“Call the police at 55 Division. I want to speak to Sergeant Welkom.”
Only Suzannah would benefit from the theft of Marjorie’s will. In the previous one, Suzannah got the house outright at age thirty. In the missing one, she had to share it with her brother and sister. Frank’s ugly, leering face rose up in Harry’s mind. He cursed. Frank would stop at nothing.
“I’ve got the sergeant on the line,” Miss Giveny called out.
“Sergeant, Harry Jenkins here. There is something missing, after all.”
“Which is?”
“Marjorie Deighton’s will. The original.”
“When did you find that out?”
Harry seethed at the implication that he was withholding information. “Just now,” he replied coldly. “My secretary went to the vault, and it was gone.”
“Okay,” the sergeant sighed. “I was coming over anyway.”
Harry replaced the receiver and then redialed. He needed advice quickly. More attention paid in criminal-law class would have been helpful now, he reflected.
“Is Stephen Barrett in, please?”
“One moment. Who’s calling?” came the cheery voice.
“Harry Jenkins. And tell him it’s urgent, would you?” Harry eased into his chair. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand.
“Harry, good to hear from you. What’s up?”
“I need some quick advice, Stephen. How far do I have to cooperate with the police in revealing information about clients?”
There was a lengthy pause. “That depends,” Stephen began cautiously. “Who’s charged with what?”
“It’s part of that murder investigation of Rosie Michaels.”
“You have to cooperate. The police can ask any questions and look at any files regarding that client,” Stephen said briskly.
“And the gray areas?”
“Refuse, then call me. Who’s investigating?”
“Sergeant Welkom. 55 Division.”
Stephen groaned. “Jesus, that guy should have been retired five years ago. Thinks he’s the only real cop left. Very sloppy.”
Harry could hear voices in the outer office. “Thanks, Stephen. I may be calling you about this later.”
“Sure, anytime. But be careful, pal.”
Harry hung up and rose stiffly from his chair. When Sergeant Welkom arrived, Miss Giveny ushered him and one other uniformed officer into the office. Sitting down, Welkom fished a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. He tossed them on Harry’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Read it. It’s a court order,” growled the sergeant.
For a moment, Harry stared at the neatly folded document. He could see the edge of the red seal poking out.
“We’re going to exhume the body, Mr. Jenkins.”
“It’s about time the police did their work,” Harry said mildly. He unfolded the papers and began reading. “Are you serving me with this?”
“Guess so, Mr. Jenkins. You’re Marjorie Deighton’s executor. You’re responsible for the body, right?”
“Yes, I’m one of the executors. Gideon Trust is the other.”
“I think you should get her next of kin together right away. The body will be exhumed in the morning for an autopsy.”
“Good. It should have been done right away.”
“Listen, counselor, stay out of police work. The coroner’s office—”
Harry waved him off. “I’ll arrange the meeting.”
“Good. I’d like to be there. Might shed some light on the case.”
Harry nodded curtly. “I’ll let you know, sergeant. Now, about the missing will.”
Welkom shrugged. “The officer here will take down the details.”
“Only one person would benefit from the theft of the will. Suzannah Deighton gets the house under the old will. In the stolen one, she has to share it with her brother and sister.”
Welkom could not overlook this information. He nodded to the other cop, who took out his notebook. “So, you’re saying this niece, Suzannah Deighton, broke in and took the will?”
“Not her, sergeant. But her boyfriend, Frank Sasso, might have.”
“Okay, we’ll look into it.” Welkom stood in the doorway. “Remember, counselor, to let me know about that meeting. I want to be there.” Welkom pulled the door shut.
With intense pain in his side, Harry sank into his chair. Damn! He’d forgotten the painkillers. He buzzed Miss Giveny to set up a meeting of the beneficiaries that afternoon.
Ten minutes later, his secretary called out. “Mr. Jenkins? Do you want to speak to that Mr. Chin? He’s on line two.”
“All right,” Harry sighed, picking up the phone. “Yes, Mr. Chin. What can I do for you?” The flowers were only a dark and hazy memory.
