by Una Tiers
“John?” he asked with his eyes closed. “Are you going to the Piggly Wiggly later? We need bread. He laughed softly and returned to a gentle snore. Eddy seemed to be about a hundred years older than the last time we met less than two weeks back.
As I was leaving Know Acres, a man labored along the hall toward me using a walker. Tap, scrape, tap, scrape. As we were passing one another, he stopped and asked for a glass of water.
“Water?” I confirmed.
“I’m thirsty,” he answered. He made a head jerk toward a table that had thermos marked ‘coffee’ and a jar with a spout to dispense ice water.
“Can I pour?” I teased him.
His blue eyes darted left and then right. “I’m looking for my wife, have you seen her?” His voice was loud and packed with mischief. A nurse walked past us and smiled like a happy nun.
“Not today maybe she will be back later,” I answered in what I took to be a code.
As soon as the nurse disappeared into a room, the conversation shifted from code to spy talk.
“You’re the lawyer, right?” His eyes were clear and intense.
I nodded and held the water to his mouth as he sipped.
“They’re drugging Eddy. He hasn’t been to the dining room in almost a week. I was told not to go into his room.”
Before I could ask questions, he tottered down the hall at an increased speed and disappeared.
The creepiness overwhelmed me and I scurried out to the parking lot, stopping only when I was inside the Fiona Mobile with the doors locked.
Chapter Sixteen
I picked up a pizza and headed home, trying to bootstrap myself into self confidence. How hard could this guardianship stuff be? I had copied tons of cases and encyclopedia articles and bla bla bla.
My research was covered with multi colored stick ums papers with notes. Could I go forward with court and representing Eddy if I was unable to speak with him? Was it fair to say he objected to the sale of his house if we didn’t specifically talk about it? Could I extrapolate it from our conversation where he said he wanted to return home?
The elevator was out again, which made me feel like the world was against me. My apartment is in an eight story elevator building that was renovated about fifteen years ago. They put in new windows, washers and dryers and raised the rent.
I wish they had replaced the elevator. It only breaks down when I have something perishable to carry or am tired, running late or all three.
For now, I’m on a sublease. The rumor is that they will renovate again soon and convert to condominiums. That may push me out.
It took a while to walk up eight flights of stairs with a briefcase and pizza that continuously threatened to escape from the box.
By the third floor, I removed my shoes. When I hit eight, I threw my briefcase ahead of me, and considered eating the pizza in the stairwell. Actually I considered this at floors three, four, five and six. At seven I considered abandoning the food. I was wheezing when I made it to the top.
When I compare my home and office, they are about the same. At home, my kitchen is small and has little counter space. The appliances are smaller than average. There isn’t room for a table but you can reach almost everything by standing in the middle of the room.
The rest of the place is one large room where I have a table and two chairs, a bed and what serves as my living room (futon and wicker basket coffee table). I have small bookcases along the window and a CD player. The bathroom is nice because it also has a closet.
My table is my desk at home. I don’t have a computer here yet.
Another home to office similarity is that with my sublease at home and office sharing arrangement at work, my longevity in home and work are precarious at best.
After two slices of slightly charred pizza, I moved from the table to the futon. I made a mental note to avoid the broiler for reheating pizza.
At midnight I woke up, had cold, charred pizza and read until 3 AM.
Things started to make sense and I fell asleep at 5 AM.
While I felt zonked, poor Gold finger, my trusty goldfish was confused. Whenever I wake up he thinks he should be fed.
When I got to the office around noon, I garnered dirty looks from the associates. They have to keep up the appearance of long hours. I can lie and say I was in the library doing research. It was half true.
Chapter Seventeen
Peep. “I’m here in Chicago, at my mother’s. I changed the locks like you said Fiona,” Meghan’s voice was close to song she was so happy. “His clothes were mostly gone and I threw the rest down the garbage chute.”
I returned her call.
“How does the place look?” I asked.
“It’s nice, I’ve never been inside before. Maybe I’ll move back from St. Louis. You know, I moved there to get away from my mother. When will we know how much I’ll inherit? I get the condo, right?”
We discussed the reality of bills, claims and mortgages and a lot of air came out of her balloon. While I had ball park estimates about her inheritance, I didn’t tell her because they could change before the claims period ended. Who knew being a lawyer included keeping secrets?
The claims period is the time that creditors have to tell the executor about bills allegedly owed by the dead person.
“It’s funny, Fiona, is it okay if I call you that?”
“Sure.”
“My mother and I could not be described as close if we were sitting next to one another. At first I didn’t even want to come for the funeral. But now, I’m comfortable in her old house in Chicago. How can that make sense?”
As annoying as she was up to that point, Meghan was growing on me. She collected and reported cash she found in her mother’s clothing. Most people don’t do that. The inventory of the house contents was thoughtfully prepared. Most people don’t do that.
