by Ron Schwab
Now we had cut to the real purpose of Cash’s visit. I rose from my chair and Cash took the hint. “I’ll talk to Celeste,” I promised, “and I’ll get back to you later.”
“It’s such an undignified end for a man of Ralph's social standing,” Cash lamented, as he moved toward the door.
“I don’t think social standing matters much when you’re dead. The grave brings total equality, rich or poor . . . white, black, red or yellow.”
Cash stopped and turned toward me, looking greatly offended. “That’s a morbid way of thinking in my mind, Ian. It matters a lot how you go out. It’s the last thought folks have of you. Think about it. If Ralph don’t get a proper funeral, what’s everybody going to remember about him? That he got ate up by a bunch of pigs . . . low class pigs at that.”
3
Ian
THE WAINWRIGHT MANSION was perched on a gently sloping hillside just outside Borderview, nearly a mile from the town square, but I opted to walk. It was mid-afternoon now, and I tugged off my coat and soaked in the warmth of the summer sun. I am a warm weather person and rarely complain of the heat and never look forward to our bleak Nebraska winters. My Appaloosa gelding also gave me no incentive to ride. He tended to be contrary during a mid-day saddling and was inclined to bite when annoyed. Hemlock is a mean-looking critter with a splotch of black around one eye that gives him a pirate-like appearance. He’s wild-eyed and ill tempered, but a sound horse is a necessity, and I sort of respect his independence. He was a gift from my twin brother, Cam, who could probably take some of the orneriness out of the horse, but his Kansas Flint Hills ranch is nearly a hundred miles south of Borderview.
Cam is a law wrangler, too—that’s what some of the old cowboys call those who have taken up the law books. His heart is on the Circle L, a real honest-to-goodness cow and horse operation, unlike my quarter section hideout, but he practices law more than he’d like with the “Judge” in Manhattan, a growing Kansas town not far from Fort Riley. The “Judge” is our father, Myles Franklin Locke, who was an appellate judge in Illinois before he grew bored with life on the bench, pulled up stakes and put out a new shingle on the Kansas prairie. Grudgingly, I must say the Judge has no equal as a lawyer, and his integrity is something to aspire to, but we often butt heads when we get together and it’s always worked out best to have some distance between us.
The Locke bloodline overflows with law wranglers. It’s like a family curse. My grandfather, William Myles Locke, was a Vermont lawyer, and both of his sons—the Judge and Uncle Nathaniel—were afflicted. Two of Uncle Nathaniel’s three children succumbed. My little sister, Hannah, fourteen years younger than I, engages in a struggling practice in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, but baby brother Thaddeus, Hannah’s twin, ended up a veterinary surgeon in the Flint Hills. They are issue of the Judge’s marriage to Deborah Compton, who died at their birth on July 4, 1855.
My younger brother, Franklin, also escaped the plague, perhaps with divine assistance, and rides a lonely circuit as a Methodist preacher along the Nebraska-South Dakota border. My mother, Sarah McBride Locke, a gentle Quaker woman, had nudged Franklin toward a religious life before her death when he was barely ten, and I often think it would have pleased her greatly to have seen one son shuck off her husband’s heathenish ways.
Death has a way of turning my thoughts to family. Does the Judge remain in robust health? Are my brothers doing well? What about little sister? I haven’t seen her in three years. When the chips are down, there are few outside of family you can count on, and though I may take a few verbal pokes at the Judge and my siblings and others clinging to the family tree, I don’t take such remarks kindly from others. My family, however quarrelsome, is a mighty fortress in times of crisis. Don’t take on a Locke unless you’re prepared to fight the whole tribe.
Ralph's ghastly end gnawed at me as I made my way up the hill toward his stately home. I had chatted with him amiably at Wainwright Savings Bank Saturday morning. Death strikes once again, unannounced and sudden. The instrument of Ralph's death had obviously been human. With my sons, Ethan and little Cam, disease had dealt the final blow. The result was the same. It was over for all of them. No more tomorrows. We never know if we have more than this moment, and I try to remind myself of that each morning as I check out the sunrise and vow to make the new day count for something.
