“How do you guys do this?” she finally asked Fred. “You cops.” “Do what?”
“Figure out what happened.”
He was silent for a few moments, his eyes on the road ahead. “We don’t always,” he said. “Sometimes we never know. Other times it falls into our laps. And sometimes our honest-to-God detective work bears fruit. Even when we use all the tools we have, though, they aren’t always enough.”
She digested that thought in silence. Never mind the trees, which were at least still standing. How would she feel if she never knew who had killed her brother, and why? Angry? Afraid? Mostly sad, she decided. Even if I do know, I’ll be sad. What a wasted life, for a man who could have been much more than he was. How had her parents faced the way his life had turned out? They had to have known enough, if not how he died. Suppose it were Andrew? She couldn’t imagine coping with that.
Big tears rolled down her cheeks. Fred held still another clean handkerchief out to her. He seemed to have an endless supply. She supposed she must have ironed them.
“Thanks.” She wiped her eyes and blew hard before tucking it into her own pocket.
He was pulling into Oliver now. “Anyplace else you want to go?”
“Ellen’s, I guess. I can take his things home.”
“Okay. Good thing I have the car.”
“Oh, he didn’t bring much.” She remembered the case he’d carried when he first arrived.
“That’s all right. I’ll stick around.”
Still mother-henning me, she thought. “Thanks, Fred.”
This time they didn’t stay. Ellen gave her Dave’s suitcase right away. It matched the large one they’d brought home full of his papers, Joan noticed now. Leather, both of them, though they’d both seen better days. Must have been a set, back when he had money; who knew how he got it?
“I packed all his things in it,” Ellen said. “Should have given it to you when you were here before.”
“Thanks.”
“Hope you don’t mind. I tossed the ones in his laundry bag in when I did the rest of the laundry–mostly underwear. I did check his pockets, but didn’t find anything. Chrissy ironed his shirts. I think she was beginning to be kind of sweet on him.”
Touched, Joan hugged her. “Thank you. And tell Chrissy thanks for me.” “You come back when all this dies down. Just to visit.”
“I owe you money, too.” For Dave’s stay, and for the Lundquists. Thank heaven, Bruce’s family had found their own housing. Not only did it save her money, but it spared the rest of them even more of Elizabeth’s company.
Ellen wasn’t coy. “I’ll work up a bill. You want me to mail it to you?”
“Any way you choose. That’s business.”
Ellen nodded and saw them out. With her straightforwardness, Joan wasn’t tempted to descend again into tears.
Fred took the case from her and carried it out to the car. “You think Andrew will be able to wear any of Dave’s things?”
“Maybe. Andrew’s as tall as he was.” Would he feel peculiar about it?
He was home when they arrived, and he had no qualms. “Yeah,” he said. “I could use some new clothes.”
“Not new,” Joan warned him.
“New to me. He probably had a suit, too, for the wedding.”
“Probably, and we have the rest of his clothes, from his apartment. They’re in a plastic bag up in Rebecca’s room. You can take whatever clothes you want. Save anything else for me.”
He held out his hand for the suitcase. “Thanks.” And he took the stairs two at a time.
When he came back down, he was dressed in a beautifully tailored black wool suit Joan didn’t remember having found in Dave’s closet. It must be what he brought to wear to the wedding, she thought. White shirt, gold cufflinks, and a silk tie. The suit fit Andrew as if he’d been measured for it.
“Everything but the shoes,” he said. He was wearing his own black dress shoes, which he’d polished to a high shine for the wedding. “My feet are wider than his.”
“You do look good in it,” Joan said.
“I think it’s new. About the only new clothes he had. The rest of his stuff is okay, but this is great.”
“I’m glad you can wear his things. I think Dave would be, too.” Had he bought a new suit especially for Rebecca’s wedding? It was possible. Another sign that she’d meant more to him than she’d known.
Fred put his arm around her shoulders, but she wasn’t feeling at all tearful. “Looking good, son,” he said.
“Thanks.” Andrew looked down at his new splendor. “Guess I’d better hang this up till I need it. Too bad graduation’s in warm weather.”
“You’ll think of something,” Fred said.
Andrew grinned at him and took off up the stairs again.
No wonder, Joan thought. Andrew’s wardrobe was on the skimpy side. He didn’t complain much, but as tight as their finances had been and as fast as he’d grown, he’d been making do for a long time. If Fred was right about the value of Dave’s timber, she’d be able to do better by Andrew. Maybe even herself. How long was it since she’d blown money on new clothes? She couldn’t remember. Come to think about it, she’d expected to buy something for the wedding, and then Rebecca had surprised her by making that lovely dress.
“You okay?” Fred asked.
“Just thinking. Are those trees really worth a lot, Fred?”
“Yes.”
“College money for Andrew? You really think it’s that much?” “Unless what we saw wasn’t typical of the rest of the land.” “Amazing,” she said. “I think I’d better track down who made those marks on them.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I can start with the list of numbers Dave called. Some of them were timber buyers.”
Fred lifted an eyebrow. “Those people didn’t have time to mark the trees.”