She offered to pay for the utilities since she wanted to live in the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Despite my calls every day for a week, I wasn’t able to talk to Eddy on the phone. I was told he was sleeping whenever I called.
While I was pondering the inconsistencies, David appeared in the doorway of my office.
“Ms. Gavelle.”
“Detective.”
He made himself comfortable and closed the door as Paul walked by, peering in as the door closed almost on his nose.
I should consider looking for office space of my own lest I get booted. Of course, I could practice in the law library with my friend Steve until I win the lottery.
“Remember we talked about whether or not the judge was prescribed travanex,” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Uh, we’re having trouble because, and keep this to yourself?”
“Sure.”
“Some of the lab samples and medical records are missing.”
“Missing?” I echoed.
“Temporarily unable to locate. It happens once in a while. It shouldn’t happen.”
“So we wait and hope?” I joked. The records tucked safely under my desk could be copied, but I think Meghan had to consent before I could offer to help.
He grimaced, “This never happens on television.”
I fought off a laugh in response to what I saw as flirting.
“David I have a question about the meds. How was it possible to give her six or seven pills, even ground up? Wouldn’t she notice?”
“We suspect it was mixed into food or drink. But if you mean the quantity, yes it was a lot.”
We exchanged a smile likely both remembering the matter of Laslo King.
“Who would do that?” I asked. A short blink went to Eddy, Sue, and Nessie. They were pretty angry that the judge wouldn’t let them go home and forced them to live at Know Acres. Chessie and Liam weren’t happy campers over the guardianships either.
Did they know the same judge held their fate in her hands? Did they band together to fix her clock? Did they know she was at Know Acres? Would any of them
recognize her? Wasn’t Chessie the only one who even went to court and therefore the only one who would recognize the judge?
Was the judge’s name on the placard outside her room like the other patients or disguised for judicial privacy?
Would septuagenarians and octogenarians be capable of murder? How would one of them collect several days dosage of travanex? Could I ask them about their medications? Eddy was out for now since he was not awake. Liam might know Sue’s medications and I could ask Chessie about what medications her sister was taking.
This awful picture came into my head. Eddy was dressed as a barber shop quartet singer with a striped vest, straw hat and garters on his sleeves. He was sweet talking the late judge and feeding her ice cream with a spoon.
The judge complained of too many sprinkles on her ice cream and he laughed heartily in response and offered her another spoonful of ice cream.
Maybe Sue hit her limit and smothered the life out of the judge. Or maybe, Nessie and Chessie beat her to death with their canes. I am blessed with a fertile imagination.
David stared at me, “Do you have another idea?”
I tried to look innocent, “No.”
“We’re looking at murder Fiona.”
I decided not to share my ice cream vision with him.
The mail carried a surprise. Carlos Smith, sometimes known as the judicial boy toy, filed a surviving spouse award claim and renunciation of the will against the judge’s estate.
A surviving spouse award is a set amount of money that the, well, surviving spouse can claim. It’s paid before inheritance.
This was strange. None of the documents Meghan found at the house even hinted that her mother was married. I thought about it a little more, Meghan controlled what she sent to me. I would take a second look to see if anything else surfaced.
The other issue that was funny was there was no will to renounce. Lawyer humor here.
Renunciation of a will is done when a spouse would get more if there wasn’t a will. The law has loopholes everywhere.
Whoever prepared the documents was less familiar with the probate code than I. Still, Meghan said she wasn’t close to her mother, and I suppose it was possible the judge was married.
Why would someone fake a marriage when records, or a lack of them could expose the lie?
If the late judge was married, her spouse and Meghan would have to split the estate, after the bills were paid. And, the surviving spouse award was ahead of the inheritance. If they were married, why didn’t he go to or plan the funeral?
And if they were married, why would he leave the condo? I volleyed back and forth on both sides of the issue. I smelled a rat.
There is one central office that handles information about the benefits and paychecks of the judges in Cook County. They were very helpful on another estate.
I called about Judge R. Etapage’s final paycheck and asked if I could access retirement benefit information through their office although I knew the answer to my question.
“Ms. Gavelle, I think we spoke the last time you represented an estate. I’m Diane Sidor. Remember?”
With my memory, I didn’t know where to look for my shoes some mornings.
“Sorry, of course, I remember how helpful you were,” I said without hesitation. Now this was closer to politics than a pure lie. “I can get you letters of office,” I offered as a divergence.
“Not necessary, we got a call from Judge Curie and he told us you represent the estate. We have a copy of the file too.”
Did I tell the Judge? I didn’t remember. Maybe Meghan called him.
“Thank you, that is kind. I do have another question about the survivor benefits, do they have designations of ownership or revert to the estate?”
