“Well, Ms. Stuart, congratulations to you,” Falcone said, extending his chubby manicured fingers.
She fake-coughed so she didn’t have to touch the bastard.
“This probate process has been at times hotly contested,” he said, smiling, “but I must say you have played fair and square.”
Unlike you! she thought.
“You understand, of course, that as executor for the estate, I was required to employ rather stern protective measures.”
Like murder.
“You can also appreciate that the Radford estate is quite vast and complex and requires great experience in coordinating all its disciplines cost-effectively. My managerial team and I are really the only ones conversant with all its complexities … know where all the bodies are buried so to speak.”
He grinned his eyes into puffy slits which made him look like a fat python.
“In brief, I would suggest that your interests can be best served if my highly experienced team continues managing your vast estate – but under your direction.” Another grin.
She stared at him, speechless, amazed at his blind arrogance. Did he not see, or even feel, the incredible rage she felt toward him? Did the idiot actually think he could continue managing the estate?
Beside her, Quinn looked ready to punch out Falcone. She placed her hand on Quinn’s to calm him, but it didn’t help.
“Mr. Falcone …” Ellie said.
“Yes?”
“Let me be clear.”
“Please do …”
“You are about as likely to continue handling this estate as angels are to fly out of your ass!”
Falcone fell backward as though she whacked him with a Louisville Slugger.
“Mr. Delacroix, if he wishes to, will manage the estate.”
Delacroix smiled at Falcone.
“But – ”
“Effective immediately!” she said, feeling her rage mushroom. She looked at Quinn and Delacroix who grinned back.
Falcone took another step back, looking shocked, like he couldn’t possibly imagine what he’d done wrong.
Delacroix leaned over and said, “Mr. Falcone, I’ll call you this afternoon to facilitate the transfer of all estate documents and files.”
“I’ll need a few days to – ”
“We’ll be at your office in one hour, Mr. Falcone. Our team will immediately assist your team in this transition … you know … to make sure nothing falls between the cracks.”
“I’ll help too,” Quinn said, moving toward Falcone.
Ellie stepped in front of Quinn, surprised at his fury. She’d never seen him this angry.
Falcone backed up a few more steps, clearly stunned by the turn of events. Red-faced, he waddled back to his table where he stuffed papers into his briefcase, snapped it shut and huffed off toward the door.
“Mr. Falcone …!” Judge Shue said, putting down his cell phone.
“Yes …?”
“Please remain here.”
“But your honor, I have very important business – ”
“You have more important business right here right now!”
Ellie was surprised at the judge’s stern tone.
“I’d like everyone in my chambers now, please.”
SEVENTY SEVEN
Ellie, Henri Delacroix, Quinn, and Fletcher Falcone followed Judge Shue into his chambers. The judge still looked upset, angry even, and Ellie wondered why.
He settled in behind his polished oak desk stacked with long legal folders while everyone else sat in faded leather chairs, facing him. On the walls, Ellie saw his family pictures, a University of Kentucky football team photo, and pictures of the Judge with Colonel Sanders, George W. Bush, Barack Obama and Roy Rogers.
Judge Shue cleared his throat. “Minutes ago in this chamber, Mr. Roy Klume, a DNA scientist at Southern Genetics Laboratory, signed an affidavit stating that a man named Huntoon Leroy Harris, an ex-felon, threatened Mr. Klume’s wife and daughters with grievous bodily harm unless Mr. Klume altered the DNA test of Ms. Ellie Stuart so that her DNA did not match Leland Radford’s DNA. Acting under that threat, Mr. Klume altered that DNA test and subsequent tests in that way.”
The judge picked up another paper.
“Huntoon Harris was also identified by a gardener at The Pines estate the same evening Ms. Irene Whitten was attacked and stabbed there. Mr. Harris was seen leaving in an plumbing van, even though no plumbing work was done there that day.”
The judge sipped some water.