I would miss Ralph, but I would bear no lingering pain because of his death, and soon he would be no more than a passing thought. I would never get over the loss of my sons, however, and their deaths only three days apart left wounds that could only be understood by one who has lost a child. I wondered if Ralph Wainwright left anyone behind who felt such anguish. Certainly not Celeste.
4
Ian
I WAS ADMITTED to the Wainwright mansion by Greta Kleine, a stocky young German immigrant with short, straw-colored hair and thick calves that peered from her flour-sack dress. I thought her pretty in a fresh, wholesome way, with a flawless, milky complexion and friendly blue eyes that dominated a round face. Greta’s father, Gerhardt, was one of the dozens of German farmers who were buying up land in the vast river bottoms that prevailed in the north half of the county. The Germans had invaded, and some of the neighboring communities had taken to referring to Cottonwood County as “Little Deutschland,” but that was changing as the Germans started to spill across the borders. They were excellent farmers, hard-working and Lutheran, and they produced children as prolifically as they grew corn and wheat—a sort of slave labor to farm yet more land. Some families farmed as many as two or three quarter sections. The sons worked the land, and many of the daughters, like Greta, worked in the homes of affluent town folks, doing laundry, cooking and other household chores.
“I think Mrs. Wainwright’s expecting me,” I said.
“Ja, I will tell her you are here. She says you are to wait in Herr Wainwright’s book room.”
“I know the way, Greta. Thank you.”
The young woman opened her mouth as if to speak, but then glanced nervously over her shoulder, seemed to think better of it, and moved quickly from the foyer and started up the spiral staircase that led to the bedrooms. She was obviously agitated about something, I thought, but that was not unnatural considering her employer’s death, I supposed. I found my way to the library, an elegant, warm room, the only one I envied in this monstrosity of a house that Ralph had built to Celeste’s specifications, the result being a sprawling, limestone structure that would have fit nicely on a Southern plantation were it not for the steep roofs and turrets and sharp angles that gave the house something of the appearance of a European castle.
I lowered myself into a stuffed, leather-covered armchair and pulled my watch from my vest pocket. Fifteen minutes till four. Celeste would make her appearance at four o’clock. Every man waited fifteen minutes for Celeste. No exceptions. My eyes scanned the book-lined walls. Political treatises, the works of Shakespeare, all of James Fenimore Cooper’s novels, Henry David Thoreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mark Twain, even his recently published Huckleberry Finn, the long awaited sequel to Tom Sawyer. How sad, I thought, that the great books that seduced me from the polished oak shelves were virgins, in a sense, waiting for human touch and love. Celeste had never had any particular interest in books and had been annoyed when they competed for my attention, which was not all that often when Celeste was in the room.
Ralph's reading had been confined to an occasional newspaper. He was a man of action: a hunter, a horseman, a serious poker player and a more serious drinker. He sought the company of humankind, enjoyed the camaraderie of other men and reveled in the chase of a flirtatious female. No, the books in this house were mere decorations, wasted on creatures who could not possibly love them as they deserved to be loved.
My gaze fastened on a Bierstadt painting, one of the artist’s expansive mountain landscapes, when the door quietly opened. I could smell the perfumed fragrance of her before I saw her, and I stood and turned toward the widow Wainwright. She st
ood in the doorway, her dark, impish eyes betraying her pouty lips. I was welcome, but she was not ready to admit it, and, as always, she nearly took my breath away. She might have been dressed for a ball, wearing a satiny emerald gown, revealing more bosom than proper decorum allowed, her straight raven hair fastened with a ribbon from the same fabric as the gown, and then cascading over her shoulders. She was a very tall woman, only a few inches shorter than I, and I stood a strong six feet two inches. Her smooth, caramel skin strongly suggested strains of Mexican or Indian blood, or perhaps, as some of the good Methodist ladies whispered, African. Few men gave a damn about her origins.
