Mom leaned forward. “Do you mean that sometimes a person who isn’t mentioned in a will can file a claim and collect?”
Jackson thoughtfully replaced the lid on the tobacco canister. “Only if that person you’re talking about has a legitimate document that proves the deceased owes him some money. Or if that person can otherwise prove he had a vested interest in the estate. Is there some reason you wouldn’t want your will made public, Flora?”
Mom shook her head. “We’re not talking about my will, Jackson. It’s just sort of a theoretical question.”
“I see.” The lawyer blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling.
I had some questions of my own. “Is it always necessary to have two witnesses to a will to prove that it really belongs to the person who signs it?”
Mr. Conner shifted his attention to me. “Not necessarily. That’s the usual way it’s done but there are other ways of verifying that a will was actually written by the deceased. Are we talking about a problem with your husband’s estate, Darcy? If that’s the case, I might need to do a little research since Texas law may vary some from Oklahoma law.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No. It’s not my husband’s estate that is in question. It’s just —”
He raised his hand. “I know. I know. It’s just sort of a theoretical question. Now, ladies, let me ask you a sort of theoretical question.”
Mom and I waited.
“Are the two of you actually undercover investigators from the state bar, here to determine whether I still know all I need to know about wills and estates and probate? Or are you asking these theoretical questions just in case you might need to know the answers in the future? Or, far more likely it seems to me, is there a problem that involves a will and you’re a little reluctant to tell me about it?”
Mom and I looked at each other. I could see that we were going to have to tell this lawyer everything if we proceeded with the probate. Starting with just the bare facts might be a good idea.
Taking a deep breath, I faced Jackson Conner. “I guess one of the things we really want to know, and this isn’t just theoretical, is this: suppose there is a handwritten will that’s proved valid and it gives all the deceased’s property to a person who isn’t a relative. Suppose there’s somebody else who isn’t mentioned in the will but is trying to file a claim. This last person is doing his best to establish himself as the sole heir and executor of the estate. In that case, which person has the sounder claim?”
I tried not to feel like a child who has just asked her teacher a silly question as Mr. Conner scrutinized me silently for a few seconds. His reply was to the point and probably straight from a law book.
“A valid will always takes precedence over anything else except in the case of property that’s owned jointly with the right of survivorship.”
Drawing a deep breath, I relaxed. “That’s what I thought, but it’s good to hear it from an authority. Here are the facts, Mr. Conner: my mother is the sole heir under a will that is not quite the usual textbook case. In fact, she didn’t even know about it until the person who made the will died.”
Jackson Conner nodded, probably thinking he had it all figured out at last.
Glancing at Mom, I said, “Then we discovered there is someone who claims there isn’t any will and he should inherit everything because—um—he was assured of this.”
I now had Conner’s full attention. He took the pipe out of his mouth, put it into the ashtray, and asked, “Is there a large amount of money involved?”
Carefully choosing my words, I said, “There may be, but as yet we don’t know the amount or value of all the assets.”
Mom frowned. “First of all,” she said, “I don’t care a flip about the money I might get if we probate the will. There are people who need it more than I do. In fact, I’m not sure who it rightfully belongs to.”
Mom had never chased after the mighty dollar. She owned a beautiful old house now only because my father had seen it and the surrounding land as a good investment, many years ago. My parents had never done much to the house except paint it and update the kitchen. Mom had an income that allowed her to live well enough to suit her. Once again, this was due to my father’s foresight in purchasing a life insurance policy through his job. In fact, it was my father’s example that persuaded Jake to buy a similar policy.
Conner nodded. “Indeed. I know you’ve never been interested in money, Flora. That’s one of the many things I’ve always admired about you, but sometimes the deceased wants a certain heir to have control of his property because he knows that person will follow his intent exactly. It’s actually quite a large responsibility, the inheritance of wealth.”
The lawyer’s shrewd blue eyes narrowed. “We’re talking about one Mr. Ben Ventris and his will, aren’t we?”
