by Ron Schwab
8
Ian
THE ENGINE BELCHED smoke and the whistle screamed mournfully as the train approached Omaha. I straightened up in my seat, jolted from the sleep to which I had been lured by the combined effects of the warm sun streaming through the windows and the monotonous clanking of steel against steel. I was still mildly apprehensive about Nadine’s message, and the stately Hampton residence would be the first stop. Events had dovetailed to give this mission multiple objectives, however.
I had wired Emily Stanton at the Omaha Bee, where she was a crime reporter, and informed her I would be dropping by her boarding house this evening. She should have received yesterday’s message about her uncle’s death, but she knew nothing about the multiple wills, or that she was named a beneficiary of one of the instruments, and I wasn’t certain what her reaction would be. As the beneficiary in the will I had drafted, her instructions would determine how vigorously I would pursue probate of that document.
Tomorrow, I would need to search out a criminal lawyer for Celeste. My former firm catered to clients in the world of commerce and tended to keep crimes of violence at a distance. Fraud and deception might fit under the umbrella of Gray and Dawson, formerly Locke, Gray and Dawson, but most certainly not murder. Charlie Gray would likely have some thoughts on a lawyer who would take on the case, though. In any event my visit with Celeste in her bleak cell at the county jail had been businesslike and matter of fact. Celeste complained only a bit about the accommodations and seemed composed, almost serene, and, yes, I was still conscripted to procure legal counsel, after which she understood my responsibilities to her would be terminated.
First, however, I had to face Nadine. Not a pleasant thought. The other side of that coin, however, was the opportunity to see my precious Amanda, and I brightened at the prospect of a visit with my daughter. I recalled without pleasure the bitterness and meanness of our divorce. It was hard to understand how two people who had once loved each other so fiercely could find so little redeeming in the other when the final break came. I suppose our marriage had started to crumble after we lost the boys in the winter of 1874. The diphtheria scourge had swept the country that year, wiping out entire families in some instances, leaving others with voids that would never be filled, and the Lockes, with all their money and prestige, had not been spared. Ethan and Cam had been rambunctious, bright and happy boys, frolicking in the snow as January waned. A week later, they were gone. Amanda, still a year-old suckling baby, had been untouched.
I failed as husband and father after the boys died. I turned first to my work, keeping still longer hours at the office. Somehow, I was always able to function there in that other world beyond the family, and I must say that my productivity as a lawyer never suffered, not in the slightest. At home, though, the whiskey bottle became my companion in the stillness and loneliness of the night, and I was of little comfort to Nadine, who seemed to be stronger and more resilient than I. Perhaps, it was her daily responsibility for our remaining child that kept her sane. She also had a bevy of friends who visited regularly and shared her life, giving her the support she did not receive from a morose husband who was so caught up in his own grief, he abandoned those who shared his loss. My only respite came when I cradled tiny Amanda in my arms. Finally, Nadine asked me to leave. I complied.
Nadine and I lived apart for two years before she filed a petition for divorce, alleging adultery as grounds. I did not contest the divorce; on the contrary, I welcomed it. By this time I was ready to bring some order to my life, and Amanda seemed to be about all Nadine and I had in common anymore. At first I was outraged when I learned that Emily had been named as the correspondent in the divorce proceedings, as there had never been that kind of romantic intimacy between us. On the other hand, we had been dear friends for a several years, and during my estrangement from my wife, we shared many evening dinners where she endured my nightly descent into the abyss of self-pity. Emily persuaded me to leave well enough alone. To challenge Nadine’s allegations would only draw attention to the case, and without grounds stated there could be no divorce, she observed.
I capitulated totally on the issue of Amanda’s custody, although there was significant court precedent in Nebraska upholding the principle that children are a father’s property and that he has an absolute right to their services. The doctrine was starting to fall out of favor, however, and at that time in my life I questioned my qualifications as a father, and I did not have it in me to put a four-year-old child in the middle of a battle that was not of her making. I had come to regret this surrender, but life is about choices and living with the decisions we make and doing the best we can on that path we chose at the fork in the road.
9
Ian
NADINE AND I sat in the sitting room of Hampton Manor, as some of the natives called the imposing Victorian house owned by the heir presumptive to the Hampton meat packing empire. She presided with regal grace over the teapot that the maid had deposited on the tea table, and I noted that the years had been kind to her. Her hair might have been spun gold, and she was still slender as a reed. Only the creases carved lightly in the pale flesh around her striking blue eyes suggested that she was nearer forty than thirty.
“Your telegram suggested urgency,” I said. “Is Mandy alright?”
“I truly wish you would refer to our daughter by her given name. Amanda is quite fine.”
“I’d like to spend some time with her before I leave.”
“She won’t be home from the academy until late. The young ladies have special violin instructions after classes. You will see her tomorrow, I assure you.”
“Mandy plays the violin?”
“And the piano. She’s extremely talented. Professor Steinkraus thinks she may be a prodigy.”
“I had no idea.”
