Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  And now, I needed her worse than ever. Instead, I was saddled with her two spoiled grandkids. I’d always avoided those two in the past, but now our lives were intertwined in a Gordian knot I didn’t have a clue how to untie. There was no doubt that Elizabeth came to my house to get away from those two. After spending just a few minutes with them, I was amazed that she didn’t knock on my door every day at the crack of dawn.

  Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me that Elizabeth put me in the will in some small way, but it had never crossed my mind. I knew she was very wealthy; it wasn’t something you could ignore. Not that she flaunted her wealth. She never had to. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she stood tall, straight and very proud. She wore understated, but very elegant, very expensive clothes. She and I were a study in contrasts. While I wore black leggings and a long sweatshirt with the Denver Broncos logo emblazoned across the front, she wore neutral-colored cashmere slacks and an array of silk blouses topped with a solid gold necklace. I used to panic when she walked into my studio, worried she would sit on a ball of clay or rub her sleeve against a charcoal sketch and ruin her clothes. But whenever I suggested she wear something more casual, she looked at me like I was crazy. Clothes were to be worn, she said, not hidden under plastic bags hanging uselessly in the closet. I finally gave up worrying once I realized that even stains would look exactly right on her.

  The only visible concession she made to her artistic side was the scarves. Villari was right about the bohemian look. Certainly my neighbor was never mistaken for a gypsy, but she did tie vividly colored ribbons and bows in her hair or around her neck to spice up an otherwise sedate outfit. She glided into my studio wearing brilliant stripes, polka dots, and paisley designs tied about her waist or slipped under the lapels of a blazer...a swatch of color that quickly became her signature.

  Shaking off the memories, I dragged myself back to the car. The meeting started in forty-five minutes, just enough time to drive leisurely back down the pass and arrive at the Boyers’ house a comfortable ten minutes late.

  No doubt my tardiness would infuriate Preston and Cassie...a little splash of sunlight in an otherwise bleak day.

  “I should have known you’d take this lightly and sashay in here whenever you felt like it.”

  “Get a grip, Preston. I’ve never sashayed anywhere in my life. Arriving fifteen minutes late is hardly cause for a lecture. What are you going to do, ground me?” Admittedly, I was a few minutes later than I originally planned because sudden hunger pangs had me pulling into a store for frozen yogurt and then running home to change into more comfortable clothes. I couldn’t stand another minute in the funeral outfit. I probably shouldn’t have taken the time to stop by the house, but Preston and Cassie’s anger was well worth the extra few minutes. Those two were chomping at the bit for the inheritance money Elizabeth had promised them. It was a miracle they hadn’t vaulted across the desk where Mr. Hawthorne now stood and torn the will from his hands.

  I held out my hand and introduced myself to the silver-haired gentleman. Tall and lean, with a pencil-thin mustache arching over his upper lip like an older Clark Gable, Mr. Hawthorne graciously stood and reached across the desktop to clasp my hand.

  “It is very nice to meet you, Ms. Kean,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly with just a hint of a British accent. “Elizabeth spoke of you often.”

  I smiled. “She was a wonderful lady.”

  “Yes, she was. I will miss her tremendously.” He cleared his throat and looked sternly around the room like a disappointed parent. “I’m sure we all will.”

  Preston nodded somberly and Cassie dabbed at nonexistent tears. I wanted to run from this phony display of affection, but before I could leave, Mr. Hawthorne gestured towards the chairs circling the desk.

  “Why don’t we all take a seat and begin.” Mr. Hawthorne picked up a file and walked around the desk. He faced Preston. “I appreciate the offer,” he explained, “but I don’t feel it’s appropriate to use Elizabeth’s desk at this time. I’m sure we will all feel more comfortable sitting together here.” Swiveling in his chair, he looked toward the back of the room. “Mr. Villari, will you be joining us?”

  I spun around in shock. Detective Villari stood silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the large window. Lounging against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, his arms were crossed and his right foot hooked over his left ankle.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Police business.”

