by Una Tiers
“No, I stick to real estate. Court, well I don’t like court.”
I tried to keep my expression neutral.
Steve appeared to be at a loss for words, and then he exhaled. Why did I let him into my office?
“Fiona, we don’t know one another well, but I feel very close to you. Since I’m not married, I worry about my funeral. I mean who’ll take care of things when the time comes?”
“Your children, you have several, right?” He couldn’t be much past fifty, maybe fifty-five. Did that make him almost a senior citizen?
“They’re too young to appreciate a long life. They have probably been to less than half a dozen funerals. When my mother died they were too young to understand. They were chasing one another through the funeral parlor.” He increased his woe is me look and peeked up at me through hooded eyes.
My guess was his kids had to be at least twenty to twenty-five. I agreed they seemed young, but funerals are a lot about choices. How old were they when they were running around the funeral parlor?
Maybe Steve had cousins or other family members to walk the kids through it.
“So you go to funerals for ideas?” I half joked.
“Yes I want something nice and dignified at the end.”
“Do you want to make a prepaid funeral? That would give you control from the grave.”
“No, I don’t want to plan my own funeral. That would be like planning your own birthday party. I’m looking for someone to make the decisions for me that will be in alignment with my beliefs.”
I’ve never compared funerals and birthday parties, although I guess they both could be considered a display of who loves you, or pretends to love you. A pain started in my right shoulder probably due to the weirdness of the conversation, even for a probate lawyer.
“You could write a letter to your children about what you want, and I’ll help you with a will. How about that?” I suggested with aplomb.
“Actually you’re my first choice, you know, to take care of things at the end, you know, close up my law practice in case I’m still working. Would you do that for me?”
We sat quietly while Steve’s idea settled over me like toxic waste. I didn’t want to be mean or small-minded but I didn’t want to be an executor. Maybe it’s a step away from going to funerals of strangers, being an executor for an almost stranger.
Finally I asked, “Steve are you sick?” I wondered how that sounded, after the words sailed into the air and a second interpretation about as subtle as neon in Las Vegas occurred to me.
“Well I just don’t want to be cremated, placed on a shelf and forgotten.”
“I will never forget you,” I said with a solemn expression, with a little homage paid to the unintentional continuing double meaning of my words. I thought ashes were scattered at sea or off the CTA platform at Fullerton Avenue. One thing I was certain of was we were not going to store anyone’s ashes in my office.
“You’re perfect for the job Fiona, and you know how to do probate.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll help you draft a trust and then your children won’t have to go through the probate process. We can make a letter of instruction about the funeral.”
“But what about my law practice?” He whined.
“You do real estate, I don’t know how to do that.”
“You do closings.”
“Two, I did two closings,” I corrected him.
Briefly I pictured a real New Orleans style funeral, in the rain of course. The mourners would walk behind the flower-covered casket. We would hire a rather bedraggled band consisting of a trumpet, a trombone and a clarinet. They would play a tad off key, wearing ill fitting, slightly faded uniforms. The band would play ‘When the Saints Go Marching in.’
Dancing at the head of the procession with a colorful ruffled umbrella (matching dress and shoes) and a large brimmed straw hat would be me, Fiona Gavelle the executor!
For some reason I didn’t share this with Steve. I was thinking about a theme funeral. We would certainly include a proper lunch.
“Steve, people usually plan funerals when the time comes. If you think your children won’t honor your decision for cremation, for example, you prepay it to box them in. Your kids will do fine. You shouldn’t worry about it. It will be years before this will be an issue.”
Steve sat pouting, forcing me to fill the void. The first thing I did was to offer him a drink of water, which he declined.
It was ironic that I usually encourage my estate planning clients to make a letter of direction about funeral decisions. I encourage clients to approach their choice of executor before we make the plan. I assumed people would agree.
I did not want to be an executor.
“I have my own practice and I don’t want to be an executor.” I said this a little too loud, and too harshly but I wanted him to leave. I could not find kinder words. He had a hurt look on his face but I wasn’t going to change my mind just to make him feel better.
Steve sulked out of the office without looking back. I think I heard him sniff.
I looked up when Paul walked in and closed the door.
“Got a minute?” he asked after he sat down.
“Sure but let me save you a little time, I don’t want to be your executor.”
Paul paused, tilting his head to the side like a cowboy who isn’t certain that he heard the chow bell ringing.
“Okay, no problem.”
I smiled my silly smile and waited because explaining Steve’s idea would identify me as the fearless leader of the local howl at the moon club.
“Do you think Claude seems a little old to be a law student?” he started.
Still feeling defensive, I shifted back into firing position.
“People attend law school at all ages.” Actually, older students were often given a priority to give the class a balance.
“He seems to follow you around although he is supposed to work for my firm.”
“He works with me on occasion. I pay him from my money. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t do your work. Why are you making an issue of this Paul?”
“He also follows you around to court and to bar meetings.”
“I work in court and go to bar meetings and he’s trying to learn the business, what’s wrong with that?”