With a haughty toss of her head, Celeste glided toward me and into my arms. Her warm breath caressed my neck, and her lithe body clung to mine as the old heat surged through my own. Her lips found mine, and, for a moment, I responded to her passionate kiss, forgetting the somber purpose of my visit. She had always done this to me, made me absolutely crazy, driven out every sane thought from my mind, leaving me only with the vivid image of our naked, intertwining bodies and the single-minded obsession to bed her.
I stepped back and gently extricated myself from her embrace, and a puzzled look crossed her face.
“I’m sorry about Ralph,” I said. “I’ll miss him.”
Celeste’s eyes turned cold and she moved away from me. “I won’t,” she said. “Ralph had a side that was far different than the one he showed to the town. He had a mean streak no one else ever saw, and it had become worse as he drank more. Frankly, I rarely saw him sober anymore. We no longer shared the same bed . . . or the same bedroom for that matter. It was my choice, not his. I was happy to turn him over to his whores. I can tell you this, Ian, because the bereaved widow act wouldn’t fool you anyway. You know that our life was a charade, that Ralph wouldn’t marry me and that I stayed with him these past four years for his money, deluding myself that he would eventually do the right thing and make our marriage legal. We were married you know, as far as the town was concerned.”
“Yes, Ralph always encouraged the notion that you were man and wife.”
The tension between us eased, and we each sought distance from the other, pacing like two trapped pumas on opposite sides of the room. I plucked an untouched volume of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass from the bookshelves and began thumbing through the pages, recalling that its publishers had been forced to withdraw a new edition from publication a few years back because of charges of indecency. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, I spoke, “I had Ralph's will in my safe. I filed it with the county court clerk before I came over. I haven’t petitioned for probate yet. I’m the executor.”
“I see.”
“It’s of record now. I can tell you what’s in it.”
“I can hardly wait,” she said, sarcastically.
“I’m afraid he didn’t leave you anything . . . well, a dollar, but that’s something lawyers put in to show that disinheritance is intentional.”
“Interesting,” Celeste replied, apparently nonplussed by the revelation.
“He didn’t leave anything to Karl, either.”
“Why would he leave anything to that perverted killer? Karl’s been sucking Ralph's money teat since he got run out of town. Ralph paid him to stay away. Now it won’t matter. I suppose you’ll have to notify the little bastard about the will.”
“Yes, of course. Anyone with an interest has to get notice.”
“That means he’ll be back. This is his last chance to strike it rich. He won’t take this without a fuss.”
“I didn’t expect him to . . . you either, for that matter.”
She went to the window and pulled back the maroon velvet draperies to let in the sun. She stood there silently looking out onto the oak-studded lawn. The sunlight dropped a soft glow on her profile, and once again I was struck by her sensuous beauty. I undressed her mentally and fought off the urge to join her at the window, sensing that Celeste knew very well the effect she was having on me. She could own me so very, very easily. Celeste had lived a bit shy of thirty years, half the age of her deceased mate, a dozen years younger than I, but she was experienced far beyond her years, intelligent, and, more important for the life she had chosen, extremely cunning. I had no doubt she would survive whatever came her way
She turned away from the window. “So, it’s not me. And it’s not Karl. So who gets the drunken old fart’s estate according to this will of yours.”
“It goes to Emily.”
“I see. His niece is a slut.”
“She’s not a slut.”
Celeste smiled. “Oh, let’s not be touchy.” Her scheming eyes probed mine. “You’re fond of her, aren’t you? You surely can’t be sleeping with her. I never thought men would be her cup of tea.”
“I’m not sleeping with her,” I replied before remembering I owed Celeste no explanation. I placed the book back on the shelf. “I have to go now. I just felt you were entitled to get this information directly from me. I’m glad you’re taking Ralph's death so well . . . and this matter of the will.”
“I might contest the will.”
“You don’t have standing. You and Ralph never married. Nebraska doesn’t recognize common law marriages, and even if you had grounds . . . which you don’t . . . invalidation of the will would mean Ralph died intestate and Karl would end up with everything. You can’t even elect to claim a widow’s share. I’m sorry.”
