Requiem for a Realtor (10 page)

After lunch they counted the collection, and Marie was about to climb the back stairs to her apartment for a well-deserved nap when Phil Keegan showed up to watch a televised game with the pastor.

“You money changers finished?”

“All done,” Father Dowling said cheerfully. “I suppose you want a beer.”

“Is the Pope Polish?”

Phil mentioned another game that began at six and Father Dowling shook his head. “I have a wake, Phil.”

“That's too bad.”

“Stanley Collins,” Marie said.

“Come on.” Phil turned to Father Dowling. “Was he a parishioner?”

“The family was.”

“We're not so sure his death was an accident, Roger.”

“Come into the study, Phil.”

But Marie was not going to be cut out of this. “Why not?”

“It's a long and gory story. And inconclusive. Agnes Lamb has turned up something that suggests the accident was deliberate, and Cy thinks she may be right.”

“You mean he might have been killed?”

“Don't call the paper and television station, Marie. It may be nothing.”

“What is it?”

“Stanley was quite a ladies' man. And, of course, his wife did not approve. Agnes is thinking of that case in Texas.”

“The dentist's wife?” Marie cried.

“You probably know more about it than I do, Marie.”

“What would I know about dentists?”

“He might have been run down by his own car.”

Marie let out a little shriek, more of morbid delight than shock.

8

Amos Cadbury had grown old, distinguished, and wealthy in the practice of the law in Fox River, but now, in his eighth decade, he was disinclined to rest on his laurels. The truth was that there was often the taste of dust and ashes in his mouth. As a student at Notre Dame, he had made regular visits to the grotto, often on his way to St. Mary's College, which was reached by a road flanked by giant trees that whispered their benediction overhead, past the community cemetery where, under rows of identical crosses, the deceased members of the congregation who had given their lives to Notre Dame lay awaiting the last trump, across the highway, and onto the St. Mary's campus. Obtaining a wife from the student body of St. Mary's College was not guaranteed to every Notre Dame student, but then the enrollment numbers were disproportional. The competition for the young ladies was correspondingly fierce but civil. Amos had found his soul mate in his junior year, became formally engaged to her at graduation, and married her when he finished law school. They had lived a long and happy if fruitless marriage, but now Amos was alone, against all the actuarial tables the survivor, and long thoughts came easily to him.

As a young man, the austere ideals of the law had seemed to Amos a bulwark against disorder and chaos, and so to some degree they were. But however noble the law, lawyers and judges were men and their blindfolds were often loosened by lesser motives than justice. Now that the shadows had lengthened, he let his partners bring in new business while he himself increasingly attended to the estates of departed clients. Death did not dissolve his duty to them, and he was determined that their wills should be fulfilled. Even when, as in the case of Frederick Collins, he had not entirely approved of the provisions.

“I do not want to put a large sum of money into Stanley's hands,” Frederick had said in his soft voice, and his wife Jessica had nodded assent. “The boy is given to folly, and unless he has to earn his bread he will become foolish indeed.”

“You mean to disinherit him?”

“Oh, no. Perhaps I am simply putting off the evil day, but I do not want him to come into his inheritance until he is fifty years old.”

“Fifty years old,” Amos repeated carefully.

“Even that may be too soon.”

Amos was not completely surprised at the amount the Collinses had amassed. Frederick and Jessica had lived abstemiously and invested with imagination as well as prudence.

Amos had drawn up the will as desired, not telling Frederick that his son would almost certainly contest it when the facts were made known to him. The reading of the will occurred much sooner than the Collinses or Amos would have guessed. The suddenness of their deaths was an argument for drawing up a will in good time. With almost equal surprise, Stanley accepted his father's decision.

“It will eventually be mine, won't it, Mr. Cadbury?”

“Without any doubt. I have never drawn up a will that has been broken.”

“I'll think of it as an insurance policy.”

“Of course, it will amount to a good deal more by the time you inherit.”

Stanley was then in his late twenties, halfway to affluence. Whether he simply shared his parents' distrust of his practical wisdom or just liked the idea of a pot at the end of his personal rainbow Amos was never sure. Whatever the cause, he was glad that Stanley had not been given bad advice and attempted to break his father's will to obtain his inheritance immediately. He would have lost such an effort, Amos had no doubt of that. And so the matter had remained until two recent events.

One afternoon Maud announced that the ineffable Tuttle had shown up without an appointment and wished to discuss a mutual client with Amos Cadbury.

“A mutual client?”

Maud nodded. If nothing else, this brazen and preposterous claim piqued Amos's curiosity. There was no limit to the breaches to permissible legal conduct that Tuttle could devise.

“I will see him.”

Tuttle had removed his tweed hat before coming in, and his unbuttoned topcoat flapped about him like a seedy academic gown. Amos bowed at a chair and Tuttle collapsed into it.

“I believe you represent Stanley Collins.”

Amos gave the slightest of nods but remained silent.

“So do I.”

There was a note of triumph in Tuttle's voice, and given what he went on to say, Amos could not begrudge it to him. If the scruffy little lawyer was right, Stanley Collins had finally grown impatient waiting for his inheritance and had decided to go to a lawyer about it. It pained Amos that Stanley had not spoken to him first.

Tuttle said, “He wanted to come to you himself, but I advised against it.”

“It might have saved a good deal of time.”

“I have read the will.”

“It cannot be broken, Tuttle. I assure you of that.”

Tuttle lifted a hand. “I wouldn't suggest that, not in a million years. I have another proposal.”

The proposal was that Amos arrange for regular payments to Stanley to be charged against his eventual inheritance.

“You want me to break the will myself?”

“It's a matter of interpretation.”