“Also the court learned that Mr. Harris’s phone records indicate that he called you Mr. Falcone on a throwaway phone purchased by your firm, Falcone & Partners. He called several times during the days the DNA tests were falsified, immediately after he phoned your Radford financial manager, a Mr. Heinrich De Groot. However your secretary, Ms. Ramada Tomkins, said that neither Mr. De Groot, or you, or any of your offices has ever done any legal work for Huntoon Harris. This suggests that conversations between you and Mr. Harris were of a private nature, and in view of Mr. Harris’s extensive criminal record, one might even surmise, of a less than legal nature, perhaps even a felonious nature.”
“I can explain – ”
“ – explain later!”
Ellie noticed that the judge’s neck was bright red and a vein puffed up at his temple. He squeezed a football-shaped glass paperweight like he wanted to bounce it off Falcone’s head, which, she noticed, was dotted with perspiration.
“Huntoon Harris also phoned Mr. De Groot several times during the DNA-falsifying time frame. Mr. De Groot then phoned your office, Mr. Falcone. One might conclude he was updating you.”
“But your honor I –”
The Judge’s phone rang. He took the call, listened a minute and hung up.
“Police are now questioning Mr. De Groot who is most eager to cooperate and talk with authorities about everything.”
Falcone slumped down in his chair and stared at the floor, his face chalk white.
“And finally, Mr. Harris was arrested two hours ago. He also wants a plea deal. He affirms that you, Mr. Falcone, and only you, were behind all decisions with regard to Mr. Radford’s estate. In brief, it seems that everyone’s talking about you Mr. Falcone, except you.”
Ellie thought Falcone looked ill, his face dripped with perspiration and he sopped it up with a handkerchief.
“Do you have anything to say, Mr. Falcone?”
“I want legal counsel.”
“Wise decision in light of the prosecutor’s decision to charge you now with conspiracy to falsify the DNA tests, and far more serious crimes based on Mr. Harris’s and Mr. De Groot’s new affidavits.”
The judge pushed a button on his desk and a side door clicked open. Ellie recognized the county prosecutor and district attorney, and two detective types who walked over to Falcone.
Ellie listened with amazement as the tall gray-haired prosecutor read the long list of felony charges against Falcone, which seemed to include everything except parakeet abuse. A detective read Falcone his rights, cuffed his puffy wrists, and perp-walked him from the judge’s chambers.
Judge Emmett Vincent Shue stood and then smiled.
“Ellie, I’m absolutely delighted that you’ve identified your biological father and mother. Your dad and I were good friends and fellow Kentucky Colonels. He was one of the most decent and kind men I’ve known. You would have been proud of him, Ellie. And I know he would be very proud of you. When you get time, please call, or visit and I’ll give your some photos I have of him.”
Ellie felt tears forming. “I’d love that very much, your Honor.”
SEVENTY EIGHT
SIX MONTHS LATER
MARTINIQUE
Ellie felt like she was riding a bongo stick as she and Quinn bounced around in the back seat of the ancient Peugeot taxi. From the rearview mirror swung a purple voodoo doll. Beyond the voodoo doll, stood the 5,000-foot Mount Pelee volcano, steady as a rock, unlike 1902 when it shook and exploded, sp
ewing burning lava down on the town of Saint-Pierre, killing 30,000 men, women and children.
Their taxi driver, Antoine, an elderly mulatto with an eye patch, raced along the narrow mountain road, hugging curves like a Grand Prix driver.
Their American Airlines flight landed at Martinique Aimé Césaire International Airport near the capital city, Fort-de-France. She’d read that Martinique was an integral part of France that had evolved over the centuries into a mixed salad of French, British, Asian, Indian, African and indigenous people, a charming blend of people …
… like my charming, beautiful mother, Jacqueline Moreau.
In minutes, I’ll meet her parents, my grandparents and my extended family now. Ellie could barely contain her excitement and prayed they understood her rusty high school French.
They drove past colorful homes: yellow, pink, white, tan. Beautiful shades, like the islanders themselves. She smelled curry and wondered if someone was cooking Colombo, the island’s famous chicken curry spiced with Indian masala. It smelled delicious.