“Not unless he’d been in touch before he came here, but they might know who did. It’s a place to start. And there’s that letter from his box. I haven’t even opened it.”
He nodded slowly. “I can ask around, too, in case they don’t.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you later. You’re staying home for the rest of the day?”
“I think so.” She waved her hand at the phone.
He gave her a quick kiss. “Holler if you need me.”
“I’ll be fine, Fred.” And he left.
It was almost a relief not to have him hanging over her every move. For right now, she didn’t feel much like trying to track what Dave had done. She was grateful just to be home again. It even smelled like home. Poor Dave, living in that musty old place, bereft of so many ordinary comforts of life. No wonder he’d wanted to stay here so long.
No, I’m not getting into poor Dave again. The phone rang, interrupting her maudlin thoughts. Picking it up was so automatic that she didn’t even consider letting the message machine take over.
“Dave Zimmerman, please,” a pleasant woman’s voice said.
“He’s not here,” she answered automatically. “This is his sister, Joan. Can I take a message?” This woman obviously wasn’t local—anyone in Oliver knew what had happened to Dave.
“We’ve marked the timber as we agreed with him, and we’re asking for sealed bids on or before the first of February. That should give all the buyers time to compare the board footage we estimate with the trees that are marked.”
“I see. And who’s calling, please?” She scrabbled for a pen and scrap paper to write it down.
“Kelley’s Consulting Forestry, Dawn speaking.” The woman gave a 988 phone number that had to be Nashville. No wonder it hadn’t been listed on her long-distance charges. Nashville, Indiana, was a local call, even though it was in Brown County. Still, it was close enough that she was surprised they hadn’t heard about Dave.
“Dawn, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“He changed his mind? He can’t do that now.”
“Wors
e. He’s dead.” She hoped the police wouldn’t be upset at her, but it was, after all, public information.
“Dead! Oh, my dear, I had no idea he was even ill. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He wasn’t ill, though. He was murdered.”
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. Joan waited her out. Would she put it together with the press coverage, after all?
If she did, she didn’t let on. “I—I suppose we should have had him sign a contract, seeing as how he wasn’t from around here. But we’ve always operated on a handshake. It’s never let us down before.”
Joan took pity on her. “What is your usual financial agreement?”
Dawn pulled herself together to answer briskly. “Ten percent of the purchase price. That’s always paid on the spot when the bid is accepted.”
“I see. His heir may want to honor that. But it’s also possible that there won’t be any sale at all. What happens in that case?”
“I don’t know. It’s never come up.”
“Are you in charge?”
“No, that would be Mr. Kelley. He’s the one your brother was working with. Shall I put you through to him?” She sounded eager to pass the buck.
“Not yet. But give me his phone number, and I’ll call him when I know something more.”
She did. “And your full name?”
“Joan Spencer. Dave was visiting here, which is why you have my phone number.”
“You have my sincere sympathy, Joan. And Mr. Kelley will be as shocked as I am. We hope to be able to work this out.”
“Thank you.”
Well, that explained why she hadn’t found anything like a contract. There hadn’t been one with the forester, much less a timber buyer. She’d played it close to her chest and hadn’t admitted to Dawn that she was Dave’s elusive heir. Anyhow, first she would have to consult a lawyer about the will. Might as well try the woman the minister knew.
The church secretary put her through immediately.
“Eric, I hope I didn’t hit you at a bad time. But I think I do need the name of that lawyer.” “Sure. I did ask her, and she said she’d be more than happy to help you. Her name is Megan Wylie. She really knows her stuff. I spoke to her not long ago, so you might be able to reach her.” He gave her the phone number.
“Oh, thank you. We found Dave’s will, and I do have some questions.”
“Try her. If she doesn’t know, she’ll know how to find out.”
She thanked him again and dialed the number he’d given her. Sure enough, it was answered on the first ring.
“Wylie’s law office.”
“This is Joan Spencer. I have a legal question, and—”
”Joan, this is Megan Wylie. Eric said he’d refer you to me. I could see you at three this afternoon, if you’d like to come in.” Glad to get off the phone, Joan agreed. She was more tired than she’d expected. The emergency food and hot coffee she’d carried to the woods took care of her lunch. Andrew would fend for himself, she knew. She lay down on the sofa for a quick nap and woke surprisingly refreshed, relieved to have nothing hanging over her.
Amazing what a few minutes will do, she thought. But the time on her watch shocked her. How could it be almost a quarter to three?
Even so, she was sure she could make it on foot. It wasn’t hard, in little Oliver. By the time the courthouse clock chimed three, she was sitting at a table in a small, businesslike office near the courthouse. Megan Wylie’s voice had sounded young, but she looked to be comfortably middle-aged, a little on the plump side and with a fair amount of salt in her dark hair. “So, how can I help you?”
Joan pulled Dave’s will out of her bag. “You probably know that my brother was murdered.”
“Yes.” How could she not? If nothing else, the minister would have told her who Joan was to the man whose murder had made the Oliver news in a big way.
“He made this will, in which he left everything to me.” She passed it over, and Megan quickly scanned it.
