“No sir, never. I’m not sure what to expect. In fact, I’m a little scared. My friend, Ruthie comes to you for weight control and it looks like the pounds are just melting away. She says it’s all because of you. She said you were such a help with her weight she believes you could help me with my sleeping problem.”
“Well, madam, we shall try to do our best. Please follow me.” Seiffert walked toward the sofa and chair at the back corner of the office. He motioned for her to sit in the chair and he sat on the couch. His routine was to work with the women in the comfortable, easy chair while the men patients were instructed to recline on the sofa. Seiffert felt the female patients relaxed more sitting upright in the chair than lying on the couch.
Myrtle sat. Seiffert could see the apprehension on her face and in the tight way she clutched her purse. “I can see you are nervous, but I need you to be comfortable and relaxed. If you are uncomfortable, I can ask Martha to come join us, she does that from time to time. Would you like that?”
Myrtle nodded.
“Okay, as you wish.” Seiffert opened the door. “Martha, would you mind joining us please?” Seiffert waited for Martha to enter the room. Martha sat beside Seiffert on the couch. Seiffert observed Myrtle, she was not holding her purse as tight as before and the color was returning to her knuckles. “Okay, let’s get started,” Seiffert said.
Seiffert began in a quiet, almost inaudible, whisper. His monotone voice instructed Myrtle Ridley to close her eyes and relax. Seiffert continued his drone until Myrtle was breathing with a deep, regular rhythm. He looked at Martha. Martha’s eyes were as wide as two full moons. She always swore to Seiffert that she dared not blink when she was sitting in on one of his sessions for fear he would hypnotize her too.
Seiffert gave Myrtle’s mind subconscious suggestions and instructed her how she would become drowsy at a specific hour each night. He continued for fifteen minutes, planting instructions inside the furrows of her mind. Seiffert stood and walked to his desk, wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to Martha.
Martha took the paper and left. Martha returned with a typewritten paper in her hand. She folded the document in half and gently pulled Myrtle Ridley’s hands away from her purse. Myrtle’s state of relaxation offered no resistance to Martha. Martha opened Myrtle’s purse and inserted the paper. Martha closed it and returned Myrtle’s hands back to their resting place on top.
Seiffert observed this with a nervous apprehension. He started his monotonous drone again giving Myrtle Ridley more subconscious instructions. Fifteen minutes more and Seiffert changed the tone and cadence of his voice. With a loud declaration of “three, two, one…open your eyes” Myrtle Ridley joined the realm of the conscious.
She looked at Seiffert and asked “Are we finished?”
“Yes, we are,” answered Seiffert. Martha stood and helped Myrtle to her feet. “My instruction to your subconscious mind is that you will go to sleep at nine every evening. I am assuming you have a clock by your bed. Please be in bed before nine and wait for the clock to countdown to nine o’clock. Once the second hand comes around to nine, close your eyes and you should fall asleep in an instant. Do you understand?”
Myrtle Ridley nodded.
“One other thing,” he continued. “I would like for you to walk in the afternoons. A short distance, maybe a half-mile if you can, but get exercise, go outside and work those legs. A good walk every evening is the best therapy. If you are still having problems, please come back next week, same day, same time. But I suspect this will be our last session.”
Seiffert stood, took Mrs. Ridley’s hand and patted it. “Thank you for coming by and my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband.”
“Did you know Harvey?” she asked.
“Yes, I did. He was a good man. I’m sure he is missed by many.”
Myrtle Ridley smiled a sad, faint smile and followed Martha to the outer office. Seiffert sat at his desk and watched as she paid Martha and walked out. He followed her movements as she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The cameras caught sight of her again as she exited the elevator. She walked to Suite 302, the law offices of Steven Pruett. While Myrtle Ridley was entering Pruett’s law office three floors down, Martha heard Seiffert through his door laughing aloud. Not a comforting, heart-warming laugh like earlier in the day but one that sent chills down her spine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Steven Pruett’s paralegal and office manager, Clara, scrambled to her feet and stood the moment Mrs. Ridley walked through the door. The Ridleys were the firm’s oldest and wealthiest clients. Harvey had put Pruett on a yearly retainer just a few months after Steven Pruett passed the bar and put his shingle out. He handled everything that Harvey Ridley threw at him. From real estate transactions to invention patents and wills, Pruett was the only attorney Harvey Ridley had used and one of the few people he had trusted.