Ellie’s cell phone rang. She saw Jessica Bishop on Caller ID.
“Hey Jessie, what’s up?”
“I just got back your father’s genetic test results, the test to determine early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
Ellie felt her stomach clench.
“You want the results?”
“I’m not sure -”
“ – it’s good news, girlfriend!” Jessica said. “Your father did not have the Presinelin 1 or Presinelin 2 genes, nor did he have the APOE-4 gene, or the other genetic markers for early-onset Alzheimer’s. So your memory should remain sharp!”
“That’s great news … Bernice.”
“Smart ass! Call me when you get back.”
“I will, Jessie, and thanks.”
They hung up. She told Quinn the wonderful news and he hugged her.
Antoine drove around a sharp turn as Quinn’ phone rang. He answered, listened a few minutes, nodding some, looking serious, then pleased, then flat out amazed. Finally, he hung up and looked at her.
“That was your fantastic probate attorney.”
“What’d Mr. Delacroix say?”
“That justice has triumphed!”
“How?”
“Fletcher Falcone, Huntoon Harris, and Heinrich de Groot have been convicted for the murder of Mary Louise Breen, the woman who knew your mother well at the House of Grace.”
Ellie again felt sickened by Mary’s death.
“De Groot and Falcone ordered Huntoon Harris to suffocate Mary in her sleep because she knew Leland Radford was your father and they feared she’d tell someone. Police lifted Huntoon’s fingerprints from Mary’s bed frame.”
“Also, Falcone, Huntoon, and De Groot were convicted of the attempted murders of Irene Whitten and the U of L student whose name is spelled similarly to yours. By the way, both the student and Irene are fully recovered.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Bottom line – Falcone, Huntoon, and De Groot were sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.”
“Justice served.”
“Yeah, but many jurors and Mary’s relatives felt Huntoon and Falcone deserved the death penalty.”
“Understandable.”
“And prophetic.”
“What?”
“Their wish was granted. As police led Falcone away from the courthouse, a sniper fired several bullets into his throat and chest. Falcone rolled down into a large drainage ditch face first and sank in three feet of oily sludge. Before they could hoist him out, he’d gagged and choked to death on the muddy gunk!”
“Jesus! Who shot him?”
Quinn shrugged. “The sniper escaped. But the police suspect it’s a mob hit. Falcone had refused to pay his massive horseracing and gambling debts. Not smart. But it’s also possible Fletcher’s own cousin hired the sniper.”
“His cousin?”
“Guy named BoDeene. Years ago Fletcher gave cousin Bodeene the money to start a methamphetamine lab beneath BoDeene’s fertilizer store. When Bodeene found out that Uncle Fletcher had embezzled over four million dollars from him, cousin Bodeene swore revenge.”
Ellie shook her head, amazed again at how badly she’d misread Falcone.
Antoine slowed the taxi to let some goats cross the road.
“Falcone also lied to the court about Nafeesa Hakim. He knew her marriage claim was fraudulent, but petitioned it as though legitimate. He promised her some money, while he would retain control of the estate money. She went along, because her family was starving.”
Ellie nodded. “Where’s Nafeesa now?”
“Back in Iraq.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Barely surviving. Henri Delacroix learned that she and Rick Radford had been very close. Rick supported her and her war-impoverished family. They were talking about marriage when he was killed.”
“I feel sorry for Nafeesa.”
“Me too. She’s a victim of a crazy war.”
“Our war,” Ellie said. “A war that killed her family and destroyed her family’s business and savings and then forced her onto the streets to feed her family.”
“War is hell, Ellie.”
“But she didn’t start this one. And she obviously cared deeply for Rick, my half-brother, who obviously cared for her. I’d like to talk to her about Rick. Maybe get to know him through her. And I’d like to help her. You said her family business was ruined?”
“Totally ruined. Furniture store. Direct hit by a bomb aimed at an al Qaeda weapons garage one hundred feet away. The insurance company refused to pay.”