“No, you barely know the child. I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
“I make a trip to Omaha to see her every month. I make plans, and she’s never here. I’ve seen her only three times in the past year, but you know as well as I that it’s not for lack of trying. I telegraph you a week before I come, but you never reply. You always refuse when I ask to arrange a visit to my ranch. This is a tiresome game, Nadie, and it’s wrong.” She winced at my use of her pet name. It was not always so. I know it annoys the hell out of her, and I won’t deny this may motivate me.
Nadine bit her lower lip, as she always did when she was trying to get a grip on her anger. She appeared uncharacteristically edgy, certainly not her usually calm and controlled self. Her demeanor, in turn, made me nervous. I fought at Gettysburg, but there was little ambiguity in that battle, a simple matter of kill or be killed. Nadine and I carried on a wounding and maiming type of war, more in the nature of guerilla conflict—hit and run—and I doubt that any impartial observer would have seen particular nobility on either side of the fray. This war honored neither of the combatants.
“Are you still drinking?” Nadine asked.
“What in the hell kind of question is that?”
“I am willing to give you an opportunity to become acquainted with your daughter. But I don’t want to endanger her.”
“Endanger her? You’re addled, Nadine. You’ve never seen me commit an act of violence against anyone . . . man, woman or child.”
“No, I’m not suggesting you are a violent man now, but your history says you are capable of violence. I’m more concerned about moral endangerment. I don’t want my daughter under the care of a drunk.”
“I don’t know what this is all about. I’m not a drunk, and I don’t think I ever crossed over that line. I admit I drank too much the last few years of our marriage, but I was never out of control. Anyway, I have only an occasional drink now and don’t have much of a taste for the stuff anymore. As for violence, I was a soldier, Nadine, for God’s sake.”
“What kind of living accommodations do you have at your ranch for a young lady?”
Nadine’s interrogation seemed to promise the possibility o
f a carrot at its conclusion, and I decided instantly to play this little game by her rules. “I have an extra bedroom. It’s a small home, but very well built and comfortable. My friend, George, constructed most of it from native limestone. If you’re suggesting Mandy . . . Amanda . . . might visit, I think it would be a wonderful experience for her. She loves horseback riding, and George would help her select a horse from his herd . . . my judgment of horseflesh being dubious. We’re nearing the end of calving season now, and she’d get a kick out of the new babies.”
Nadine rolled her eyes and sighed. “I don’t think Amanda would be much interested in your smelly cows, but that’s unimportant. I’m more concerned about other matters. Do you have schools?”
“You’re serious? Borderview just built a new high school. There’s a grade school just a mile from the ranch, and since I go to town every day, Amanda could go to the school there if she wanted. Borderview is a railroad town. Civilization has arrived, more or less. Are you suggesting Amanda might come for a long stay?”
She did not answer my question. “I’m very concerned about her music. She is gifted. I want her to have opportunities to cultivate her gift.”
“We do have a woman in town, who I am told once performed professionally and gives private piano lessons. I believe she has the ability to play and teach other instruments as well.” I hoped it was not too deceitful to omit from the resume that Claudette Beard’s professional experience had been as a dancer-piano player in a Lincoln saloon and that her other instruments were the banjo and harmonica—the latter instrument which she could play with her nose—or that she was a colored lady. I would not call Nadine a Negro hater, but she had her notions about where certain races belonged in society’s pecking order.
Nadine narrowed her eyes and studied my face. I had given up occasional white lies early in our marriage—I’m a terrible liar, and out of practice anyway—but I could sometimes get away with stretching the truth just a bit. She decided to give me a pass on this one.
“Victor and I are planning to travel to Europe. The Hamptons have business interests there, and Victor insists that I accompany him. We may be out of the country for six months or more and will not be in a single location long enough to enroll Amanda in school.” I found her remarks strange since the Hamptons could easily afford to employ a private tutor to accompany them on the trip, but I was not about to point out the obvious.
“I assume you’re asking if Amanda can stay with me while you’re out of the country. The answer is ‘yes.’ I would love to have her.”
“You should be warned, Ian, that Amanda is not going to like this one bit. I have discussed this with her, and she insists she will not go with you to Borderview.”
“Are you giving her a choice?”
She was silent for a moment. Tears welled up in her eyes and one rolled down her cheek. Perhaps this once warm, carefree woman had not turned to stone after all. “No, she has no choice. Her things are packed. You will need another ticket for tomorrow afternoon’s train. I don’t want you to come here. I will bring her to the station promptly at one o’clock.”
10
Ian
I WAITED PATIENTLY in the immaculate parlor of the boarding house, savoring the aroma of baking bread that drifted in from the kitchen. When I had shown up at the door shortly before dusk, I was met by the buxom landlady who reminded me of a well-fed pigeon poised to peck my eyes out. I had undergone my second interrogation of the day before the woman had consented to inform Emily of the arrival of a gentleman caller. Thereafter, she had disappeared up the stairway, mumbling to herself between heavy sighs.