“Oh, Mrs. Ridley,” Clara said, “I didn’t know we were expecting you today.” Clara scanned her appointment book once more to confirm.
“No, Clara. I was in the building and wanted to stop in to visit Steven. Is he here? Could he take a moment for me?”
“He’s in and no one is with him. I’m sure he’ll be tickled to see you. Hold on a second and let me buzz him.” Clara picked up the phone and called her boss. “Steven, Mrs. Myrtle Ridley is here.” She listened for a second, then smiled. “I told you. He’s happy you’re here.”
Steven Pruett’s door opened so fast it caused the papers on Clara’s desk to flutter. He was in his sixties, tall with jet-black hair, graying at the temples. He wore a tailored suit, not an off-the-rack from a department store. Steven Pruett exuded an air of money, attention to detail and professionalism. “Misses Ridley,” he declared in a slow southern drawl, “I’m so happy you came by to visit. What brings you to this part of town?”
“Oh, I had a meeting near here,” she replied. “I know you weren’t expecting me, but I was wondering if I could trouble you for a few moments of your time.”
“Now Miss Myrtle, you don’t need an appointment to visit me, my door is always open. Come on in, come on in.” He looked over at Clara. “Clara, dahlin’, why don’t you find us some iced tea? I think Miss Myrtle here likes hers sweet and I’ll have the same.”
He ushered Mrs. Ridley into his office. Instead of heading to his desk he invited Myrtle to sit in the more casual sitting area, a place designed to welcome big-money clients like Myrtle Ridley. He settled into one of the big, green-leather, easy chairs, and Myrtle sat on the matching sofa.
Even though he was welcoming and had no appointments for another hour, he was curious about Mrs. Ridley’s unscheduled appearance. He thought it strange since they had met at the company two days earlier along with Allen and her accountant.
It had been an informal meeting centering on Harvey Ridley’s estate and reiterating the terms of his will. Harvey Ridley left everything to his wife Myrtle, the house, the vacation house at the lake, two undeveloped tracts of real estate, bank accounts, and the company. Myrtle Ridley was also the beneficiary of Harvey’s five-hundred-thousand dollar life insurance policy.
Allen received nothing, but Harvey had stipulated in his will that Allen could continue to manage the company as President and Chairman of the Board if he wanted. If the company lost money, for two consecutive months, the company’s Board of Directors could dismiss Allen and hire a manager of their choosing. Myrtle would receive monthly payments from the business, but she would not be involved in the management other than having a seat on the board.
The last stipulation was Ridley’s personal accountant watch the finances of the company on behalf of the board and Myrtle Ridley. This was unorthodox, the company accountant was sufficient, but these were Harvey’s instructions. The Ridley’s accountant, Charles Sandler, had attended the meeting along with Steven Pruett, Myrtle Ridley, and Allen Ridley just to follow Harvey’s last wishes. Steven knew Allen was fuming during the meeting a
nd was even hotter two weeks earlier when he read his father’s will.
Steven waited for Clara to bring in the tea. Clara placed a tray with a large pitcher of tea along with two, tall, iced-filled glasses on the coffee table. Clara left, and he poured the tea into the glasses. He handed Mrs. Ridley a glass and came right to the point. “So what can I do for you today Miss Myrtle, or did you just stop by to say hello?”
“Well,” she smiled and clutched her purse, “I guess hello is a nice start but I stopped by with something more serious.”
Steven looked at her and waited.
“I want to change my will,” she said with force and determination.
Steven remarked to himself that he had never seen this kind, timid lady speak with such conviction. It was like she spoke with another person’s voice. Steven stared at his glass of tea to let her words settle in his mind. He could tell she was resolute.
