Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  “So, in fact, it is conceivably in your financial interest that the defendant be found guilty of murder?”

  “You could say that. But it’s ridiculous to suggest I might do any harm to my father.”

  “We’ll let the jury decide what’s ridiculous and what isn’t, Mr. Wainwright. I’d like to go back to the Saturday night in question and go over a few points I don’t quite understand. First, when you went to the house, you testified that you knocked at the door, but no one answered. How would you characterize your knock at the door?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For instance, was it a hard knock or a soft knock?”

  Wainwright’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. It was just a knock.”

  “Did you knock more than once? For instance, when no one answered the first time, did you try again?”

  Wainwright shrugged. “I suppose so . . . yes.”

  “And would it be fair to assume that knock would have been louder?”

  “Objection, your Honor,” said the county attorney. “This is irrelevant.”

  The judge did not wait for rebuttal from Casey. “This is the prosecution’s witness, Mr. Cooper, and defense counsel is entitled to some latitude in cross. And the witness testified previously about his entry on the premises, so I think Miss McGlaun can pursue that line of inquiry for the moment at least.”

  Casey stepped closer to the witness. “I don’t wish to belabor the point, Mr. Wainwright. I’m just trying to ascertain whether you made every effort to be heard before you entered the house.”

  “Yes, I did. I’m sure I knocked quite loudly.”

  It never occurred to him it would not have been all that unusual for a son to enter his father’s house without knocking, Casey thought. That happens when the story is too well rehearsed. “Mr. Wainwright, where within your father’s . . . the defendant’s . . . residence is the kitchen located?”

  “Off a hallway that leads from the foyer to the rear of the house.”

  “And when you entered, the doorway to the kitchen was open. And you testified that when you came into the house, you heard movement in the kitchen. Don’t you find it odd, that if you could hear movement in the kitchen that the occupant of the kitchen would not have heard you knocking?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she was preoccupied.”

  “If you were planning to murder someone, Mr. Wainwright, don’t you think you would lock the door, so you wouldn’t be surprised . . . especially if the intended victim was already unconscious?”

  “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  Casey fired back rapidly. “Mr. Wainwright. You stated you saw the defendant pointing a gun at your father. You were able to identify the make of the weapon, so you must have had a few moments to survey the situation. Why did you not yell a warning or try to stop the defendant from her alleged action?”

  “I panicked. I admit it. I don’t carry a weapon. I didn’t believe I could do anything.”

  “You panicked. I guess that’s understandable. So you ran for help?”

  The muscles in the witness’s neck tightened, and Casey could see he much preferred a friendly examiner with rehearsed responses. “No, not right away.”

  “Not right away. When did you contact the law, Mr. Wainwright?”

  “Uh, Monday morning following the murder.”

  “Monday morning. A day and a half later. You say you saw your father murdered. You couldn’t bring yourself to intercede at the scene, so you ran away. Could you forgive me for finding it curious that you did not go to the law until a day and a half later?”

  “I suppose you might wonder.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid Miss Kimball might try to implicate me in the killing if I admitted to being there.”

  “Even if you went directly to the sheriff? Does that really seem likely?”

  “I suppose not. But I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Where did you go after you saw the alleged killing?”

  “To the place I’ve been staying.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “An old line shack on one of my father’s places in Coyote Canyon . . . or it was his place. I’ve just learned he didn’t own it anymore.”

  “So you were alone the night of your father’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no alibi?”

  “Objection, your Honor,” howled Cooper. “The witness is not on trial here.”

  “Your Honor, may counsel approach the bench?” Casey said.

  “Yes, please do. Both of you.”

  The lawyers bent over the table in front of the judge, and Casey spoke in a near whisper. “Judge, I truly appreciate that the witness is not charged with the murder, but I have the right to bring forth any facts that might bear on the question of reasonable doubt. My client’s life may depend upon the veracity of this witness. If there is any possibility he is perjuring himself to cast the blame for his own crime on someone else, I should be able to explore it. He is the state’s case.”

  “Do you deny that, Mr. Cooper?” the judge asked.

  “I would concede he is an important witness, yes.”

  “I’m going to allow Miss McGlaun to pursue this line of questioning. I don’t think it’s out of hand . . . yet.”

  Casey took her seat and posed her next question from the counsel table. “Mr. Wainwright, I know the county attorney has an aversion to speculation, but I would like to see if you might help me clarify something.”

  Wainwright glared at her with anger smoldering in his eyes. “You’re going to ask anyway.”

  “How much did your father weigh?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two hundred twenty pounds.”

  “I won’t ask you how much the defendant weighs. But you wouldn’t suggest she is a husky woman, would you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “We’ve heard evidence that your father’s remains were discovered in a pigpen about four miles from Borderview. If the defendant murdered your father, how do you suppose she could have moved the body from the house to the pigpen on Tillie Fletcher’s farm?”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion.”

  “Do you think she could have done this alone?” Through clenched teeth, Wainwright responded. “Of course not.”

