Heir of the Dog

by Judi McCoy

  “I haven’t seen an attorney—”

  “But you probably should. Because of the now-reduced dollar amount involved, there won’t be any inheritance taxes to consider, but you should record the will with the Surrogate’s Court, if you haven’t already done so.”

  “You said ‘now-reduced dollar amount.’ Before we go any further, can you tell us what Ms. Engleman now owns?” asked Sam.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Ellie said. “I wasn’t even aware of the will until after Gary was mur—died. He never told me a thing.”

  “Ah, well then. Come along. You should take a look at what’s in that safety-deposit box.”

  Chapter 6

  Standing in the vault room, Ellie stared at the square metal container. According to Mr. Butterworth, it was one of the largest the bank supplied. “Why didn’t you let me tell him I never signed that signature card?” she asked Sam, who seemed to be thinking hard about something.

  Frowning, he said, “There’s no reason asking for trouble. The only thing places like this care about is following the rules. Your signature matched the signature on the card, the card was on file, therefore you’re a legal owner of the box. But there’s another problem.”

  Ellie closed her eyes. “Now what?”

  “Because there’s money involved, your alibi for not killing Gary just got weaker. Gruning will look at it the same way the bank does. You signed the card, therefore you were aware of the box. He’ll assume you knew exactly what it held, and whatever it is will be your motive to commit murder.”

  “Even if it’s a few pennies?” she asked, recalling the “reduced dollar amount” Butterworth had quoted.

  “People have been killed over less.”

  His grim expression did nothing to allay her fears. “But I didn’t sign a card. I’d have remembered if I did something like that for Gary.”

  “Okay, so what did you give him with your signature?”

  “Nothing. I—oh—”

  “Oh?”

  “I gave him a birthday card a couple of months back, and I might have signed it Ellie Engleman. Do you think he—”

  “Copied your signature? Possibly. He was off balance enough to do something like that, right?”

  “I guess.” She let out a breath. After wiping her damp palms on her linen slacks, she said, “Can we stop talking about what’s inside and just take a look?”

  He crossed his arms and hitched his hip on the table. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  She swallowed, and her stomach heaved. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Sam held out his hand. “Give me the key. I’ll open it if you can’t.”

  “I’m being a baby, I know, but it’s—”

  “A big step?”

  “Major.”

  “You’ll never know how major until you use that key.”

  She gazed at him, then slid the key in the lock, turned it, and lifted the lid. It took a few seconds for the contents to register. “Oh, my God.”

  Sam peeked inside. “That’s some ‘reduced dollar amount.’ ”

  With a trembling finger, she touched the heart-stopping pile of what appeared to be hundred dollar bills banded into bundles. “How many packets do you think there are?”

  “Best guess, more than fifty,” he said, giving the mound a quick mental calculation. “I’m not a mathematician, but Butterworth closed out the accounts, so I’m sure he knows how much it was, even if Gary spent some since then.”

  She hefted a bundle. “Maybe we should ask him?”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Plopping into a chair, she held her head in her hands. “I’m going to hyperventilate.” When Sam placed his palm on her shoulder, she trembled. “I mean it. I can’t pull any air into my lungs.”

  “Easy, soldier. Take a deep breath and let it out real slow. Do it until you stop shaking.”

  She did as he suggested, then peeked inside again. “What am I supposed to do with all that—that—cash?”

  “Hell if I know. Go on vacation, pay off your mortgage, splurge on a shopping spree—whatever people with money do.”

  “I don’t have money. This is Gary’s, not mine.” She stared at him. “I can’t take this.”

  He grinned. “Sure you can.”

  “But—”

  “Look, Gary wanted you to have it. If you don’t keep it for yourself, make a donation to charity in his name.”

  “I already told Ru—I mean, I thought I might, if I found anything of value. I just never—”

  There was a knock on the door. Butterworth poked his head around the corner. “Is everything all right?”

  Ellie met his inquisitive gaze. “Um . . . fine. It’s just—I had no idea—”

  “Did you read the note?”

  “There’s a note?”

  “Mr. Veridot wrote a note and told me to make sure you saw it. It might have shifted to the bottom of the box. I’ll give you a few more minutes.”

  Sam began removing bundles and setting them on the table until he found a folded sheet of paper and passed it to her.

  “It’s addressed to Ellie and Rudy,” she muttered. Gary was probably thrilled to add Rudy’s name to the letter, knowing her Yorkiepoo would understand his message.

  “Only proves the guy wasn’t wrapped too tight.” Sam stood beside her and gazed over her shoulder. “You going to read it, or just stare at it?”

  The single sheet of heavy white paper had the bank’s logo on top, and below, a neatly handwritten note, dated back in March.