“I am most happy to see you are better. Did the flowers arrive?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.” In the long pause, Harry could think of little to say. “It was very kind of you,” he added.
“I understand the purchases will close tomorrow. After that, the conglomerate would like you to prepare an option to purchase the Deighton property, as soon as you are well enough. I have a further retainer for that work and certain rezoning work.”
Harry cut him off. “I told you, Mr. Chin. I am terribly sorry, but I cannot act in that matter, because I am her executor.”
“Surely, those are only technical concerns which may be overcome by—”
“I am sorry, but it’s a conflict I cannot ignore. I could refer you to—”
“I see. That is most unfortunate. I will have to advise the conglomerate. They will be very disappointed. Good day, sir.” Chin hung up.
Harry stared at the phone. So much for that work, he thought.
CHAPTER 21
For thirty-five years, Mrs. Beatrice Clough had presided over the main reception hall of Gideon Trust. She was a pleasant, powdery person whose disposition mirrored the quiet elegance of her surroundings.
Mrs. Clough sat behind a huge cherrywood desk, the surface of which glowed in the reflected lighting of the brass lamps. According to her, quiet courtesy was the hallmark of refined and well-bred people. Trouble was usually announced with loud and boorish manners.
She checked the agenda for the afternoon. Mr. McCrea had hastily scrawled a two-o’clock appointment for the Deighton estate in the calendar, but had not listed the names of the expected visitors. The Deighton family were old clients. Lovely people. She anticipated with pleasure the arrival of the next generation.
A loud braying voice from the elevators interrupted her typing.
“I told you, Gerry, this estate’s gonna be wound up real fast. No dicking around. Just wait and see.” Mrs. Clough stiffened. The glass doors banged open. Here was a troublemaker.
The red-faced man approaching her desk was bursting out of his jacket. A man and two women raced to keep up with him. Wielding his briefcase like a weapon, he slammed it down on the cherrywood surface of her desk, almost knocking the brass lamp to the floor. Mrs. Clough reached for the red emergency button underneath the desk, but hesitated.
“We got an appointment with a Cameron McCrea on the Deighton estate. Tell him Frank Sasso’s here.”
Mrs. Clough nodded mutely and reached for the intercom. She’d buzz security if Mr. McCrea said so. Mr. Sasso removed his troop to the farthest sofa.
“Listen, Gerry, I got a surprise for this trust company. They’ve been nothing but a goddamned pain in the ass with Suzannah’s trust.” Leaning forward, Frank continued confidentially, “Them and that lawyer Jenkins are gonna be out of the picture in about five minutes.”
“What the hell have you done, Frank?” Katharine sat in rigid fury next to him on the sofa. Gerry and Suzannah occupied the armchairs.
Frank smiled and grasped her wrist. “Listen, sweetie, I’m only doing what Auntie really wanted. Just watch.”
Tearing her arm from his grasp, Katharine said, “If you’ve done something to her will, Frank, by God, we’ll fight y
ou to the end.”
“Me?” Frank spread his hands out, as if to placate her. “You’ll see. Auntie’s only done what’s fair to everybody.”
McCrea bustled out of a side door of the reception. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” He ushered them swiftly down a hallway to the boardroom. Mrs. Clough sighed in relief.
The trust officer swung the door open and stepped back. Frank barged in ahead, then suddenly stopped. Expecting to see only Jenkins, he was surprised when a tall, balding man rose to introduce himself as Peter Thompson, vice-president of personal trust. Harry Jenkins nodded, but remained seated. At the far end of the room, a gray and weary man rose. Instinct made Frank stiffen and step back. Fuck! Must be a cop, he thought.
When all were seated, Peter Thompson began. “We’ve invited Sergeant Welkom here today because he has some important documents relating to your aunt and her estate.” Thompson hated being dragged into these messy affairs. The police and trust companies were not natural allies.
“This is about Marjorie’s will, Mr. Thompson?” Katharine wanted to get right to business. Frank snapped open his briefcase.