I felt a special kinship with Emily, although it was one of those things I could not convert to precise words. Our relationship had never edged close to romance, although I was keenly aware that she was a striking woman who would catch a second look from any observant male—even though she did nothing to encourage it. She seemingly tried to hide her appearance with high-necked dresses and wide brimmed hats that tended to shield her dark, intelligent eyes and smooth olive skin. Books and words were our bond, and we had shared many hours engaged in serious and intense debate about the works of Emerson, Thoreau, Twain, Hawthorne, Shakespeare, and other writers who had made their marks in the world of literature. She earned a meager living as a reporter, but she aspired to be a novelist, which would likely earn her even less. It had occurred to me that an inheritance from Ralph might afford her the freedom to pursue her dream.
I heard footsteps on the stairway and got up from my chair just as Emily Stanton rushed through the doorway and into my arms, squealing with joy. “Ian, Ian, it’s been too long.”
I hugged her tightly for a moment before she kissed me softly on the cheek and slipped from my embrace. The landlady had followed Emily and stood at the foot of the stairs, arms folded and a scowl on her face. Emily turned quickly to her and said, “Mrs. Schopf, this is my dearest friend in the whole world, Ian Locke. Ian, this is my landlady, Mrs. Schopf.”
“We’ve met,” she replied coolly. “Remember the rules. There will be no entertaining of gentlemen in the private rooms.” She stomped into the kitchen.
“I don’t think she likes me,” I said.
“Mrs. Schopf has little use for men. She had a husband who caught the wanderlust years back and headed west to the goldfields, leaving Mrs. Schopf with a brood of children to raise. She never heard from him again. Now, enough of Mrs. Schopf. You didn’t make this visit to discuss my landlady.” Emily took my hand and led me to a stuffed sofa. “We have so much to talk about.”
I sat down beside her. “We do have a lot to discuss. Perhaps we can catch up a bit, and then I can take you to dinner.”
“I’ve already made reservations at The Castle. You’re my guest tonight. We’re due there in an hour and a half . . . eight o’clock sharp. A friend of mine is meeting us there . . . I hope that’s all right. I really want you to meet this person.”
“A friend? A beau, perhaps?”
She tapped my arm gently and gave me a look of feigned exasperation. “Not a beau. A friend. Casey McGlaun. A lawyer, of all things.”
“You know I really don’t care much for lawyers. They’re stuffy and boring and so full of themselves.”
“I don’t find you stuffy and boring . . . although on occasion you can be a bit full of yourself.”
I smiled. “You’ve always had good taste in lawyers, I must admit. I look forward to meeting your Mr. McGlaun.”
“You’ll find Casey very interesting. I promise.”
“Well, if we have an engagement for dinner, we’d better get down to business. I need some instructions from you about your Uncle Ralph's will.”
“Instructions?”
“Yes. You see, Ralph left a will naming you his sole beneficiary.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Me? You’re joking, of course.”
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
“But what about Karl . . . and Celeste?”
“Not a nickel, but there are complications—there appears to be another will.”
I pulled Will Heasty’s typewritten copy of the will I drafted for Ralph out of my coat pocket and handed it to Emily. “My clerk typed up an extra copy of the will for you. You can see for yourself. I’m executor, but what I do about it depends on some decisions you have to make.
I went over the terms of the two wills with Emily and told her about Celeste’s arrest for Ralph's murder and of Karl’s sudden appearance in Borderview, as Emily listened in stunned silence. When I completed my narrative, she shook her head in disbelief.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s like some kind of bizarre novel.”
“It’s a strange story alright, and you have to help write part of it.”
“I never expected an inheritance from Uncle Ralph . . . I don’t want any. I truly loved him. Mother said he was something of a rogue and she disapproved mightily of his relationship with Celeste. But before she died last year, she made me promise I wo
uld stay in touch with him . . . and I did. I wrote to him at least once a month, although he wasn’t much of a letter writer himself. He always took time to look me up whenever he came to Omaha, and he saw Mother frequently before her death. He paid for her funeral. He was always kind to us . . . and generous to Mother. She had very little in the way of worldly goods and might have been a pauper were it not for her brother. I can only judge a man by how he treats me and mine, and by that standard he was a good man. He was the only family I had left, unless you count Karl . . . and I do not.”
“So do you want me to pursue probate of the will?”
“What does ‘pursuing it’ mean?”
“It will mean challenging the holographic will in court. If that will is ruled valid, the will I drafted is null and void. The most recent will prevails. On the other hand, the courts have consistently ruled that a murderer . . . in this case, an alleged murderess . . . cannot benefit from the death of the victim. The provision in the will for Celeste would be invalid if she should be found guilty. The question then becomes one of whether the holographic will revoked the earlier will or whether that will is revived by failure of the second will’s provision. If the court rules that the earlier will was revoked, then the estate would be distributed under the laws of intestate distribution.”
“Intestate distribution?”
“Lawyer talk for dying without a will. If you don’t have a will, Nebraska statutes set forth a scheme for distributing the estate to the next of kin. Ralph had a son, and the laws of intestate distribution would give him the entire estate.”