he couldn’t help wondering. If she hates it here so much, who’s she dressing up for?

  Henry followed her inside, entering a kind of Wal-Mart tribute to Romanticism; heavy velvet curtains hung on the windows, and a strong scent of incense was in the air. The small living room contained a patterned love seat and a dark blue–covered chair, both arranged around a low coffee table strewn with fashion magazines. The walls were papered with a purple-and-white pattern, and several vaguely French prints of aristocratic couples in frilly clothes walking in a park. Beyond the living room he could see a small, circular dining table on one side of a combination kitchen and breakfast nook. Atop a window shelf was a vase full of inexpensive silk flowers. “Hope you’re hungry,” Ellen said, and she touched his shoulder as she passed by him to the kitchen.

  He followed, and Ellen gestured to a chair. Henry sat and watched her pull some plates out of the cupboard. The plates were inexpensive, part of a set covered in lilacs and peonies. It was, Henry thought to himself, a house of pure, seamless mediocrity. But to his surprise he found it touching, in its way; the lack of taste was utterly exposed in its overwrought femininity, almost defiantly so. Ellen had never been anywhere, had lived on next to nothing for twenty years, and this was her best expression of living well. And he could see that she was proud of it. She was confident here, and seemed happy as she laid out a lunch of cold chicken, potato salad, and green beans. She set a pitcher of iced tea on the table and started to sit down opposite Henry. But she stopped herself, and carefully moved the flowers to the center of the table. Satisfied, she sat. “I remember you. You were just a kid. You came in with your father. Dig in,” she said.

  “Of course you would have known him.”

  “We’re the only bank in town. I know everybody.”

  Henry smiled, taking a piece of chicken. “Valuable position to be in.”

  “Yeah, my desk is the CIA. Everybody who opens a bank account, I know how much, and from where. I know who pays their bills and who doesn’t.” She ate her chicken daintily, with a knife and fork. “So you were close to your father, then. I mean you got along okay.”

  “Mostly. We had our differences, like most fathers and sons.”

  “But you followed in his footsteps.”

  Depends on how you mean that, Henry thought. But out loud he merely answered, “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t close to my father,” Ellen said abruptly. “I sure as hell didn’t want to be like him.” She laughed, and Henry could hear the residue of liquor and cigarettes in her voice. “He drank. He came home dirty every night from work and watched TV until he passed out. He hit my mother. But he did one thing I can never thank him enough for.”

  “What was that?”

  Ellen’s mouth formed a thin, brittle smile. “He showed me exactly the kind of man I never wanted to be with.” She paused a moment. “Which is funny, really.”

  “Why funny?”

  “Because that’s what I always end up doing anyway.”

  Her statement brought a pointed silence to the table. They ate quietly for a moment, her confession hanging awkwardly in the air. Henry rerouted the conversation back to Crandall and the will. “Tyler’s death took me completely by surprise,” he said. “Were there any clues about his health?”

  “How do I know?” Ellen answered. “We didn’t talk about his health.”

  “Of course. I thought you might have heard something, people talking. CIA, and all that.”

  “Nope,” she answered. A note of sarcasm crept into her voice. “He wasn’t exactly the friendly type, you know? But I guess he didn’t have to be. He made a lot of money.” She paused, and asked eagerly, “You ever meet any really rich people? I’m not talking about this little toilet bowl. Somebody gets a new truck around here and they think they’re Rockefeller. I mean rich—like on Dynasty or something.”

  Henry smiled. “There’s a lot of money in Chicago.”

  “How’d they get so rich, you figure?”

  “Most of them inherited it.”

  “Daddy’s money,” Ellen said. “Like Roger wants.”

  Henry took a bite. “You know R
oger well?”

  “He likes to throw his weight around. You don’t have to be a genius to see he’s the one who loses if the Birdman gets the money.” She pushed back from the table and crossed her legs.

  Henry decided to come to the point. “Let me ask you something, Ellen,” he said. “When you first heard about the Crandall will, what did you think?”