She nodded toward me. “You lay it out for him, Darcy. You can do it a lot better than I can. Tell him about the visitor we had yesterday.”
So, I did. I began with finding Ben’s body in the cemetery, its subsequent disappearance, the death of the Oklahoma City antiques dealer, Ben’s daughter’s death, and the arrival of Ben’s letter containing his handwritten will several weeks after his death. I finish by recounting that unforgettable visit from the lawyer representing an unknown heir who had not actually threatened us, but certainly implied that things would be better if we went along with his proposal. I placed the affidavit that J. Smith Rowley left with us on Mr. Conner’s desk.
Jackson Conner grew very still as he scanned this document. When he looked at us, the twinkle was entirely gone from his eyes. “I know J. Smith Rowley,” he said. “What a disgrace to the bar.”
As soon as Mr. Conner said this, a bell rang in my memory. Rowley had looked familiar and I realized I knew him too. That is, I knew of him. He had gotten a lot of publicity a couple of years earlier when he defended three people who bilked a big Oklahoma City corporation out of millions. No wonder he could afford Gucci loafers.
Mr. Conner forgot to draw on his pipe. “I know Rowley better than I’d like to know him,” he said. “Among the state bar, he’s best known for his representation of a big-time drug cartel.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry you two had any contact with him.”
Mom made a “tsking” sound. “So you don’t believe I’d have any trouble probating Ben’s handwritten will even though I’m not related to him?”
“No, I don’t. I feel certain any judge in the state would rule that will is valid, especially after I submit an affidavit saying I know the handwriting is Ben’s. Did you bring the will with you?”
Mom drew the envelope with the will in it out of her purse and handed it to Conner. The map was folded on the inside of the will.
Conner’s bushy brows v’d down over his nose. I could almost see the circuits connecting in his mind.
Looking up at us again, he said, “Before we go any further, I need to tell you something. Ben called me the week before he was killed. He wanted to come into the office to talk to me. He said he needed to have a will made. I believe his words were, ‘I’ve got a bad feeling.’ But I was leaving town the next day for a long trial in federal court. I told him I’d get back to him the first thing on the following Monday. I remember that I reminded him that I was aware he owned a lot of land and making a will was the wise thing to do. He said a strange thing. ‘It’s not the land he’s after, it’s the gold. But he’ll have some trouble finding it.’ Of course, by Monday, Ben was dead.”
Jackson Conner sighed and gazed out of his window. “I wish I had asked him what he meant but I didn’t. And you told me that Ben believed somebody was trying to kill him, Flora?”
“I don’t know if he thought somebody was trying to kill him,” Mom said slowly. “He told me he had a feeling that something was going to happen to him.”
Conner smoothed the will on his desk. “This is most certainly valid.”
“But how can we prove that is Ben’s handwriting?” I asked.
Conner rose a
nd went to a cabinet behind his desk, returning with a manila folder. “I can prove that right here. I represented Ben’s interests when he bought that western property a long time ago. I’ve got several examples of his handwriting on these documents. I can prepare an affidavit certifying that this is the handwriting of Mr. Ben Ventris.”
Perching on the edge of his desk, Jackson held the papers so we could see the similarity in the writing with Ben’s name on them. “Proving the will is no problem at all,” he said, “however, we do have a problem and it is a real whopper.”
He handed the map back to Mom. With Ben’s will in one hand and the folder in the other, he walked toward the outer office. “Let me get my secretary started on this so we can file it today. It may be important to act quickly.”
Returning to his chair, he settled back and regarded us gravely. “You may both be in immediate danger. If somebody wanted Ben’s assets enough to eliminate everyone who might lay claim to them, that person is sure enough not going to stop now.”
I felt frozen in my chair. My mother and I talking about danger was one thing; hearing this man, well versed in law and human behavior, voice our fear was quite another.