From the look on his face my arguments weren’t convincing.
“Is he not keeping up with your work Paul?” I asked.
“No, I have no complaints with his work.”
“Does his studying here bother you?”
“No.”
“Is he making too many complimentary copies?”
“No, I’ve never seen him use the copy machine.”
He continued, “Don’t you think it’s odd for him to hang around here when he could be at the school library?” Paul asked.
“Odd, to spend time here?” Was Paul bothered when Clyde stopped in and had lunch with me? Besides here there was a coffee machine, a copy machine and he didn’t have to worry about having his books ripped off.
Paul smiled in an inappropriate way, “He spends an inordinate amount of time with you.”
“Works, he works for me and once in a while I help him with class work.” Personally I think Claude liked me, but Paul wouldn’t believe this if I told him. Paul didn’t know about my C minus grade average in law school either.
“He’s always asking us where you are, and wants to catch up with you in court. And I don’t think he needs help with his homework.”
“He has to do court observation for school, that’s why he goes to court.” Although I wouldn’t concede his point, I did see Claude in court, usually as a surprise. But I’m a lawyer and I see people in court I know all the time. It wasn’t as if he was hanging around the corner smoking cigarettes waiting to catch a glimpse of me like a rock start or supreme court justice. I had run into him, twice, three times at most in court. Maybe it was four times, but so what. Who had enough time to follow me?
“Here’
s another thing, I forgot to make his check out for three weeks and he never mentioned it until I brought it up.”
“So he doesn’t need the money?” I thought about Claude’s cell phone, it was probably three times as expensive as mine. It could have been a gift, or maybe he won it in a church raffle. Anyway a fair share of law students are not starving or eating beans and rice for dinner every night.
“Okay, did you notice how put off he was about not being included in your wine tasting reception?” Paul asked with raised eyebrows.
In a blink I wondered how Paul knew about the reception and why it would matter to him. Or if it mattered to Claude. Maybe this was a not so subtle rebuke because I didn’t ask him (Paul) to join me. Annette probably blabbed.
“The wine reception?” I asked.
“He asked me to keep my ears open when you are going to things like that or your swimming meet with P. Alexander Ans. He is almost possessive about knowing what you’re doing and where you are.”
No more gift souvenir’s for Annette. Was that was it was all about? Was Paul jealous because Claude and I were friend? Were we in the second grade all over again? Would we end up pulling him in different directions by the arms, screaming, he’s my friend? No, he’s mine.
“Do you pay him to go to the meetings with you?” Paul asked quietly.
“Paul I don’t see a problem. He works for you, his work is up to par. He sometimes helps me, I pay him.” Then I stopped talking.
The ringing phone rescued me. As he left, Paul muttered, “Something doesn’t seem right about him.”
I closed the door, the call was a wrong number. I took the other side of the argument and continued the debate inside my head. Claude didn’t talk much about law school, he was particularly calm, he never carried a ton of books and his shoes didn’t look like law student’s shoes. He asked a lot of questions about judges and court and that seemed normal. He had really good posture, like David.
Did Paul think Claude had was under cover? Was it Interpol? Scotland Yard? A competitive law firm?
In the morning, I found a bottle of wine on my desk with a ribbon and a note from Steve, asking me to reconsider the executor idea. I controlled a museum worthy scream.
When I was thinking about opening the wine (to start a new office tradition), I remembered the oddly flavored wines at the bar group fundraiser. Steve had commented that the wine flavors sounded “disgustatory,” mocking one of the servers after eight or nine samples.
Could there be a peanut flavored wine or liquor? I’ve heard about almond liquor and wondered if the word peanut in peanut allergy was a strict interpretation or simply a guideline for nuts in general.
David said they couldn’t identify any food from the reception that was supposed to have nuts in it other than the phantom cheesecake. Could there be a drink that went to the judge by mistake? Maybe there was still a chance it was an innocent but tragic mistake and not a murder after all.
After work, instead of going to the bookstore, I walked down the street to a large liquor store and asked what they had with peanut flavor for say drinking or baking.
Instead of a simple answer, I got the short course on nuts in alcohol. The clerk was so earnest and animated I didn’t have the heart to cut things short.
Apparently, most of the nutty flavors were in liqueurs and the almond flavor was a best seller. In the condiment section I was introduced to a walnut based mustard. I bought a bottle of the almond liqueur, the mustard and a bottle of champagne for the ultimate celebration of solving the mystery.
I still wanted this to be a terrible mistake.
As I left, the salesman suggested if I was more interested in baking, I had to check out the Baking Store For Grown Ups on Clark Street. I waved a thank you to avoid the intermediate class.
I needed to know if the club served fancy drinks before I mentioned it to David. He was focusing on the dessert table and I wondered if there was another avenue for the judge to get his deadly nut quotient.
In the morning I took a cab over to the Yacht Club where the reception was held two months ago. After knocking for a while, a security guard advised me that non-members ‘weren’t allowed inside.’
“What if I want to ask about being a member?”