  Dear Ellie and Rudy,

  If you’re reading this letter, it means I’m dead. And if I’m dead there’s a good chance my brother killed me. I’m counting on you to find him and see to it justice is served once and for all. There’s no one I want to have this money more than you and my pal Rudy, but I have a request. See that I’m cremated, then bring my ashes to where I lived and sprinkle them around or maybe keep them in your closet. Just don’t let Thompson get them. After that, Rudy, buy yourself a lifetime supply of bones, and Ellie, do whatever you want with the rest. It’s no good to me now, and it never has been.

  Thanks for being my only friends,

  Gary

  Ellie sniffed back tears, handed Sam the note, and fished a tissue from her bag. “Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever read?” she sobbed. “We were his only friends.”

  Sam took the sheet and read it for himself. “This note will go a long way in proving your case to Gruning. It pretty much points to Thompson as the killer, and he makes it sound as if you didn’t know about the bequest.” He folded the paper and stuck it in her tote bag. “But I don’t like what he’s asking you to do.”

  She blew her nose in the tissue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t want you involved in the investigation. It’s not your job to find Gary’s brother or whoever killed him, and even if the brother did the deed, the detective work is not up to you.” He frowned. “The guy was off his rocker.”

  “Gary was as sane as you are—”

  “No smart-ass comments. You know what I mean.”

  “He probably wrote and told me to take care of things because of what happened with Professor Albright’s murder, that’s all. He couldn’t really know his brother would kill him, and why would he expect me to find the guy and bring him to justice? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “A lot of things that happen in this world don’t make sense. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Gruning, see if they’re ready to release the body, and get the status on the toxicology reports. You need to find a lawyer and register the will with the Surrogate’s Court as soon as possible, so you can become a person of record for Gary Veridot. That means you’re responsible for his debts, his assets, and his body. You willing to do all that?”

  She nodded. “Of course I am. He didn’t have anyone else.”

  “Then we’re all set. If I were you, I’d go slow with
making a decision on how to handle the cash. Creditors might crawl out of the woodwork once they hear Gary’s dead. You can use the money to settle up, pay for the cremation, that kind of thing. Wait awhile before you spend any of it on yourself.”

  She threaded her fingers through her curls. “I’ll never be able to spend this much money.”

  “Okay, invest it, or invite friends to dinner, or do as Veridot suggested and buy your dog a bone.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she replied, crossing her arms. “We—I don’t deserve this. How can I take it?”

  Sam dropped to his knees and gazed into her eyes. “Except for you, I don’t know a single person who wouldn’t be jumping for joy if they received this kind of gift. It only proves that, nutty as this Veridot guy was, he knew what he was doing.”

  She smiled through another round of tears. “I just don’t see how anyone can be happy when they lose a friend. Not that I considered Gary a friend like I do Vivian, but he obviously thought highly of Rudy and me.” She blew her nose again. “None of this feels right.”

  “Look at it this way.” Sam tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Gary trusted you enough to make certain you got the money. Have him cremated and do whatever feels right with his ashes, like he asked. Then let the cops find his killer while you do whatever makes you happy with the cash.”

  She heaved a sigh. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” He stood and began returning bundles to the box. “Maybe you ought to talk to Butterworth about opening an account here. Might as well earn some interest while you decide your next move.”

  She folded the duffel bag and laid it on top of the money. “I have to think that over. Until I make a decision, can I keep this with the cash, in case I decide to take it out one day?”

  “A person could get in trouble, carrying that amount of change without a bodyguard.”

  “I was only joking. Unless there was some kind of dire emergency, I’d never cart this money home. I just need to think about it for a while.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Besides, if I don’t get moving I’ll be late for my second round of walks.” She closed the lid and turned the key. “I guess we need to call Mr. Butterworth.”

  A knock at the door announced there was no need. Sam let the banker in and told him Ellie had decided to keep things as they were for the moment. Butterworth took the box back to its resting place, then led them into the body of the bank.

  “If there’s anything else I can do—”

  “There is one thing,” said Ellie. “We—I didn’t count it but I’d like to know. How much money is in there?”

  “When Mrs. Benedict died there was over three million dollars in the accounts. Over the years, Mr. Veridot has made many withdrawals and given the money to various charities around the city anonymously. When he cashed out the accounts, there was approximately one million six hundred fifty-seven thousand dollars and eighty-three cents. His final act was to give several hundred thousand to a homeless shelter, and a bit more to a mission that runs a soup kitchen. He also made a generous donation to a local boys’ club.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?” Sam let the question hang.

  Butterworth smiled. “Because Mr. Veridot trusted me enough to confide what he was doing. I wrote the cashier’s checks for each of his gifts and kept a running tab on the money, in case he forgot, which he did on several occasions.”

  “So what’s in the box now—give or take?”

  “At last count there was approximately eight hundred fifty-seven thousand dollars at his disposal.”

  Ellie grabbed Sam’s arm to keep from falling over.

  Clutching her elbow, Sam said, “Okay . . . well then . . . Ms. Engleman will let you know if she decides to do anything more with the cash.” They walked outside, where he clasped her shoulders and propped her against the building like a rag doll. “You’re white as a sheet. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Staring at the sidewalk, she took several deep breaths. “Guess I’d better find that attorney everyone keeps telling me I need. I have no idea how to go about registering a will or getting someone cremated.”