“Yes. Mr. Jenkins is going to take it from here.” Thompson nodded to Harry.
Harry began distributing copies of the will. “It’s usual to begin with a reading of the will, ladies and gentlemen. There’s a copy for each of you. I’ll answer any of your questions at the end.”
“Just a minute now, Mr. Jenkins. Are you sure that’s the latest will? What’s the date on it?” asked Frank.
Immediately, Harry was on his guard. Trouble was coming from Frank, right on cue. “It’s dated the twelfth of April, 1998.”
“Nineteen ninety-eight, you say? You sure of that date?”
“Yes.” Harry said. Frank was headed into his cat-and-mouse routine. For sure, he was involved in the missing-will business, thought Harry. Frank was lounging back in his chair, but he leaned over to rummage through his case. Harry hoped the chair might snap under Frank’s girth.
“Well, seems like that’s an out-of-date will. I got one right here that’s dated just before she died.”
Peter Thompson, Cameron McCrea, and Harry glanced at one another.
Thompson was the first to speak. “How do you happen to have Miss Deighton’s will?”
Frank ignored the question and barreled on. “This will appoints another lawyer—not you, Jenkins—as the executor.” Frank waved the document in the air. “That means, Jenkins, you and your cronies here at the great Gideon Trust are out of the picture.” Frank’s grin could not have been wider.
“Let’s see it, then,” Harry said impatiently. “It was made just a few days before Miss Deighton died?”
“So?” Frank pulled on his tie. “That doesn’t mean it’s no good.”
“No, but it must be the one she wanted to change.”
“But she didn’t.”
“True, Mr. Sasso. Only her death prevented that.” Disgusted, Harry folded his arms across his chest. “And you still haven’t told us how you got this will.”
Still smiling broadly, Frank tossed the will along the table to Harry, who spent several moments examining it.
His gut sank. “Yes, that looks like Marjorie’s signature.” Then he felt his anger rise. “Just how did you get your hands on this, Frank?” He peered at him, wondering whether the bully or the wheedler would surface first.
Frank hesitated only for a second. “This lawyer, Fulford, gave it to me.” His jaw jutted out. “Told me Marjorie made it fair and square, when she was of sound mind, and without any influence, either.”
Harry saw Frank’s weakness. Too rehearsed. Out of his depth. Probably Fulford had given him some rudimentary coaching. “You sound worried about something,” Harry prodded. “Pretty defensive.”
“What does it say?” asked Katharine. Her voice was low and threatening. “I know you, Frank. How did you get Marjorie to change her will?”
Harry held up his hand for silence. “This purported will makes major changes.”
“Hey! What’s this ‘purported’ shit?” Frank’s grin began to fade.
Harry ignored him. Nodding in McCrea’s direction, Harry continued, “Both Gideon and I have been replaced by a sole executor. A lawyer named James Fulford gets the job. The will leaves the house to Suzannah and divides the rest of the estate equally among the three of you.”
“God damn it, Frank. You’re a real bastard!” Katharine was halfway out of her chair.
Gerry rose to stand beside her. He held her arm. “Katie, don’t. We can fight him, but not this way.”
“Don’t be such a wimp, Gerry.” Tearing her arm away, she glared incredulously at her brother. “That’s exactly what he wants. He’s trying to sucker us into litigation. Spend the whole estate on lawyers. You want a fight, Frank? You’ve got one.”
Harry was formulating a plan. Undoubtedly, Gideon would refer even the least contentious matter to their solicitors. “Cover your ass” was their motto. Months later, a four-page legal opinion letter would be tucked in the file, stating the obvious. An executor could be fired without recourse. Meanwhile, Frank, when no one was looking, would have pocketed the estate assets from the game board. With Gideon’s glacial speed, a crook even as stupid as Frank could outsmart them. The whole situation reeked. The swiftest course was to take on Fulford.
Welkom rose. Circling the table, he went to stand next to Frank. “You can save this stuff for later. Right now, there’s something a lot more important.” He handed Gerry a sheaf of papers.
