Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  Anyway, the unexpected domestic tranquility was welcome, as events had been unfolding rapidly since my return to Borderview. Casey McGlaun had arrived Friday, had met at some length with Celeste at the county jail, spoke Saturday morning with Jess Cooper, the young County Attorney, and then left on the afternoon train. I found myself disappointed at not seeing her, but I appreciated it was best that I step back from the criminal case in light of my conflict with the accused in the probate dispute. Of course, the small town network via a visit by Will to the courthouse this morning had satisfied my curiosity about the essentials. Indeed, Celeste had employed Casey to represent her. In fact, she had signed a mortgage of the Wainwright house in favor of Casey to secure payment of the lawyer’s fees. Albert Sweeney had filed the document with the register of deeds when the courthouse opened this morning, and this pleased me immeasurably, for I am certain he was greatly insulted by Celeste’s employment of other counsel to handle the criminal case. And it had to gall him yet more that Casey had a first lien against the property for her fees. I had yet to witness Casey’s skills as an advocate, but I was impressed by her aggressiveness as a businesswoman.

  With no particular authority to do so, and hoping Judge Helvey would make me an honest man, I had contracted Cash Berry’s services for a funeral of sorts for Ralph at the Methodist Church this Wednesday. Ralph wasn’t a Roman Catholic or Episcopalian, the only other representatives of Christian grace in Borderview, and the Methodists were generous about claiming anybody else who needed a church home for baptism, marriage or funeral, whether duly enrolled or not. Although I confined my own church attendance to funerals and an occasional wedding, the good Methodist pastor considered me more or less an honorary member of his congregation based upon my brother Franklin’s clerical credentials in the denomination.

  Reverend Tobias Hill would preside over an empty coffin at the service, because Casey McGlaun had instructed in no uncertain terms to Jess Cooper that Ralph's body was not to be disturbed further until a physician she would send from Omaha completed an examination of the remains. Cash Berry had observed that the body could not have been brought into the church in any event, because the stench would have sickened the congregation. Cash was still disgruntled about the turn of events that had deprived him of a first class funeral. It had been necessary for me to personally guarantee payment of the funeral bill in light of the uncertain disposition of the banker’s estate. I confess that I do not share Casey McGlaun’s business acumen.

  I had just come across an obscure Ohio court decision on point when I heard the door of the outer office open. I assumed that Will had returned from his attempt to interview Greta Kleine, and anticipation of his report was no small part of my motive for remaining in the office late. Two soft taps on my door confirmed my assumption.

  “Come on in, Will,” I called without getting up.

  Will entered my office, nodded, and let himself down slowly into the chair nearest my desk. His face was grim, devoid of its usual boyish innocence, and he slumped like a bag of rags in the chair. Will Heasty had aged noticeably this day.

  “You look bushed,” I said, stating the obvious.

  Will took a deep breath and sighed. “I am much happier at my typewriter. I don’t know if I’m cut out for the people part of this business.”

  “Greta was a tough interview I gather.”

  “Once we broke the ice, she was more than cooperative. She wouldn’t stop talking. It’s what she had to say that boggles my scrambled brain. She left me with a terrible load on my mind. But you’re the boss, so I’ll let you sort it out.”

  “Did she know something about the holographic will?”

  “Not specifically. But she said Albert Sweeney had been calling at the Wainwright house for several months before Ralph's death.”

  “To visit Ralph?”

  “No. To visit Celeste. And, according to Greta, the visits had a . . . a social side.”

  “Celeste was sleeping with Albert?”

  “So it appears. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Regular as clockwork. After Ralph left for the bank in the morning, Albert showed up to spend an hour or so in the master bedroom with Celeste. Afterward they would go in the library and huddle over papers Celeste had removed from Ralph's desk. Strangely, neither seemed to be bothered by Greta’s presence in the house. Their liaisons were quite rambunctious and noisy, according to Greta.” At this remark, Will’s face turned tomato red. “Can you imagine talking about such things with a young woman . . . one you’ve never met before?”