“Ms. Gavelle, this is just like the other estate you handled. The judge’s daughter is entitled to the funds even without a will as the heir.”
“That’s good. Can I ask if there was another person on her health insurance?” I asked because if she was married, he would likely appear on her health insurance, but didn’t want to show my hand.
“No her daughter wouldn’t qualify for health insurance.”
“Sure, I understand about an adult child, but what about a spouse?”
I am certain I heard a snort.
“Excuse me, well, you know the judge wasn’t married. If I can help you in any other way, please call me. The final paycheck will be mailed to your office shortly.” The call seemed to end abruptly.
I called the legal clinic listed on the claim from the “spouse.” They left me on hold over four minutes before a soft voice came on the line.
“The attorney is busy but I can take a message for you. This is about the judge right?”
“Certainly, can I have your name, for my record?”
I thought the line went dead.
“Hello?” I called out.
“I can take a message sure, go ahead.”
“Can you give me the name of the attorney?”
Again I heard the sounds of silence like Simon and Garfunkel.
“Here is my message, you filed a claim against the probate estate of R. Etapage. Our records show that the decedent was single. If you will send us a certified copy of the marriage certificate that would speed things along. And, there is no attorney certification of the claim, we will require his or her signature as well as their license number.”
I tried not to smile even though she couldn’t see I was doing my malicious smile. The part about the attorney certification was just smoke and mirrors. I get that way sometimes and cannot explain my motives other than pure evil.
The silence answered my question. I didn’t know what to do next to stay within socially acceptable norms. Oddly, calling a person a LIAR on the telephone is somehow considered incendiary.
“We could settle for less than we asked for in the claim.” The unidentified person was getting bolder, but clearly knew less law than I.
“Are you the attorney who filed this claim?”
The claim listed no individual attorney’s name but the clinic.
“I will give the attorney the message.”
There was no doubt, I was talking to the attorney who prepared the documents.
“As I said, we could be convinced to settle for a little less,” she repeated.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand, we don’t believe the judge was married.”
“If this goes to court the judge’s affair with a twenty year old man would be in the newspaper,” she shot back without thinking.
“Affair?” I echoed.
The sounds of silence returned.
Chapter Nineteen
After weighing the pros and cons of the boy toy’s claim with Meghan, we agreed to deny the claim. That lobbed the ball over the net to the claimant (a.k.a. boy toy) to make the next move. It also put Meghan on notice that I was relying on her representation that nothing at the condo confirmed their position that her mother was married.
I sent a letter documenting our discussion to Meghan because I didn’t fully trust her even though her surprise at the news of her mother’s alleged marriage seemed genuine.
As soon as I mailed the letters, I worried that the judge was married. Did the guy remove the paperwork? Did Meghan? Was she a better actress than I guessed?
Two days later, the legal clinic called with another deal.
“Our client is willing to accept a five thousand dollar settlement although he is entitled to much more since the judge was wealthy.” The words were squeezed out with bitter disappointment.
“What about the certified marriage license and attorney certification?” I asked sweetly.
That was the last time we heard from the alleged husband or his attorney.
Chapter Twenty
David stood quietly in the doorway of my office while I enjoyed his silhouette. He had put on weight since we spent time together and I loved the imperfection. A smile from me was all it took for him to come in, close the door
and hang his jacket over the chair.
His breathing was heavy. So was mine.
Chapter Twenty-One
David and I discussed the case over coffee.
“We got a copy of the sign in log from Know Acres,” he started.
“And?”
“The judge didn’t have any visitors,” he answered.
As I topped off our coffees I admired his unshaven face. My brain was on dopey mode. While talking business wasn’t my first choice, I went along.
“The whole time?” I asked when I finally caught up.
“The whole time,” he answered sadly.
“So are you looking at staff?”
“No, not just staff,” he answered. “Why not someone who came in and signed another name and the name of another patient ?”
“But how did they make her take the pills? If the nurse brought multiples of the same pill, she would notice.”
“The only answer that makes sense is that they mixed the crushed pills into her food.”
“So aren’t we back to staff?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. The judge took her meals in her room, alone. That made her vulnerable.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Don’t know,” he answered with a small smile.
“But if the judge stayed in her room, she probably didn’t mingle with the other patients. So weren’t the only people with contact with her the staff?”
He nodded in agreement.
“And the staff would also check on patients?”
“Yes, I think I found the spot on the chart where the nurse checked on Judge R. Etapage around eleven the night she died and noted that she was sleeping.”
“Could she have already been dead?” I asked.
“I guess she could have been Fiona, I didn’t consider that the nurse made an error. The time of death is an estimate, a range of about four hours. And I don’t know if that note about her sleeping had an influence on the estimate.” He sipped his coffee.