  “So you are suggesting there must have been an accomplice?”

  “There must have been.”

  “Or did you really see what you claim you saw?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you fabricate this entire story, Mr. Wainwright?”

  Wainwright’s eyes began to twitch nervously. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  Casey looked meaningfully at the jurors. “That will be for the jury to decide,” she said. She thought she read some uncertainty in the eyes of the teacher and the smithy.

  Remaining seated, Casey said, “I have just a few more questions, and I’ll let you go. Is it true, Mr. Wainwright, that over the past five years or so you received substantial amounts of money from your father?”

  Wainwright looked to Cooper for help, but found none. “He made investments with me from time to time.”

  “Now, Mr. Wainwright, please understand that if you prefer I can have you called as a hostile witness for the defense, after testimony by Mr. Arnold Tilson, who has completed an audit of your father’s accounts. But we can dispose of this very quickly if you will answer my questions forthrightly. With that in mind, would it be fair to say that your father advanced you in excess of $75,000 over the past five years?”

  “It’s possible. We were investing heavily in Kansas City real estate.”

  “I see. And did he ever receive any return on his investments? Was any of the money ever paid back?”

  “They were long-term investments. There has been no return
yet.”

  Casey decided to let the jurors draw their own conclusions. She could sense the judge’s impatience and knew she was a question or two away from being shut down. “A final question. Is it true that your father had recently informed you he would be making no further advances . . . or perhaps we should call them investments?”

  “Objection,” yelled the county attorney, leaping from his seat.

  “I withdraw the question,” said Casey. “The defense has no further questions of this witness.”

  27

  Ian

  THE COUNTY JUDGE did not hesitate to sign an order authorizing me to enter the Wainwright house for an asset search. Unfortunately, Albert Sweeney had prevailed in his demand that the search be carried out in his presence and that of Sheriff Isaac Bell, both of whom were currently ranked near the top of my list of horse’s asses.

  Will Heasty and I stood in the shade of an oak tree outside the mansion waiting for Ike Bell and Prince Albert to show up with the key. The sun had popped out this morning after another nightlong drencher, but dark, rolling clouds in the west suggested that by nightfall buckets would be pouring from the heavens again. There never seemed to be an in-between in Nebraska. We tended to go from drought to flood and back to drought again. At least that’s the way it appeared to those folks who made their ways through life trying to grub a living from the soil.

  I was in a foul mood this morning, and it was Casey McGlaun’s fault the way I saw it. I had been unable to rendezvous with her after the trial recessed yesterday. I had worked at the bank until suppertime and then returned to The Fremont to find Casey. I encountered Emily in the dining room, and she informed me that Casey had taken a sandwich to Sweeney’s office and was preparing for the next day’s court session. At Emily’s invitation, I joined her for some vegetable stew and sourdough bread and got an update on the trial’s progress. I learned that the prosecution had rested its case and Casey would commence presentation of her defense this morning. Casey had asked Judge Hutchens to allow two days for the defense’s evidence, and the case was expected to go to the jury by Friday.

  After supper I went to the law office and cranked out some paperwork. I call it “supper” when I have soup in the evening. It’s “dinner” if I have steak. Sometimes I have “dinner” at noon, but on other occasions I have “lunch.” If I eat at home, the evening meal is always supper and the noon meal is always dinner. People newly arrived from the east are often confused by the way we country folk label our meals, but those of us who have lived here a few years have no trouble with the nuances. We know exactly when we’re eating lunch, dinner or supper. Anyway, I had returned to The Fremont about nine o’clock and rapped on Casey’s door, but she had evidently not returned. I tried again to no avail an hour later and gave up. I didn’t sleep worth a damn last night, unable to get my mind off of this wild spirit-creature who called herself Casey McGlaun, and it didn’t help that she was not in her room when I checked to see if we might meet up for breakfast. Mandy was returning this afternoon from her state fair excursion with George and his kids, and although I was anxious to see her, I knew it meant a return to nights at the ranch, and I began to wonder if I would ever get a glimpse of the red-headed barrister again.

  “You seem a mite preoccupied, Ian,” Will said, tugging me from my reverie.

  “My mind’s straying some,” I admitted. “Some days I’m not of this earth and this is one of them, I guess.”

  Will nodded toward the hitching rail where our horses were tied. “Better come home for a spell. Ike and Prince Albert are here.”

  Sweeney, as Celeste’s attorney, had custody of the key, and after an exchange of cool greetings, he let us in the house. Will and I slipped off our muddy boots in the foyer, and Ike looked at us like we were addled. “Celeste says there’s nothing here,” said Sweeney. “Ralph kept all of his financial papers at the bank. But we can look around. Where do you want to start?”

  “With the books.”

  “With the books? You’re not going to inventory the goddamned books? That’ll take days. Hell, I don’t even know if they belong to the estate. Celeste owns the house. I’d say the contents go with it.”