  I turned back to Mr. Hawthorne. “Is this normal procedure? Do detectives usually attend the reading of a will?”

  “There’s nothing normal about murder, Ms. Kean,” Villari said from behind. He walked toward me, pulled out a chair, and with a flick of his hand invited me to sit down. I ignored him and moved to a chair across from Mr. Hawthorne.

  “Unless someone objects,” Villari said, addressing the group, a hint of mockery in his tone, “I will stay to hear the will.” He glanced at me. “Do you object, Ms. Kean?”

  “Only to the feeling that you’re lurking around every corner.”

  “Are you afraid I might pounce?” he murmured.

  Mr. Hawthorne cleared his throat before I could answer. I shot Villari an irritated look, but he simply lifted an eyebrow, apparently amused by the exchange.

  “Could we get on with this?” Preston said impatiently.

  “Why the big hurry, Preston?” I asked. “Expecting to make a large bank deposit this afternoon?”

  He huffed and puffed like the Big Bad Wolf before sputtering, “Not at all. I’m simply trying to expedite matters to make it easier for everyone involved.”

  “Remind me not to name you in my Living Will. I’d hate to think of you ‘expediting’ matters and yanking the plug while I was still breathing, just to make it easier on everyone.”

  Preston pursed his lips and regarded me angrily, but evidently decided not to say anything more. Mr. Hawthorne cleared his throat again and ruffled his papers to get everyone’s attention, staring pointedly at me.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  He nodded solemnly and reached for the glasses in his top pocket, but not before I caught the glint of laughter in his eyes. “Let me start by saying that Mrs. Boyer’s will is very clear and concise. She was especially aware of the problems that inherited wealth can cause if the wishes of the deceased are not laid out very specifically. Elizabeth was careful to review her will every year at exactly the same time. Except for the codicil which added Ms. Kean’s name, everything has remained essentially the same over the last ten years.” Hawthorne slipped on his glasses and shook his head. “Elizabeth was an extremely predictable creature in some ways, especially in terms of her legal affairs. In fact, I was quite surprised when she called to set up a meeting for next week.”

  “She wasn’t due to discuss her will?” Villari asked.

  Hawthorne frowned. “Actually, she wasn’t. We had gone over the document just a few months before.”

  “I don’t see the big deal,” Preston interjected. “You and Grandmother were friends and traveled in the same social circles. You saw each other during dinner functions and at the club. She could have wanted to meet for a hundred reasons...something as simple as a donation to her latest charity.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Hawthorne conceded. “But your grandmother seemed hesitant to tell me why she wanted to meet. Usually she was very forthright, set up the agenda over the phone, and came prepared with files and notes. She didn’t like to waste any time.”

  “Which is exactly what we’re doing right now,” Preston interjected. “This is an exercise in futility. We’ll never know why Grandmother wanted to see you, and I, for one, don’t really care.”

  The man had the manners of a pig. Or a vulture. Swooping down to tear chunks of flesh off a fresh kill, burying his nose in the blood and guts.

  “Yes, well, perhaps you’re right.” Hawthorne peered over his half glasses and exchanged a look with Villari, a look I couldn�
��t decipher. Then again, I didn’t understand anyone here. It seemed heartless to be reading a will before the body had spent at least one day underground.

  Cassie spoke up. “I’m sure Preston did not mean to sound like he didn’t care about Grandmother, because that’s simply not true. The two of them were very close, and this whole situation has been devastating for both of us. But,” she added with a brave little catch in her voice, “the fact of the matter is, Grandmother is gone and we must carry on.”

  More senseless drivel from the Queen of the Manor. Hawthorne pulled a sheaf of papers from his file and began reading. “ I, Elizabeth Boyer, of El Paso County, Colorado, being of sound mind and memory and over the age of twenty-one years, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament...”