“As soon as a member introduces you to the membership committee you can do that.” He wasn’t snotty, but seemed to lack any feelings of regret about being uncooperative. Maybe I didn’t look like I owned a large yacht.
I didn’t appreciate his logic since I had a headache from sampling the almond liqueur, plain, on the rocks and with soda, purely for scientific purposes.
When they wouldn’t let me in the front door, I walked around the side, hoping the bartender would see me and offer to help out. Most of the east side of the building, which overlooks the lake, has floor to ceiling windows. There were a few boats already in the water and two geese, but otherwise I was alone.
I started to peer into the windows and then realized that the bartender probably didn’t start until late in the afternoon, although some bars in downtown Chicago open as early as Eight AM. Think about it. They’re not serving virgin Mary’s to a group heading home from the night shift.
Timothy called late in the afternoon and said he was in the lobby.
“Come on up,” I invited. Did he finally buy a cell phone? We don’t have phones in the lobby. Pay phones seem to be growing extinct with the explosion of the cell phone population.
When he walked in he seemed different, and it wasn’t just the Hollywood sunglasses. Instead of his usual impeccably tailored conservative suit and tie, he had on a sports coat, sans tie and I think he was wearing six or seven gold chains. At least five buttons were open on his shirt.
He looked over his shoulder and mentioned that he saw three people that looked like lawyers on his way in.
“Alright,” I answered slowly. Did he expect clowns in full costume in a law firm?
This was a new side of Timothy. Looking closer, he had a five o’clock shadow. I’ve never seen him anything but clean shaven before.
Thinking back, he wasn’t at the Water Club reception. Was he there in disguise? Wasn’t there a waiter David couldn’t find? Maybe Timothy was at the reception dressed as a Russian waiter with an enormous mustache? Considering today’s outfit, he was able to disguise himself. He never mentioned any disagreements with Judge King the way Sally had with Judge Requin. But if someone had a big grudge and intended to even the score, wouldn’t it make sense for them to dummy up?
Annette lingered at the door looking from Timothy to me, I imagine she was trying to signal me that she would call the police if I screamed.
“Please see that Ms. Gavelle and I aren’t disturbed, will you?” Timothy said to Annette.
Smiling at Annette I tried to communicate that he was headed for a costume party.
He turned the door lock before he placed his briefcase on my desk. The locks flicking open on his briefcase startled me. Smoothing a black towel out, he removed weapon-like objects, one by one, and lined them up neatly.
I was kind of bowled over.
In response to my expression, he asked, “You wanted pepper spray didn’t you?”
“And you shopped for me, how nice.” How nice and how weird. I had to check the moon phase.
“Did you already buy some?”
Did I just call him about this two days ago?
“Oh no. I haven’t had a chance,” I answered.
“Alright, here’s a rundown of what I brought.” He explained that the basic large canister was hard to carry and conceal.
I didn’t want to know why anyone would need a quart of the stuff. Some of the other versions were sleek and high tech, one sported a camouflage design. The last one resembled a fat pen in a tiny holster that you could clip to your gun belt. This was clearly the nervous lawyer style.
“Where did you get all this stuff?”
“I told you, my local gun shop.” His voice carried a modest amount of impatienc
e.
“You bought all of these?”
”No they’re on consignment.”
“And these are all pepper sprays?” One of the items looked like it had a rocket launch attachment.
“Of course they’re labeled as pepper spray but, you know, may have some other chemicals.” His laugh was in the middle of sinister. “Still if someone bothers you they won’t exactly be in a position to complain or raise an objection.” His smile started with a lip curl and ended in a menacing lopsided grin, kind of like nasty Elvis.
I tried to decide if he had on contact lens or if his Hollywood sunglasses were prescription. And if they were fancy prescription shouldn’t they get lighter inside? Usually Timothy wore gold wire rim glasses.
My laughs came out in little incongruous bursts.
“A small one, the smallest one, that’s what I had in mind. In fact, maybe a self-defense class would be a better idea. That way I wouldn’t have extra things to carry around and keep track of.”
“You could go with both, I can help you with the class too, just as soon as you pick a discipline,” his voice was very serious.
“A discipline?”
“A martial arts discipline, like karate or tai kwon do or jujitsu. You know I study karate. Or should we talk about a permit for a handgun?”
“I thought I would try the one from the domestic violence place. I’m talking about a self-defense class Timothy.”
“What kind of class is that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Suit yourself, but I think something a little more serious is appropriate under the circumstances. The women’s shelters teach you more about being aware of your surroundings than protecting yourself as a matter of course.”
Right, I wanted to learn how to dislocate kneecaps and fingers. What kind of a world did Timothy live in? Were undertakers a violent group?
His image had changed from pious to holy terror in a little under ten minutes.
“I had something really simple in mind,” I needlessly explained again. The fat pen model, which didn’t resemble a weapon, was coincidentally my choice, if I had to take one, but only after he assured me that it was pure pepper spray since there wasn’t an ingredient label.