“Okay, Miss Myrtle, how do you want it changed?”
“First,” her voice still steady as she spoke, “Allen is to receive nothing, not a penny, do you understand?”
Steven took a sip of tea and nodded. He never dreamed Myrtle Ridley could be so ruthless.
She opened her purse and withdrew a sheet of folded paper, the same paper Martha had placed in her purse minutes before. “Second, upon my death, my property is to be sold, the debts settled and all my money is to be donated to this non-profit organization.” She unfolded the paper and handed it to Steven. “The beneficiary of my estate is to remain unknown. I don’t want anyone to know where my money is going except for you, Clara, and the probate judge. And last, my will must stay sealed until thirty days after my death.”
Steven read the paper. The name was not one he recognized, the “Circus and Carnival Worker’s Benevolent Organization”. The contact person was Cyrus Maclendon—underneath his name was a Tampa address and telephone number. Steven re-read this and pondered what to say next. Since this organization involved both carnival and circus workers, he worried that the old woman had fallen victim to a scam. Maybe the carnies had moved on from “guess your weight and age” or “shoot out the star with the BB-gun” to “let’s fleece heirs out of their money”.
“Harvey’s will gave ownership of the company to you, but management to Allen if he keeps it profitable. What about ownership? Will that pass to Allen?” asked Pruett.
“No. I want you to set up a trust for the company. Allen will continue to run the company for the trust as long as it is profitable. If he can keep it in the black for one year, then Allen gets the company—lock, stock, and barrel. But if Allen violates the terms of the will and the company loses money, the trust is to pass the company’s ownership to this same charity.” Her words were precise and clipped like she had memorized her words.
Myrtle watched Steven as he tried to process this. She didn’t wait for him to reply. “Now Steven,” she said, her tone becoming congenial again, “I guess there is doubt in your mind about my request. You probably assumed I would leave it to the local hospital or to the university. But please know, Harvey and I both were big fans of the circus and the carnival. He often commented on how blessed and fortunate we were and that we didn’t have to move from town to town to earn our living.”
Allen Ridley will explode when he discovers this.
Myrtle continued to drone on about the reasons for her benevolence. Steven heard half of what she was saying, his mind was speeding like a car with a stuck accelerator pedal.
Was this fraud? What about Allen? Is she sane and able to decide this? Who should I call?
Then he caught part of something she said which snapped him back to reality, “…the fact is, Harvey donated one-hundred thousand dollars to this same charity thirty-four years ago.”
“Oh really?” he asked. Steven’s mind raced back thirty-four years, something was there, but he couldn’t remember what. He needed to verify this organization, but it would take more time. “Miss Myrtle, I can change the will, but it will take a few days to get everything together. Could you come back next Tuesday morning and sign?”
“Of course Steven, what time?”
“Ten in the morning?” he asked.
Myrtle nodded.
She stood and smiled at Steven and offered him her hand. They shook hands. Her eyes narrowed and she whispered to Steven with a menacing sneer, “Not a word of this to Allen. Do you hear me? Not a word.” With that, she gave Steven one more soft smile and kissed him on the cheek.
On her way home, Myrtle made a stop at the Valdosta Mall and went shopping for a sweat suit. She found a pastel blue one which she liked and bought a matching style in hot pink. She left the mall and drove straight to her house. When she arrived at her driveway, she made a U-turn and pressed the button on the car’s odometer. She drove away from her house and watched the odometer as it reached the half-mile mark. She stopped the car and made a mental note of one the oak trees. Myrtle Ridley had marked out her half-mile walking course and tonight she planned to walk and get sleep just like the doctor ordered.
* * *
Steven watched as the old lady left his office. He was in awe. Today he had witnessed a new side of Myrtle Ridley. Steven couldn’t refuse to change her will—she would go to another law firm and ask them to do it. If that happened, he would lose Myrtle Ridley’s confidence in him and her business with him, finished. But he could not stand by and see someone take advantage of the old woman. Myrtle and Harvey had been his clients for years. They were more than clients, but also friends.