“You mind if I make a copy?” she asked.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll do it before you leave. But it seems very straightforward. So how can I help you?”
“If I’m his only heir . . .”
“As you appear to be.” Megan peered at her over the tops of her glasses.
“Yes. Not that he had any children.”
“Even if he did, unless a later will surfaced, it won’t change this one.”
“So when can I do anything with what he’s left?”
Megan looked her in the eye. “Is there some particular hurry?”
“I’m not short of funds, if that’s what you mean. In fact, Dave had almost no money.” She held out his bank statement. “But he inherited some wooded land from our parents.”
“Uh-huh.” Megan glanced at the statement and wrote on the pad.
“My husband and I went out to look at it, and we found a lot of the trees marked for cutting.”
“I see.”
“We didn’t know who marked them, except that Dave hadn’t been here long enough to do it himself, if he even knew how.”
“Sounds as if you need a detective, not a lawyer.”
Joan smiled. “My husband’s a police detective. But I got lucky. A woman phoned for my brother. Turns out she was from the consulting forester he’d hooked up with before he even came here. That’s who marked the trees. She said they did it on a handshake—only I suppose it must have been a phone call—but they expected Dave to sell the trees soon, and then they’d get their cut. So he hadn’t signed anything. She knows I’m his sister, and I told her he was dead. I didn’t tell her I was his heir. Anyhow, what do I do now?” “What do you want to do?” Megan leaned back in her chair and steepled her hands. Joan thought she knew. “Probably sell the trees. But can I?”
“Not yet. Not till the will’s probated. And much as I hate to say so, until you’re cleared of having anything to do with his death.”
“Oh.” Of course, but it hadn’t occurred to her.
“There’s no chance you won’t be, is there?” Megan’s eyebrows rose, but her voice didn’t.
“I think they may already have done it.” Joan explained how the police had questioned the people at the wedding rehearsal. “Dr. Graham, the father of the groom, vouched for me to Sergeant Ketcham. I mean, he said he heard the clock chime five o’clock when I walked into the church. Before that, I was home. Dave was over at Ellen Putnam’s, where he and some other relatives were staying. They say he was in the kitchen with my husband’s elderly mother.” No point in mentioning the knife Helga was holding. She wasn’t in Dave’s will, and this woman wasn’t a cop.
“But you don’t know exactly when he was killed?”
“No.”
“They may still be sorting it out then. I take it they aren’t treating you as a suspect, though.” She raised her eyebrows.
Joan shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Good. It may still be a slow process. And even if they weren’t dealing with sorting out a murder, probating a will can take a year, or even two.”
“Good heavens, why?”
“Sometimes because the estate itself is complicated. Sometimes because the law drags its feet. Once your name is cleared, though, we could have you named his personal representative, as he’s named you in his will–that’s the same as an executor. If you’re willing to do all the paperwork, it could speed things up and save you some money. Did you know your brother’s lawyer?”
“No.”
“That’s all right. Would you like me to act for you in this matter?”
“Yes, if you would. I trust Eric’s recommendation.” The woman seemed cool, but she had sensible enough questions.
“Then if you’d leave me a small retainer now, we could deal with the rest later.”
“How much?” Joan hoped it wouldn’t be more than she could swing.
“A hundred now. Then we’ll see. It depends on how much time is
involved and how many things you want to do yourself. My hourly rates are on this sheet.” She passed it across the table.
Joan wrote the check, glad she could. “I’ve already given his junky secondhand furniture away, and I’ve brought his clothes home for my son. Some of them are pretty nice. I suppose I didn’t have the right to do that, either.” “Maybe not technically, but I wouldn’t worry about that kind of stuff. Selling land or timber, though, is another business, and you can’t touch his bank account yet. For right now, you’d better tell that consulting forester that their agreement needs to be on hold till the will is probated, or at least until an executor is appointed. As executor you’ll be able to pay his bills, if he left any. You could sell the timber to pay bills of the estate.”
“I can do that. But not until I’m named executor, right? I mean personal representative?”
Megan nodded. “People are used to having to wait for their money in cases like this. Meanwhile, if you spend any money of your own—to bury him, for instance, and that check you just wrote me—you can bill his estate for it and later be reimbursed, by whoever is named to execute it. You, in all probability. So you’ll want to keep good records.”
“When I asked about forwarding his mail here, the post office said I’d need something from the court. So I left his post office box key with his friend.”
“Yes, that has to wait, too.”
Chapter 22
By the time she left the building with the copy Megan Wylie had made of Dave’s will, which she’d left with her for safekeeping, Joan had the odd sensation of plunging more deeply into her brother’s affairs than she wanted to. But she also felt relief at having turned the problem over to someone who could deal with it. She could start a file folder on the estate and begin keeping those records right now.
Who had been the executor, if that’s what they’d called it then, of her parents’ wills? She had no memory of having done it herself after the accident that killed them both. Maybe Dave? From what she’d been learning, she doubted it had been Dave. Maybe Ken had done it. Her children’s father had been a careful man, with an eye for detail, who hadn’t minded tedious paperwork. Whoever was named in the wills, it might have been Ken who followed through.
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