  “I thought it was a damn shame,” she said, making no effort to conceal her disgust. She frowned, and the lines around her eyes became clearly visible. “I thought the whole thing was a miserable cheat.”

  “Is that what you think Ty Crandall was?”

  “Yeah, a cheat.” But then she shook her head. “No, not Ty. The situation, you know, how it turned out. All the money going to . . .”

  “To Raymond.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Tyler would want to do something like that? Do you know of anything that could connect the two of them?”

  Ellen gave Henry a level stare. “How should I know? All I do is open accounts and chase down bounced checks.”

  “I thought your desk was central intelligence. Into everything.”

  “And I didn’t know this talk was a test. That’s the kind of thing Tyler would do.”

  Henry smiled. “I thought you didn’t have much of a relationship with him.”

  Ellen glanced at the clock above her stove and stood. “I didn’t. Look, I got to get back to work. Can’t afford to be gone if Mr. Walters comes back before schedule. You know how he is.”

  “Strictly by-the-book.”

  “Yeah.”

  Henry helped pick up the dishes, and they walked back to the bank without bringing up Crandall again. Henry spent the next two hours riffling through the Crandall accounts. As he feared, he found nothing unusual. He scanned the last few pages carefully, hoping for a miracle, but it was just another mundane transaction. He had worked for hours and not found a single link between Crandall and Boyd. He looked at his watch: it was nearly three. The bank was about to close, and Walters was due back in town any minute. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Parker had made it clear; no connection, no more time. He didn’t feel like explaining the pile of papers to Walters, so he quickly packed up and took the stack over to Ellen. “Thanks for the help,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Not really. I suppose Mr. Walters is on his way.”

  She glanced up at a big clock on an opposite wall. “Any second,” she said. “He said he’d be back before close.”

  “Thanks again. For lunch, too.”

  She stood and stuck out her hand. “Say hello to Chicago,” she said. “To all the rich people.”

  He smiled. “I’ll do that.”

  Henry walked out of the bank convinced the Crandall situation was heading for certain, complicated litigation. He could file a petition to be removed from his position as executor as soon as the courthouse opened, and that night be in Elaine’s arms. He could use the weekend to catch up on Parker’s caseload.

  He walked quickly toward his rental car, trying to remember what airlines went direct from Wichita to Chicago. He had nearly reached the car when he heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw a middle-aged, slightly frumpy man gesturing from the other side of the bank, a good sixty feet down the sidewalk.

  “You Henry Mathews?” the man shouted, walking toward him rapidly. He was puffing along as he walked, obviously out of shape. “Unless I miss my guess, I’d say you were. I figured you’d be back for the funeral.”

  Henry looked back quizzically. “That’s right,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more what I can do for you, son,” the man responded. Having reached Henry, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Frank Walters.”

  Got out just in time, Henry thought. “Nice meeting you. How did you know me?”

  “Didn’t,” the man answered. He was seriously out of breath. “Good guess on my part. I saw you walking out of the bank, put two and two together. We’ve never met. I came to the bank after you left Council Grove. But I’ve heard of you. Briefly knew your father, in fact. Couldn’t miss the family resemblance.”

  “I see.”

  Walters smiled. “I’m more than half private investigator. Just a hobby. I made a bet with myself that if I had a chance, I’d recognize you before you could introduce yourself. Did it, too.”

  “Yes, you did,” Henry answered, eager to detach.

  “Get any help in there?” Walters asked. “Anything you need?”

  “No problem.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Walters lowered his voice and added, “But listen, if there’s one thing in the world you need, you just let me know.” He glanced around conspiratorially. “I heard about Crandall’s will,” he said. “Shocker. Wife called me in Kansas City this morning with the news. Fell right out of my chair.”

  Henry hesitated; something in Walters’ manner made Henry wonder if Ellen’s description of the man was on the mark. If the manager was so buttoned-down and official, he certainly didn’t appear it. Henry looked him over: a small man, mid-forties, not entirely put together, with brown hair in need of trimming. “I’ve gone over things with your bank staff,” he said. “I’ve frozen the accounts until we sort this thing through.”