  She was dead long before I saw her floating in the filthy sewage, but the sense of finality, of true loss, hit me in the gut when I heard Hawthorne’s deep voice intoning the final words of Elizabeth Boyer. The will was written in convoluted legalese, but I could easily imagine this very grand lady sitting and strumming her fingernails against her lawyer’s desk as she listed, in no uncertain terms, her final wishes. The attorney’s words swirled around me like a pile of dust kicked up by an old truck traveling over a dirt road. I couldn’t focus on what he was saying, but I was sure Preston had a hidden recorder tucked in his pocket so he could replay the exact, glorious moment he received more money than he could spend in several lifetimes. I slumped further into my chair and stared down at my feet, now clad in my favorite pair of Nike running shoes—perhaps not the best choice for a somber meeting, but something that would not have surprised Elizabeth.

  Hawthorne cleared his throat and I looked up to see him staring at me. Preston and Cassie were sitting on either side of him like a pair of bookends, both completely white and looking shell-shocked. Confused, I scooted up in my chair

  “What’s wrong?”

  Preston stood slowly, his hands clenched and his body radiating anger. “You conniving little slut.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Like you didn’t know. Like you weren’t planning the whole thing with those cozy little visits from my grandmother.” Preston reached out and pointed his finger at me. “You orchestrated it all. Every last minute of it.” He snarled at me like a rabid dog. “You took advantage of a vulnerable old lady and twisted her mind against her own family.”

  My God, this was a page out of some gothic novel. I was stuck in a room with crazy people and there was no escape, not with the two nutcases attacking me.

  “Look, I have no idea why you’re foaming at the mouth, nor do I really care, but I do know one thing. Your grandmother was one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, and if you pulled your brain out of your wallet long enough to think for a second, you’d know I was right.” I turned to Cassie. “What are you crying about?” At least I thought she was crying. Given her amazing ability to turn tears on and off at will, it was hard to be sure.

  Cassie shook her head and hiccupped a couple of times. “How could Grandmother turn her estate over to someone like you?” she asked, before bursting out into a fresh wail.

  Something bad was happening here, real bad. Preston, red-faced and irate, stood next to Cassie and patted her shoulder somewhat vaguely and ineffectively while she wept up a storm. The famous Boyer upper lip was crumbling at breakneck speed and it wasn’t a pretty sight. And apparently, it was all my fault.

  Not only was I totally lost, I was completely embarrassed. I hadn’t heard a single word Hawthorne had spoken in the last fifteen minutes and now I was really paying for that lapse. I glanced at Villari, who sat kicked back in his chair with one foot resting on the opposite knee, his hands loosely clasped in his lap and a smile threatening the edges of his lips.

  “Why don’t you read that last couple of sentences over again, Mr. Hawthorne. I believe Ms. Kean here might have missed it.”

  Hawthorne nodded. “Let’s see. The area of controversy seems to be centered on one particular portion of the will.” With his right finger, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “...I hereby appoint my neighbor and dear friend Margaret E. Kean as fiduciary of the ten million dollars currently deposited—”

  Numbness spread through my body until there was no feeling left in my legs, feet, or hands. Completely stunned, I collapsed back against the chair and stared dumbly at my scraped-up tennis shoes as visions of dollar signs and a whole string of zeros dropped like a lead balloon. No wonder Cassie and Preston were upset.

  “Let me guess. You had no idea. You’re just as shocked as we are,” he sneered.

  “I’m sure you’ll admit, Maggie,” his sister chimed in, “that this is simply too coincidental to be completely innocent.”

  I grimaced. There was some truth to what she said. It did look a little too coincidental for comfort. I wasn’t even sure what a fiduciary did or how much she got paid for doing it, but judging from the volume of Cassie’s sobs, it was more than pocket change. And Villari’s presence was making me nervous. I was afraid to look up, afraid that the smile would have disappeared and he’d be patting his jacket for a pair of handcuffs as he called for backup on his cell phone.

  “Could you explain what this means, Mr. Hawthorne?” I asked, unable to control the tremble in my voice.