  I could not imagine Will talking about such things with any young woman. Regardless, George’s appraisal of Greta’s listening skills had been on target. I shook my head in disbelief. “Celeste and Albert. I never would have thought.” I was not only shocked; I was halfway insulted. I had expected Celeste to have better taste. This was an ill reflection on her other lovers, myself included. My fantasies turned to ashes then and there. Remembrances of my past with Celeste would never be the same.

  Will said, “Celeste and Ralph hadn’t shared a bedroom for a year or more. Ralph slept in one of the guest rooms.”

  “Well, obviously, Albert had the opportunity to coach Celeste on the finer points of making a holographic will. This also explains why he was named executor of the holographic. Did Greta know anything about Ralph's signing a new will?”

  “Not specifically. But she lived in the maid’s quarters six days out of seven and saw everything that went on in the house. About a week before Ralph was killed, she heard Ralph and Celeste having a dogfight in the library. It had something to do with signing some papers or writing a letter. Greta heard Celeste scream at Ralph ‘sign it or I’ll send for Ike Bell right now.’”

  “She could have been referring to the will, but that’s pretty much speculation at this juncture.”

  “Celeste had another visitor.”

  ”A lover?”

  “It appears not. Karl Wainwright. He came around while Ralph was at work, too, on at least two occasions during the week before Ralph's death. He and Celeste were very secretive and took great care to close the door to the library and speak softly when they met.”

  “Did Greta say if Ralph knew Karl was in town?”

  “He knew. Greta told him.”

  Something in Will’s voice caught my attention. “Greta told Ralph about Karl? What about Albert?”

  “Him, too. Ralph was reasonably well informed about what was going on in the home . . . thanks to Greta.”

  “You haven’t told me everything.”

  Will pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and dabbed at his brow. There was a welcome cool breeze drifting in the office window, and it was not the condition of the room that was the source of his perspiration. “This is unbelievably complicated, Ian. You see, Greta was, euphemistically speaking, sleeping with Ralph.”

  “Oh, shit. This cannot be happening. You’ve made this all up to drive me nuts.” It was enough to drive a vital man to celibacy.

  Will shrugged, seemingly at a loss for words.. “This is what she told me.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I believe her.”

  “And how long, euphemistically speaking, had Ralph and Greta been sleeping together?”

  “Something less than a year. At first Ralph visited the maid’s quarters just to talk, and then one thing led to another, you know.”

  “I know.” How well I knew.

  “Anyway, Celeste gave them ample opportunity to be together with her famed shopping expeditions to Lincoln and Omaha, and all. When Celeste was absent, Greta shared Ralph's upstairs bedroom, and he, needless to say, spent less time at the bank . . . until Celeste came home a day early a few months back.”

  “And she caught them doing the dirty deed?”

  “Yep. Opened the bedroom door and found the two of them naked as jaybirds. Greta was humiliated.”

  “But she was still working in the house after Ralph's death. I saw her there.”

  “Oh yes.
Celeste never said a word when she saw them there. Just turned around and left the room. Later, Greta was packing her clothes in anticipation of a move, and Celeste walks in and tells her to get started on the laundry. Just like nothing ever happened. A week later, Ralph comes calling at the maid quarters and things are just like they were before . . . only Ralph says they can’t ever use the upstairs bedroom again. He claimed he had told Celeste he planned to marry Greta, but that he would make it right with Celeste financially if she just let things go on the way they were for a spell.”

  “Did Greta know Ralph and Celeste weren’t actually married?”

  “No. And I didn’t tell her otherwise. Didn’t think it was my place.” Will hesitated. “There’s something else.”

  I didn’t like the way he said that. “Yes.”

  “Greta’s carrying a child.”

  I leaned back, and my eyes bore in on Will until he fidgeted in his chair. “Is this the end of your surprises?”

  “Uh, yes, I think so. Yes.”

  “And the child is Ralph's?”