  “Of course you have.” The manager’s voice dropped lower. “Only thing to do.”

  Henry decided to string him along, see what he could find out. “I’m glad you agree. It seemed prudent.”

  “Right,” Walters answered. “There’s a lot of folks that would like to get their hands on that money.”

  Henry smiled inwardly; he could only be referring to Roger. “It’s human nature,” he said.

  Walters sniffed. “Some are more human than others around here.”

  A Crandall enemy, Henry processed. Which makes Ellen’s description even more suspect.

  Walters had got his breath back, and was doing his own inspection of Henry. “What did you take a look for in there, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Henry took a risk. “To be honest, a connection between Crandall and Raymond Boyd,” Henry said. “I have to admit the thing’s a mystery to me.”

  “Did you find out anything? Like I said, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “No,” Henry answered. “Drew a blank.”

  Walters didn’t say anything, but Henry could read his face. He’s disappointed. But why? Any bank would kill for a client who kept so much money liquid. “It was a long shot to find out anything that way,” he said. “If there is a connection, it would probably be years ago.”

  Walters gave a thoughtful look. “Probably right,” he said. He brightened. “But if it’s the old stuff you’re interested in, did you get a look at the stuff downstairs?”

  “Downstairs?” Ellen hadn’t mentioned anything about that.

  “Sure,” Walters said. “There’s piles of old stuff down there. Old records, boxes of it. You’re welcome to take a look if you want.”

  Henry glanced at his watch. “Don’t you close at three?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Walters said. “I know the boss.” He turned and reached for the door. It opened as he touched it, and Ellen stepped through.

  “Mr. Walters,” she said, “you’re back.”

  “Hello, Ellen. Hold the door. We’re going to pop in for a while.”

  “Of course,” she answered. The two walked through, stepping in front of her. Henry felt her eyes on his back as he followed the manager inside. It was several seconds later that he heard the door to the street close behind them.

  “How long do you keep files around?” Henry asked. “I’ve already gone back several years.”

  “The old stuff’s in the basement. It all predates my time here, naturally. Back during Schiller’s time.”

  “Schiller,” Henry said. “Yes, I remember him. Dutch, studious type.”

  “Right. He would have
been the manager here while you were growing up. Hell, he was here fifteen years or more.” He walked to a door at the rear of the bank and Henry followed.

  “Don’t you put the old files on computer or something?” Henry asked.

  Walters laughed. “It’s the new ones we do that with. It would take years to key in all the ancient stuff. I think all the old Crandall files are sitting around in some big boxes, to tell you the truth.”

  “How far back do you suppose it goes?” Henry asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Walters said.

  Walters opened the door and flipped a light switch. He peered down a steep flight of stairs. “Be right back,” he said, disappearing. “Oh,” he added over his shoulder, “and don’t rob us while I’m down here, okay? The cameras don’t work.”

  Henry glanced up at two small video cameras aimed at the teller counter. “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “Nope,” Walters called back. “They broke a few days ago, and we haven’t fixed ’em. Guy’s coming tomorrow.”

  By-the-book my ass, Henry thought. Several minutes later Walters returned, his forehead glistening with sweat. If you don’t have a heart attack in the next ten minutes, maybe I can find something out. Walters was holding three large, square boxes stuffed with papers and folders. “Hot down there?” Henry asked, taking one of the boxes.

  “No wonder nobody goes down there anymore. They’re all afraid somebody will think of asking them to clean it up.” He dropped the other boxes onto Ellen’s desk. “Lot more there than I expected,” he said. “Piles of the stuff.”

  “Way more than I can begin to get through right now,” Henry said.

  “True,” Walters answered. “But can’t you go through it all tonight?”

  “Of course. But it would take hours.”

  “You can’t do it here. We’ve got to lock up. We do lock the place, you know. We might be a little lax in the video department, but we aren’t nuts.”