  The lawyer regarded me solemnly. “Elizabeth had great faith in you, Ms. Kean. To say she was fond of you is an understatement. She also believed you would handle her assets with care. The bulk of her estate, that part in which you have no con- trolling interest, will continue as is, until there are certain changes in the stock market. She has left explicit instructions on when to sell her stocks and bonds and where the proceeds will go. Most of this can easily be handled through my office if you so choose.”

  “If it’s all that neat and tidy, why did Grandmother put her in charge?” Preston demanded, his voice climbing.

  “Please sit down,” Mr. Hawthorne said firmly, “so we can discuss this calmly.”

  Preston complied reluctantly, but he didn’t look any calmer.

  “Your grandmother,” Hawthorne continued, “was concerned that you and Cassandra might use the money irresponsibly.” He held up his hand before Preston could launch a torrent of angry words. “I realize this isn’t particularly pleasant to hear, but the fact remains, Elizabeth felt the—shall we say ‘excitement’—of handling such a large sum of money could prove to be a bit overwhelming and that your judgment might be impaired.”

  Preston looked ready to explode. “So she wanted Maggie to watch over us?”

  “Certainly this sounds a little farfetched, but the idea is actually quite sound. Elizabeth was quite clear about how and where her liquid assets should be spent. Ms. Kean, as fiduciary, would essentially be acting as a safeguard for your grandmother’s wishes.”

  “But Maggie hasn’t handled more than a thousand dollars a month in her whole life,” Preston objected. “What does she know about ten million dollars?”

  My thoughts exactly. What did I know?

  “Ms. Kean does not need to know anything about money. The ten million dollars is not hers. She is acting primarily as a caregiver. Should you need a sum of money, submit the figure to Ms. Kean along with an explanation of how you propose to utilize the money. If the purpose is in line with Elizabeth’s guidelines, then Ms. Kean is free to release the sum to you. Ms. Kean herself will receive a small painting from Elizabeth.” Hawthorne gestured behind him before continuing to address the two increasingly irate grandchildren. “She will also receive a monthly fee that will cease once the entire ten million dollars has been distributed.

  “And what the hell are the guidelines?”

  “Simply stated, the money is to be spent on educational needs, charities, or establishing a reputable business.” Giving that a moment to sink in, Mr. Hawthorne stood. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a moment to speak with Ms. Kean. Alone. I’m s
ure you’ll both want to meet again soon to go over the will in further detail, but I believe there has been more than enough emotion spilled for one day.” He leveled his gaze at Preston and Cassie, daring one of them to disagree.

  Preston grabbed Cassie’s arm and dragged her out of the room. Villari pushed himself out of his chair and loomed over me trying hard, I suspected, to intimidate the hell out of me. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his little ploy worked. I jumped up and stood toe to toe with him.

  He didn’t budge. “Ms. Kean,” he said, his voice laced with a light threat, “we’ll be talking sooner than I expected.” He sent Hawthorne a brief nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Ms. Kean, please sit down.”

  I simply stared at Hawthorne. My head felt muddled, like it was stuffed with cotton.

  “Please.”

  Reaching behind me, I grasped the arms of the chair and lowered myself into the leather seat. Hawthorne sat down in the now empty chair next to me.

  “Ms. Kean, I know this comes as a great shock to you... as it has to everybody involved,” he added, a vague look of disgust clouding his face as he glanced toward the door through which Cassie and Preston had recently departed. “But, I assure you, it is exactly what Elizabeth wanted.”

  “How can that be? They’re right. I know nothing about money,” I said, gathering steam, “certainly not in that quantity. I can’t even balance my own checkbook and now I’m supposedly overseeing a pile of money so large I can’t even imagine it.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I hate to disappoint you, and Elizabeth, but I don’t want anything to do with her money.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly how Elizabeth said you would respond,” Hawthorne said softly.

  I grabbed his forearm. “You’ve got to get me out of this thing! What was she thinking? I barely make enough money to pay my mortgage every month; how am I supposed to handle millions of dollars?” I glared at Hawthorne. “And even worse, I’ll never get rid of that slime ball and his whiny little sister now. Elizabeth must have been crazy when she came up with this idea.”