  “Surrogate’s Court is the place to take care of the will, and the cremation is a process any funeral home can handle. And Ellie?” He held her clammy hands between his big, warm palms and squeezed. “I’ll get back to you if I hear anything more about Thompson Veridot. In the meantime, be careful. If the guy’s out there, odds are he’s trying to figure out a way to sink his teeth into the family fortune. If you think you’re being followed, call me.”

  Heading home later that afternoon, Ellie raised her gaze skyward. The humid July air had grown heavier and hotter as the day progressed, until the clouds looked ready to pop. Her pink cotton T-shirt stuck to her bra, and she was damp in places she didn’t want to think about. Walking might be great exercise for toning legs and building endurance, but it was hell on one’s appearance, especially when the surrounding atmosphere was as friendly as the inside of a pot of bubbling spaghetti.

  The trip to the bank had worn her out. She needed a jolt of java to perk her up and help her think straight, so she stopped at a Joe to Go and stood in line.

  “Hey, Ellie,” her pal Joe Cantiglia said when she reached the register. “What brings you here so late in the day? You’re usually a morning drinker.”

  “I need a shot of my regular—including the caffeine,” she told Joe. Too bad the two of them were better suited as brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend, or she might have been raising a gaggle of dark-haired, black-eyed bambinos instead of walking dogs for a living. “And I’d like two cookies, one chocolate chip and one coconut.” Rudy was probably pouting because she’d left him home all afternoon. The coconut cookie would be a treat, even if he had to share it with Cheech and Chong.

  “Sure.” Joe slid the cookies in a bag and passed them to her. “They’re on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Accept them as a thank-you. Look what I started.” He handed her a business card with the company logo in the center, circled by eleven miniature coffee cups. “It was your idea, and it’s a hit.”

  The card announced a new buying plan. “Purchase eleven coffees or bags of beans at any Joe to Go and get the twelfth one free.” She stuck the card, already half-punched, into her bag. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. The program only began a couple of days ago, and business is up ten percent.”

  She moved to the service bar to collect her caramel bliss. “I’m glad I helped someone this week.”

  Joe nodded to a worker bee, who took his place at the register, and sidled to the far end of the counter. “What’s with the long face? Something bothering you?”

  “Something,” she muttered, walking toward the door. “Can we talk outside?”

  He followed her onto the sidewalk and scanned the sky. “Wow, we’re gonna get hit with a monster storm.”

  “I guess,” she agreed, smiling hesitantly.

  “Hey, you look as miserable as those rain-filled clouds. What’s up? Can I help?”

  “You can’t, but maybe your uncle can.”

  “I got ten of those. Father’s side or my mother’s?”

  “I’m not sure. Which side has the attorney?”

  “Ah, that’s Dad’s side, and it’s his oldest brother, Salvatore.” He grinned. “I know, we Italians don’t have much imagination when it comes to names.”

  “Is he accepting new clients?”

  “That ambulance chaser? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m serious.” She’d almost said “dead” serious, but caught herself. “I need some legal advice.”

  “Don’t you have a judge in the family now?”

  “Yes, but he’s retired and, at eighty-three, too old to get involved.” Never mind the fact that Georgette would disown her if Stanley had another stroke while taking care of her disappointing daughter’s problem
s.

  “Uncle Sally’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you get my drift. As long as it’s simple stuff, he’ll do a good job.” He wrote his uncle’s name and number on the back of a card. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if things go FUBAR with him.”

  Since it didn’t seem like things in her life could get any more “FUBAR” than they already were, she stuck the card in her tote bag. “I just need someone to answer a couple of questions.”

  Joe took a seat at an empty table and Ellie joined him. “Care to tell me about what?”

  She drank a long swallow of coffee, letting the hot, sweet liquid soothe her jangled nerves. “Did you hear about the man the cops found dead near the Ramble a couple of days ago?”

  “That homeless guy? Lived in the bowels of the park?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “You involved in another crime?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Jeez, Ellie, what the hell’s gotten into you, messing in murder again?”

  “I’m not ‘messing in murder,’ but I knew the man.” She took another drink and decided there was no way around the next sentence. “Rudy and I found the body.”

  “You what?”

  “Found the body, sort of by accident. We were on a walk, Rudy caught a scent, and when I didn’t let him go, he dragged me behind until we found the body.”

  “You’re blaming your dog? You are shameless.”

  “I’m not blaming—” She gave up making excuses and forged ahead. “Either way, I called 911. The cops arrived, swarmed the place, and brought me in for questioning. Then things got . . . complicated.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “The dead man went to the trouble of leaving a will, and he named Rudy as his heir and me as the executor.”

  “Holy crap. Rudy? What did this homeless man collect—bones?”

  “Would you believe a safety-deposit box full of money?”