  “Well I believe it is. That is, I believe Greta. She doesn’t seem like the sort that would sleep with more than one man at a time . . . I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. On the other hand, she was willing to sleep with an apparently married man while his apparent wife slumbered one floor above the conjugal bed.”

  “I know how it looks. But she says she loved Ralph and that he was her first and only. All I can say is what I said before . . . I believe what she told me.”

  I felt a bit callous, putting Will on the defensive like that. He had done a magnificent piece of investigative work, although I was uncertain how his information impacted either the murder charges or our probate case. “Has she talked to anyone else about this?”

  “She says not . . . other than her parents.”

  “Not even Ike Bell? She would obviously have been a potential witness.”

  “No, Ike never talked to her.”

  So much for Sheriff Bell’s investigative skills. Ike wouldn’t recognize evidence if he stepped on it. But a witness had come forward, and surprisingly the name hadn’t leaked from the courthouse yet.

  “Did you explain to Greta that your conversation with her wasn’t necessarily confidential . . . that we might have to pass anything you learned onto the authorities?”

  “Yes, I think she just wanted somebody to listen to her without judging her. And I would never do that, being just another sinner myself. I guess her folks are raising all kinds of hell, old Gerhardt especially. Says she’s disgraced the family name. She won’t tell them who the father is, but they’ve got it figured out. And, of course, there’s no man to shotgun into marriage.”

  “What are her plans for the baby?”

  “She’ll have to give it up for adoption. The child would be a constant reminder of her shame, she says. She doesn’t have the means to support herself and a child, too. Besides, she doesn’t want the baby to start life with the stigma of ‘Greta’s bastard.’”

  “I think we can help her. Emily Stanton’s on the board of trustees of the Omaha Children’s Home. They maintain a home for unwed mothers, and Greta could go there to live until she has the baby. If she still wants to give the baby up for adoption at that time, they’ll help with arrangements. Either way, the people at the home will help her find work if she doesn’t want to come back here. She can get legal advice there, too. I don’t think an illegitimate child has any legal claim to Ralph's estate under Nebraska law, and parentage is virtually impossible to establish in the courts. Still, Ralph's apparently left behind some moral responsibilities for somebody to clean up, and, if Emily ends up with the estate, I’d bet she’ll want to look after Greta and the baby.”

  Will brightened noticeably. “I’d really feel better if we could help her, Ian.”

  “Emily’s coming in for Ralph's funeral. I’ll talk to her about it. Perhaps, we can arrange for her to meet Greta while she’s here.” Apparently, the firm of Locke & Heasty would be practicing law with a bit of social conscience. Will’s innate decency could be contagious.

  “Now,” I said, “to keep our noses clean, we need to inform the law of anything we’ve learned that might be pertinent to the criminal prosecution. I don’t trust Ike Bell’s mouth with this information. I suggest you have a chat with Jess Cooper tomorrow and tell him the gist of what you’ve told me. A quick summary will do. We have an obligation to disclose, but we don’t have to do all their work for them. Ask Jess to be discreet for the sake of the young woman. He’s a good man, and he won’t go beyond the facts necessary to make his case. Greta’s probably going to have to testify, though, and that makes it all the more important we make arrangements for her to leave here when the trial’s over. A lot of our good Christian folk aren’t as kind and forgiving as you, Will.”

  “What does this do to our case?”

  “I’d say you’ve turned over a few rocks, and now we have to look under them and start digging. All we really have, though, are suspicions, and that’s not enough for tomorrow’s hearing.”

  15

  Ian

  THE COTTONWOOD COUNTY courtroom was a box that would hold no more than a dozen occupants, including judge and counsel, comfortably. The judge’s bench was a small wooden table set on the same level as the other Spartan furniture, and it was framed by a large window that furnished tolerable light on a sunny day like this one. Two counsel tables, each with several chairs for lawyers and their clients, were positioned perpendicular to the judge’s bench, so the lawyers might face each other and exchange glares of contempt or disdain when occasion called for it. Three or four chairs behind each counsel table constituted a gallery for spectators or functioned as a jury box when a six-man county court jury was impaneled. The space was generally adequate for the probates, guardianships, misdemeanors and small civil lawsuits under the jurisdiction of the county court, which rarely offered the kind of carnival that drew a crowd.