“Why?”
“The Act of War exclusion. Left her family penniless.”
Ellie couldn’t begin to imagine the suffering and pain Nafeesa and her family had experienced.
“Let’s rebuild her business. And set up a trust fund for her and her family. I’d like to get to know her.”
Quinn nodded and placed his hand on hers.
“I’ll ask Henri Delacroix to handle it.”
SEVENTY NINE
“Nous arrivons. We arrive,” Antoine the taxi driver said, honking and scattering the chickens off the gravel driveway.
Ellie opened the taxi window and breathed in the sweet scent of sandalwood and spice. Though the palm trees, she saw a small, older wood house nestled in the nook of a hill. The pastel yellow home had blue shutters and an orange tile roof that sloped down over a porch that wrapped around the entire home. She noticed a few missing roof tiles, some patched window screens and a garage with peeling paint.
Beyond the house, the sunny Caribbean glistened like spilled liquid cobalt.
On the porch, a tall, gray-haired man and woman got up from their rocking chairs and waved toward the taxi. Next to them stood some middle aged couples, teenagers, wide-eyed toddlers and two hounds sleeping in the sun.
She was looking at a very large family. Her family! The kind she’d always wanted to be part of.
“Your tribe awaits you.” Quinn said.
“Yes, but I speak French like a three-year old. How’s your French?”
He smiled. “Pre-natal.”
Ellie gave Antoine a huge tip and he merci beaucouped several times as she and Quinn stepped from the taxi. They turned toward the elderly, smiling woman hurrying toward them in a flowery red dress. Ellie knew from emailed photos that this woman was her grandmother, Maudette Moreau, now in her seventies.
Ellie embraced her grandmother as her grandmother kissed Ellie’s cheeks three times. Ellie’s eyes filled with tears.
“Ma chère, Ellie, my … how you say … grand daughter.”
“Grandmère, I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
“Me too. You look … tu ressembles à ta mère.”
“I resemble my mother?”
“Oui! Oui! Like your mama. Your eyes! Your hair!”
Her tall Grandfather, Francois, embraced her and said, “Welcome, Ellie … to your Martinique family.”
She was quickly surrounded by smiling relatives including her Aunt Claude and Uncle Samuel, cousins ZooZoo and Gaspard, and beautiful young Nina.
Ellie felt like the prodigal granddaughter returning home. She also felt an overwhelming sense of being welcomed into the family … being accepted by them … even belonging … and it all felt wonderful.
Thanks to Nina’s excellent English, Ellie quickly learned how decades ago, her great-grandparents fell in love with the island so much they moved here from a village in Batilly-en-Puisaye, France.
Ellie also learned that her mother Jacqueline, at age twenty, had witnessed the rape and murder of a deaf girl. Jacqueline testified against the murderer despite death threats against her. The man was sentenced to life in prison, but his brother swore revenge on Jacqueline and on two occasions almost killed her. Fearing he’d succeed, Jacqueline’s parents sent her to America.
In the beginning, she was homesick. But soon her letters explained how she was falling in love with La Kentucky. A year later, she was falling in love with Le Kentuckian – the man she worked for, a kind widower named Leland Radford.
“Monsieur Radford, he is your father, yes?”
“Yes.”
“She love him beaucoup.”
Ellie smiled. “And he loved her beaucoup.”
That night everyone celebrated with a delicious feast of Côtes de Veau au Fromage and local delicacies. The next three days were a festival of delightful family stories, more mouth-watering French and Creole meals, all washed down with several bottles of bon vins rouge de Martinique, good red Martinique wines and local rum. Ellie offered to fly the entire family to Kentucky for Le Grand American Thanksgiving. Everyone said they’d try to come.
The next day, many of them accompanied Quinn and her to Martinique Aimé Césaire International Airport.
After tearful hugs, Ellie and Quinn got in line at the security check. She then turned around and nodded to the silver-haired attorney she’d met with yesterday.
Kentucky Woman Page 24