“There’s another little wrinkle here that neither of you may have realized,” he continued. “If someone is trying to file a notice of probate through J. Smith Rowley, they’re going to be watching the courthouse and the newspaper very closely to see if anybody jumps in ahead of them. The news of this probate is going to leak out even before the notice hits the newspaper tomorrow.”
My lips felt stiff as I said, “So, no matter what we do, we’re going to be in danger.”
“Yes, unless you do as Rowley wants, and give everything over to this anonymous person. I guess that would let you off the hook.”
“I can’t do that,” Mom whispered.
“Then, let me warn you that you will be in danger even before the paper comes out in the morning. I’m quite sure that Rowley has someone watching the courthouse to see what is being filed. Can you two change residences for a while? I have an unused guest room in my house. I’d be honored if you’d come and stay with me until this settles down.”
Mom smiled. “Thanks, Jackson. That’s kind of you, but we’ll be okay. We have an electric alarm system and Grant has someone patrolling our road.”
Jackson Conner shook his head. “You need a whole lot more than a patrol, Flora. You’re dealing with a person who has evil intent. You’re going to need at least two full time guardian angels.”
Chapter 19
Walking out of Jackson Conner’s office, I silently mulled over what he had told us. The information was solid and direct, but it didn’t leave me feeling any safer. Sliding into the driver’s seat of my Passport, I snapped the seatbelt in place. Mom climbed in beside me.
“Are you cold?” I asked as she shivered.
Shaking her head, she said, “How under the sun did we get to be in such a predicament? I didn’t ever want to be Ben’s heir. Wills and things—they are for families, not friends.”
“With all my heart, I wish that Ben hadn’t been killed and we were not in this pickle. But, I guess if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” I said.
“It’s all about greed, Darcy. The Bible warns against it, all the way through. Greed, resentment, a heart that gets taken over by hatred. And selfishness—not thinking of anybody else. Remember that the Lord Himself was betrayed by a person who loved thirty pieces of silver more than he loved his Friend.”
Turning on the ignition, I put the car in gear. “What do you think about going to see Pat Harris? If she could just convince Jasper to tell Grant what he did with Ben’s body, it might be a step toward solving this thing.”
“Let’s go,” Mom said. “Pat lives out on Old String Road. You go past the courthouse then turn right and it’s about five miles out of town.”
“Old String Road?” I said. “I don’t even want to ask how it got its name.”
Mom smiled. “It was a long time ago. An old man lived out there on that road in a little shack, all alone, for years and years. He’d pick up every piece of string or scrap of paper he found, smooth it out, and take it home with him. He was a hoarder. People started calling him Old String and forgot all about his real name. When he died, the story was that his house was crammed full of junk with only a little pathway to get through.”
It takes all kinds of people to make a world and Levi seemed to have more than its share of the colorful kind. Slowing down as we passed the courthouse, I pointed to a figure in a long-sleeved shirt going up the steps.
“Look at that man. Isn’t that Jim Clendon?” I asked.
Mom gazed out the window. “I believe it is. I wonder what he’s doing.”
“Maybe he’s just going to Grant’s office,” I suggested, “or maybe he’s keeping an eye on who files affidavits.”
“Yes, there’s that tobacco wrapper that certainly looks suspicious but, Darcy, we can’t suspect everybody.”
“Why not? A treasure worth millions would be a pretty good reason for some people to commit murder. As you said, Mom, greed is at the root of lots of the world’s troubles.”
“Jim Clendon is not likeable, Darcy, I’ll agree,” Mom said. “Maybe something happened to sour him on the world and maybe he suspects us just as much as you suspect him.”
Maybe. But first impressions are sometimes correct impressions and my first impression of Clendon was not one to inspire confidence.
Mom pointed to a road sign. “Turn here.”
Sure enough, “Old String Road” was emblazoned on the sign. Funny that I didn’t remember this road.
Squinting up at the sky, I said, “Clouds are building in the west. Could be we’re in for another storm.”
“My bones are agreeing with you. My right big toe has hurt all day. See that little falling-down shack way back among those trees? That was Old String’s place.”