And what about Allen? He was angry two days earlier when they met at the office to clarify the terms of Harvey’s will. Allen was more enraged two weeks before when Pruett read the will aloud. He accepted that he would not get everything. Allen always assumed his mother would get the bulk of the estate, but he always believed his father would give him the company. It surprised Allen when that didn’t happen.
There had always been rumors about Allen’s temper. Allen’s wife divorced him four years earlier, there had been no children. She claimed, to the police, that Allen made threats on her life. There was a restraining order, Allen violated it and he landed in jail for ten days. Rumor had it, in legal circles, that while he was cooling down behind bars he received an unofficial visit from Superior Court Judge Morrow.
Judge Morrow told him he would be disbarred if he did not settle the divorce, “quickly and without incident.” The police released Allen from jail the next day. Allen signed the divorce papers an hour after his release, and his ex-wife left the state the following morning.
After the divorce, Allen frequented the local bars. Allen often went out looking for female companionship, but the nights often ended with him trying to start a fight. He found a fight one night, compliments of a local motorcycle gang. Allen ended up at South Georgia Medical Center with a broken nose and ten stitches on the back of his head.
After he had left the hospital, Harvey staged an “intervention” with Allen.
He approached life calmer. Allen put his head in his work and developed a reputation as a ruthless divorce attorney. Steven went up against him a few times in court and he sensed the anger was still there, a tiger waiting to pounce. He did not want to be in the path of Allen’s storm when he discovered the change in the will.
Steven drank the last of the tea and added three more cubes of ice. He walked to the small bar and poured his glass full of bourbon. He took a sip, sat and closed his eyes. His first step was to verify that this non-profit organization was real.
Steven pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through the phone’s directory until he saw the name “Charles Sandler”. He pressed the call button on the phone and waited.
A cheery voice answered after two rings. “Charles Sandler, CPA. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, Becky, Steven Pruett here. Is Charlie in the office?”
“Sure Mr. Pruett, let me get him for you.”
Steven smiled. Becky was such a perky person. His Clara sometimes had a
sour attitude, but her work compensated for her sometimes lack of friendliness. He took another swig of bourbon from the tea glass.
A man’s voice interrupted the on-hold music. “Yohhhh Stevie, is that you?”
“Hey Charlie, it’s me. How’s it hangin’?”
“Low and to the left.” They laughed in unison. Charles Sandler and Steven Pruett grew up together, attended elementary school, high school and then college together. They were the best of friends and helped each other throughout their professional life—most of Steven Pruett’s clients had Charles Sandler as their accountant.
“Charles,” Steven said, his voice changed to one more serious.
“Oh good God, it’s Lawyer Steven making an appearance!” laughed Charles Sandler. “Wassup Lawyer Steven?”
“Charles, this is serious. I need you to think back. I had just passed the bar, and you had passed the CPA exam. We hung out our shingles a week apart and our first client was who?”
“Harvey Ridley. He hired you first and then I came along. I was part of the package,” answered Charles.
“Now think about this, during those first years do you ever remember Harvey giving a large sum of money to a charitable organization?”
“Well, there were the usual places, the American Legion, the library, the hospital, police and sheriff organizations. Old Harvey was quite the philanthropist, but these contributions weren’t that large—a hundred here or five hundred there. How much money are you talking about?”
“One-hundred thousand dollars,” replied Pruett, then dead silence. “Charles, are you still there?”
“Yes, Steven, I am still here.” Pruett detected a slight tremble in Charles Sandler’s voice. Now Sandler’s voice was becoming more business-like.
“Is everything okay Charles?”
“Yes, everything is okay, and yes Harvey made a large contribution for that amount. He paid it on July first, thirty-four years ago,” he said, the quiver in his voice growing worse. Charles felt like his throat was closing as he spoke.
Carnies and Wildcats: Ulciscor Page 9