  I arrived early, as was my habit. Furthermore, counsel tables were claimed on the basis of first appearance and I had a distinct preference for the table to the judge’s right. It was an irrational predilection, much like the churchgoer who sits in the same pew each Sunday, but I just was not as comfortable at the other table.

  I dropped my tattered, leather briefcase on the table and thereby staked my claim. The briefcase had been a gift from my father upon my admission to the Nebraska bar, and, although it had more than served its time, I could not yet abandon it for the new, sleeker model that had sat in my office closet these past five years. I felt I was more open to new ideas and ways of doing things than most of those in a tradition-bound profession, but certain things gave me a sense of continuity and constancy in my life, and my briefcase was foremost among those.

  I pulled back a chair and sat down. I picked a few of TJ’s hairs from my black coat and then opened the briefcase and spread its contents on the table. My coat would confine me in a hotbox this morning, but coat and tie were a lawyer’s uniform and mandated by most judges as a symbol of respect. I glanced out the window behind the judge’s table and waved at two boys who stood on the boardwalk outside with their noses pressed to the glass. On a summer day, there were often more observers outside the window than in the courtroom itself.

  Momentarily, the courtroom door creaked open and Albert Sweeney stepped in, dapper and stylish in his blue pinstripe suit, his thinning black hair slicked back and his pencil-thin mustache properly waxed. No cat hairs on Prince Albert’s coat, I noted. No, Albert was nothing if not fastidious. Even though he was slightly overweight and had a pregnant paunch, his wardrobe was tailored carefully to cover any unseemly bulges. I wondered what Celeste had thought when she got her first glimpse of Albert’s naked body. Disappointment and dismay, I hoped. Probably had a grub worm for a pecker.

  Sweeney smiled broadly when he saw me. “Good morning, counselor,” he said as he placed his polished, black briefcase on the vacant table. He plucked a
gold watch from his vest pocket and examined it. “Early as usual, I see.”

  “Morning, Albert,” I replied. Morning, asshole, I thought. I enjoyed a congenial relationship with most members of the county bar, but I could not suffer Sweeney and admitted I had no objectivity where the man was concerned.

  “Ian, I wondered if we might have a word before the judge takes the bench. I have a proposal for your consideration, and we might be able to resolve this by stipulation.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It seems to me that since I’m designated executor in Ralph's most recent will, the judge is very likely to appoint me as special administrator for the estate. Your chances of prevailing in probate of the earlier will are less than slim. Nonetheless, my client would like to settle any dispute as amicably as possible. We are prepared to enter into an agreement whereby Miss Stanton would receive distribution of twenty per cent of the estate, in consideration for which you and she would dismiss the petition for probate of the earlier will and consent to my appointment as special administrator pending probate of the holographic will.”

  “Are you serious, Albert?”

  “Very serious. This is your client’s final opportunity to get something from the estate. She’d be a fool not to grab it. I understand she will arrive on the afternoon train. If you wish to speak to her about this offer, I would be willing to stipulate to a continuance of this hearing for a few days. I’m certain the judge would be pleased to have the parties settle this case.”

  I leaned forward on the counsel table and studied my adversary. The man was not just bluster. He believed his own words. When Albert Sweeney accepted a case, he became a true believer. His client could do no wrong. Sweeney carried the banner for truth and justice. This supreme confidence in the rightness of the cause encouraged clients to pursue cases beyond good sense and lose needless dollars in the process. Furthermore, Sweeney tended to be blind to chinks in his own case, and, as a result, he was frequently poorly prepared for the opposing lawyer’s assault on his evidence and theory of the case. Still, the guy could be slick, and he could charm the unwary often enough to make a decent living.