I glimpsed a sagging roof held up by weathered boards.
“Slow down, Darcy. That’s Pat’s driveway up ahead,” Mom warned.
That was good advice. The bumpy dirt road was wide enough for only one vehicle and it was blessed with many curves that I couldn’t see around. Trees pressed in from both sides. Around one final curve, a small, white frame house appeared. Red hedge roses bordered a gravel pathway leading to the front door. Stopping the Passport and turning off the ignition, I asked, “Do you think she’s home? Things look awfully closed up to me.”
“Let find out,” Mom said. She slid out of the car and started toward the house. I was right behind her.
A large, red hound rose from a braided rug on the front porch. He came toward us, voicing his welcome with each step.
“Murphy! It’s good to see you, boy.” Mom bent to pat the old dog’s silky head.
“Ben’s?” I asked.
She nodded. “Pat said Jasper brought him home. He seems to have settled right in.”
I raised my hand to knock and saw the curtain over the front window move. Pat’s face peered out at us. I heard footsteps inside the house, a lock rattled, and Pat swung wide the door. “Flora and Darcy! What brings you here? Come in!”
Pat’s living room was small and neat. Crisp, white curtains crisscrossed the only window in the room. A worn, gray sofa was against one wall. Two big over-stuffed chairs in a pink and rose print faced the sofa. A rocker, a short bookcase filled with books, and a small table with a television atop it completed the room’s furnishings. I gazed at Pat’s wood floor and admired the way it gleamed. Only constant care could keep the boards looking so good.
“Would you like a glass of iced tea? I just made some this morning. Sit down, if you can find a spot. I’ve been tatting and I got things in a mess,” said our hostess.
Pat’s definition of “mess” was not the same as mine. A blue wickerwork basket sat on the floor beside her rocker. A tatting shuttle and some intricate lace spilled out of it.
As Mom and I sat on the sofa, Pat vanished into the
kitchen to get the tea. I leaned toward my mother. “How are we going to bring up the subject of Jasper?” I whispered.
Mom smiled and said, “Let me do that.”
Pat returned from the kitchen with a tray bearing three glasses, moisture beading the sides.
“Iced tea, the summertime drink of the South,” Mom said.
In one sentence, Pat bridged the gap of diplomacy. Sitting down, she said, “I imagine you’ve come to talk about Jasper.”
Nodding, Mom said, “Well, yes, Pat, as a matter of fact, we have. Do you know where he is?”
A shadow crossed Pat’s face and she seemed to find something interesting in her tea. “No, Flora, at the moment, I don’t know where that boy is. He’s somewhere out in the woods. He likes to ramble around, keeping an eye on things, he calls it.”
Ice clinked gently as Mom swirled her drink. “He paid us a visit the other night.”
Pat looked up. “He did?
“Yes. He told us that he was the one who moved Ben’s body, but he refused to tell us where he put Ben.”
Pat scrunched shut her eyes for a second. Worry lines etched her forehead. “He told me the same thing. I don’t know where he hid Ben. No more than you do.”
Cradling my cool glass in my hot hands, I asked, “Are you sure, Pat? Can’t you guess where he might have taken Ben? Did he bury Ben on your place?”
Sighing, Pat said, “No. No, I’m positive he didn’t do that.”
I sipped my cold, sweet, and refreshing tea. “Pat, if he would just talk to Grant, tell him that he found Ben and moved him, that would be at least one mystery solved in this awful riddle.”
“He would never do that, Darcy. I know my boy and he’s real suspicious of the law. In fact, he mistrusts most everyone but me and, I guess, you, Flora. You were his Sunday school teacher and you never let the other kids pick on him.”
“Of course I didn’t,” Mom said. “Even children can be cruel. Sometimes it’s on purpose and then again, they might not know any better. Grown-ups can be cruel too, but they don’t have ignorance as an excuse.”
The Cemetery Club (Darcy & Flora Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 12