“No need. The house is in my name. You certainly don’t think I’d have moved in with that randy old goat without some kind of security? Of course, there’s not a huge market for a home of this quality in Borderview, Nebraska, but it should fetch enough to give me a start should that be necessary. And I’ve squirreled away a few of Ralph's dollars for a rainy day. I won’t be a beggar on the square. But I must tell you, Ian,” she said, with a smug look on her face, “I do hold another card.”
“Another card?”
“Yes, an ace, to be precise.”
I didn’t take the bait. She would not be able to resist showing her card.
“You see,” she said, “there is another will.”
She had snatched my undivided attention. “Another will?”
“Yes, the last will, I believe. Ralph signed it a week ago Sunday. I assume your so-called will was made out before that time.”
“More than a year ago.”
“Albert Sweeney picked up the will this forenoon. I suspect it’s been filed by now, accompanied by my petition for probate.”
“Sweeney drafted the will?”
“No, and don’t sound so contemptuous when you speak of Albert.”
“He’s a consensus horse’s ass among members of the bar.”
“But now he’s my horse’s ass, and I’ll have him treated with respect.”
As far as I was concerned, it took the good works of ten lawyers to offset the garbage Sweeney brought down on the profession with his antics. A doughy man with a pencil-thin moustache, Sweeney had a penchant for expensive suits and wealthy widows to buy them. He was a lousy lawyer, but he had prospered via his solicitous charm and nauseating pandering. Why Sweeney, in God’s name? Celeste was too smart to be fooled by the likes of that snake.
Celeste moved closer to me, smiling mischievously. “Poor boy. Cat got your tongue?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “So, do you want to tell me about this will?”
“Ralph wrote it in his own hand. Dated and signed. Albert had a fancy name for it.”
“Holographic.”
“Yes, he said it doesn’t require witnesses.”
“That’s true, but you have to prove the handwriting.”
“Albert assured me that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“May I ask what this purported will provides?”
“I am the sole beneficiary. Albert is named executor.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised.”
“My, such sarcasm.”
I stepped toward the doorway. “I really must go, Celeste. You’re
represented by counsel, and I shouldn’t discuss this with you further. We might be in an adversarial situation here. I have an obligation to speak to Emily about this. It’s not a foregone conclusion that your handwritten document will prevail. I’m sure Albert told you there are serious evidentiary burdens to meet in probating holographic wills.”
“My, we’re sounding like the lawyer now, aren’t we? So formal. I’m sorry, Ian, but it’s a bit difficult for a woman to take a man seriously when she’s seen his bare ass and his honey stick. Don’t be condescending with me. I know you inside and out.”
I felt myself flushing slightly. “I guess you do, Celeste, but it doesn’t change the fact that I do have the responsibility to satisfy myself as to Ralph's true intentions and to get instructions from the person most affected by this turn of events.”
I shifted the subject. “Celeste, Cash asked me to talk to you about funeral arrangements. He doesn’t realize the ambiguity of your situation. Legally, you don’t have any particular authority, but neither does anyone else at this point. Did Ralph ever say anything to you about his wishes?”
A look of disgust crossed her face. “Absolutely not. He hated to discuss anything about death. I think he had convinced himself that death was something that only happened to other people. I’m sure he left no instructions. And since I have no legal responsibility, I want nothing to do with any funeral. You and Cash have my blessing to do whatever you damn well please with the remains of Ralph Wainwright. But before you leave Ian, I must ask you to do something for me.”
I studied her suspiciously. “Now what?”
“I would like to have you find me a lawyer.”
“What do you mean? You’ve got a lawyer. You’ve got Prince Albert.”
“He will serve his purpose, but I would like for you to locate someone in Lincoln or Omaha . . . perhaps someone with your old firm would be suitable. I meant something to you once, Ian. Please do this last thing for me. You’re the only one I trust to do this.”