“What the hell is this?” Gerry asked, pulling out his reading glasses.
“It’s a court order. Read it,” Welkom said flatly.
“For what?” Frank was annoyed with the cop’s butting in.
“To exhume the body of Miss Marjorie Deighton tomorrow morning.”
“Why?” all three beneficiaries chorused.
“Our investigations indicate that your aunt was murdered.”
Harry surveyed all three beneficiaries. The sergeant’s statement had frozen them in place.
Katharine turned pale. “Who else was at the house that day?”
Gerry sank into his chair, muttering, “Jesus! This will hold up the administration, I suppose.”
Katharine stood over Gerry. “Did you go to see her for money, Gerry? You’ve been talking about that.”
“Me?” Gerry was enraged. “God damn it, Katie, are you accusing me?”
Katharine’s voice cut the still air. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be capable of that. But I know someone who is.” Everyone in the room froze as she glared at Frank.
Suzannah spoke, for the first time, in a low and dreamy voice. “Why, Sergeant Welkom, I’m not surprised to hear you say that. It’s about time someone thought about Auntie. I’m not doing anything about the estate until we know what happened to her.”
Frank glowered at Suzannah, but said nothing.
“Frank!” Katharine hissed. “What in God’s name did you do to make Marjorie change her will?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Frank grinned. “She did it of her own free will. You just can’t stand the idea that she loved Suzannah more. What’d you ever do for Auntie?”
For just a moment, Katharine was speechless.
Harry held up his hand. “Suzannah is right.” He looked directly at Frank. “Obviously, anyone implicated in Marjorie’s death in any way should not benefit from her will. Even though I only knew her as a client, I still want to know how and why she died. I’d think all of her next of kin would feel the same way.”
In the reception room, Harry watched Katharine push past Frank. He grabbed her arm. “Listen, Katharine. Marjorie only did what’s fair and right. Sometime, when you’ve settled down, you’ll understand.”
“Get your disgusting hand off me!” Katharine wrenched away.
Seeing Frank’s face darken with fury, Harry almost stepped forward. But Katharine, her words dripping like acid, said, “Frank, you’re a sleaze and too stupid t
o pull this off.”
Frank hesitated, but then stepped back. Katharine entered the elevator and was gone. The woman was more than able to look after herself, thought Harry.
Anger drove Harry up Yonge Street to his office building. Lawyers like Fulford poached on clientele for a living. It was time to pay him a visit. But as he walked along the hallway from the elevator, the painkillers began wearing off and his knees almost gave out. With his shirt matted to his back, he tried to straighten his shoulders, but the pain was too intense. Fumbling with the knob, he smashed his briefcase against the office door with such force that he could hear Miss Giveny’s muffled shriek inside. He pushed the door open, only to find his secretary standing halfway in the foyer, armed with a heavy staple gun.
“Mr. Jenkins! It’s you!”
“Of course it’s me. Put that thing down.”
“You look like death warmed over.” She followed him into his office.
Harry struggled out of his jacket and sat down. Propping his elbows on the desk, he said, “Please don’t just stand there gaping. Get me the Deighton files, please.” Then the room started to swim.
Quickly returning with the files, she seated herself across the desk from him.
“Miss Deighton has made a new will,” Harry began, as sickness welled up in his stomach.
Miss Giveny stiffened. “What does it say?”
“She’s appointed a new executor. Unless the beneficiaries contest, I’m out of the picture.” Harry could not contain his bitterness. Rising from his chair, he began to pace, but found he could only limp in pain.
The law did not allow an executor to protest if he lost his job. A court would undoubtedly appoint an independent administrator in the event of a battle. Even so, the best strategy was to scare the new lawyer off.
“Who gets the estate?”
“She gives the house to Suzannah outright,” said Harry. “The rest of the estate is split equally among the three of them.” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out the window. He sighed deeply. “St. Timothy’s still gets its legacy.” Lost in thought, Harry let his voice trail off.
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