  “That’s not necessarily true, Albert, and you know it. It’s all a matter of intent. If the estate can establish Ralph paid for the books, and Celeste doesn’t have a bill of sale from him, I’d say the estate owns the books.” I winked at Will. “Wouldn’t you say so, Will?”

  “I’d say so. I’m sure there’s some case law on that point.”

  There was only one book I cared anything about, but I always took a sadistic pleasure in baiting Albert. “Let’s get started,” I said, leading the way to the library.

  Ike Bell plopped down in a chair at the library table and ran his crocodilian eyes over the book-lined walls. I doubted if he had ever seen half that many books in one place before. It was a safe bet he had not read a book in his lifetime. “Jesus Christ,” Ike said. “What in the hell does a man do with so many books?”

  Will ran his fingers reverently along the spines of the perfect covers. “I’m envious, Ian. This is an unbelievable collection. I had no idea Ralph had such a library.”

  Sweeney whined, “You’re wasting your time, Locke. These books would bring a nice price in a big city. I can’t advise Celeste to walk away from her claim to the library.”

  “Hell, Albert, you’re trying to probate a will that leaves everything to Celeste. If you’re successful, she ends up with the books anyway. Worried about your case?”

  A sneer crossed his lips. “Not in the slightest. I just expect you to leave the books out of the inventory.”

  “Will,” I said, “why don’t you take the east wall and I’ll take the west?”

  Sweeney’s brow furrowed as Will and I examined the book titles while we moved slowly along the floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases. “Are you going to make a list?” Sweeney asked.

  I didn’t respond. Momentarily, I spotted the book and removed it from the shelf. It was a tall book with an elegant leather cover. I opened it and found what I was looking for instantly. Spread across the front inside cover was a final message from Ralph Wainwright. I sat down at the table and Will joined me.

  I held up the closed book. “John Milton’s Paradise Lost and Ralph's last will.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Sweeney asked, a look of total puzzlement on his face.

  “Ralph wrote another will on the inside cover of the book. God knows I recognize his handwriting after these past few weeks. Bear with me while I read.”

  I looked at Sweeney and the sheriff and saw I had their undivided attention. I began to read slowly to properly dramatize my discovery:

  “This is my last will. I wrote out another will three days ago. I did this while Celeste Wainwright, who is really Celeste Kimball, stood beside me. I made out that will because I was being blackmailed. If I die, I don’t want that will to stand, and I hereby cancel it. I want the will I did with Ian Locke to be my will, and I want my niece, Emily Stanton, to get all of my property. I still name Ian Locke as executor. I get the last word, Celeste. Signed by me on June 4, 1884. Ralph Wainwright.”

  Sweeney slammed his fist on the table. His face had turned crimson, and I could almost see smoke blowing from his ears. “Locke, you son of a bitch, what kind of bullshit is this? Let me see that book.”

  I handed him the book and waited silently while he examined Ralph's message. After a few minutes he slid the book back down the table. “This is pure shit. How did you know about this? How do I know you didn’t write it?”

  “Albert, in open court I’ll tell you how I found out about it. For the moment, let’s just say Ralph told me. As for my writing it, you know that’s Ralph's handwriting, but either way it can be proven the same way you were going to prove the other holographic.”

  “You can’t have a will written inside a book cover,” the sheriff remarked after watching the proceedings in stony silence. He looked at Sweeney.
“Can you, Albert?”

  Sweeney ignored the sheriff’s question. A mask of sweetness now covered his face. “Well, Ian, I don’t think you have much there, but in the interest of getting this resolved, I’d be willing to convey a settlement proposal to Celeste.”

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about, Albert. Either your will is invalid because it was signed under duress, in which case the earlier will was never revoked . . . or this will is a new holographic will that cancels the previous holographic will. Either way, you and Celeste lose.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Sweeney blustered.

  I handed the book to Will. “We’ve all seen what’s in this book, so we’re taking it with us. We’ll be filing it in the county court with proper pleadings tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think so, Ian,” said Ike Bell, his chest swelling like a proud rooster’s. “I’m the law here. I’m going to take custody of this evidence.”

  “You don’t have the authority, Ike. If the judge ordered you to be here, show me the signed writ. I assume you came at Albert’s request, and I’ve got to tell you this troubles me some. It makes me wonder about Albert’s judgment.”

  Bell bristled. “Just what in the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Ralph wrote that he was blackmailed into making the second will. I’ve had an audit made at the bank, and I’m wondering if he was paying off another blackmailer.”

  The sheriff said nothing. Sweeney, visibly irritated since this session at the Wainwright house had delivered nothing but bad news, said, “What are you getting at Locke? I don’t see what this has got to do about anything.”

  I ignored Sweeney’s remark and bore in on Ike Bell. “Ike, the auditor advised me you had received over $10,000 in checks from Ralph over the past five years, and there’s a $2,000 note with the bank he never tried to collect on. I figure that’s about three times the salary you’ve gotten from the county over the same period of time. I’d say that’s damn serious money. Can you explain what you did that was worth so much?”