“When I draw up a will, Mr. Tuttle, I take pains that ‘interpretation,' as you call it, will be kept to a minimum. The will contains the wishes of my clients, stated as clearly as could be, and in a completely unequivocal fashion. For me to do as you suggest would be to flaunt the wishes of a client.”

“You're trustee of the money, aren't you?”

This, too, was a matter of public knowledge. “Yes.”

“The amount must have grown over the years.”

“I would be a poor trustee if it hadn't.”

“So, just considering the money that has been made since the will was drawn up—”

Cadbury stopped him. Even to discuss such sharp practice was painful to him. He stood.

“Thank you, Mr. Tuttle, for coming to see me.”

“I may be back.”

Amos smiled. In a well-ordered world Tuttle would have been disbarred long ago. The fact that Stanley Collins had gone to such a man seemed to corroborate his parents' estimate of his intelligence. Nonetheless, it was irksome that Stanley had not come to him to discuss his discontents.

*   *   *

It was the following week that David Jameson had called for an appointment. Maud was suggesting a date some months in the future, but Amos passing through the outer office happened to overhear. When he glanced at the name Maud had jotted down, he indicated that he would take the phone.

“Dr. Jameson? Amos Cadbury. How might I help you?”

He arranged to see Jameson the following morning. There was a woman with him.

“Is this Mrs. Jameson?”

This simple question threw both Jameson and his companion into consternation. She began to identify herself, speaking to Maud, and Jameson himself said that that was why they had come to him. Now Amos was himself confused and not a little curious. He got them settled into chairs and sat looking receptively at them. Maud had withdrawn.

“Mrs. Collins has come to me and told me a number of things and I offered to accompany her here. It has to do with her husband's inheritance.”

“I see.”

“She is a patient of mine.”

Amos nodded. Mrs. Collins simpered. Something about their togetherness caused Amos unease. Why would a dentist bring a patient to a lawyer to discuss her husband's inheritance? The reason eventually emerged. Mrs. Collins was afraid that her husband was contemplating divorce.

“Where does that put me?”

“I don't understand.”

“Stanley always made a big thing of the money awaiting him. Sometimes I think it kept us together.” She said this without embarrassment. “If he should divorce me…”

“His inheritance is not due to come to him for some time.”

“She would be cut off?” Jameson asked.

“She could hardly be cut off from what is not yet in possession of her husband.”

“I wouldn't get a dime,” Mrs. Collins cried. “I knew it.”

“Now Phyllis.” Jameson turned to Amos. “There must be some way in which she can lay claim to some portion of the money that was in effect promised her from the time she married.”

“You are not a lawyer, Dr. Jameson, or you would not imagine such an imperative.”

He spelled it out. Take a couple who divorced. Some years later, one or the other came into a sum of money. That money could hardly be regarded as part of any settlement since at the time of divorce, ex hypothesi, it did not belong to the person in question. He explained this again, in several ways, but the lay mind is ill equipped to understand that the law does not obey what the lay mind regards as common sense.

“Have you no advice at all?”

Amos hesitated, then launched into the deep. “Reconcile with your husband, Mrs. Collins. Chase thoughts of divorce from his mind. In a few years…”

She burst into angry tears. With an effort and after several unsuccessful attempts, Jameson got her to her feet and led her to the door.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Cadbury,” he said.

“Thanks for nothing,” cried Phyllis Collins.

When they were gone, Maud looked in, but Amos waved her wearily away. He turned in his chair and looked out at the skyline of Fox River. Mark Twain told the story of how his family had been ruined by pinning their hopes constantly on some land in Tennessee that would eventually come their way. Had Frederick Collins unwittingly done the same to his son? And to his ill-tempered little wife toward whom David Jameson exhibited such considerate tenderness?

The following week Stanley Collins was run down by a car. Amos considered it a professional obligation to attend the wake and funeral. An obligation to old Frederick Collins, whose own joint funeral with his wife had been such a fiasco.

9

Cy Horvath told his wife he was going to attend Stanley Collins's wake.

“Who's he?”

“He sold us this house.”

“You want to make sure he's dead?”

“I thought you liked this house.”

“Just kidding.”

“He's dead all right. I was there for the autopsy.”

“Ugh.”

“You don't have to go.”

“Neither do you.”

“I know.”

“I don't even remember what he looks like.”

So he went alone to McDivitt's and took a seat in back. It was a pretty good turnout. Someone sat down beside him, and he was surprised to see it was Joe Perzel. Joe punched his arm and tried to look solemn.

“Night off, Joe?”

“I work days.”

“I thought you were a cop.”

Joe groaned. It was an old joke, and a bad one. “Where does your dad work?” “He doesn't work. He's a cop.”

“There's Keegan.”

And so it was. He came in with Father Dowling and McDivitt. McDivitt stopped just inside the door. Father Dowling continued to the prie-dieu in front of the open coffin. Phil noticed Cy and Perzel and joined them, grunting as he sat. Then the rosary began.

The rosary takes fifteen minutes in such circumstances, the priest saying the first half of the prayers, everyone else doing the second half. Five mysteries. Phil had fished a rosary from his pocket, Cy kept count on his fingers, Perzel seemed to be dozing. Usually when Cy came to a wake it was to check out the crowd because they were working on a case. Well, maybe Stanley Collins was a case. Not that there was a big chance they would find the one who ran him down. Probably some car thief who had panicked and then returned the car where he had found it. Cy thought about it. Somewhere someone was sweating it out, wondering if he would be tracked down. It happened. Some nosey neighbor notices the damage to his car, or the culprit made the mistake of taking it in too soon for repair and a mechanic put two and two together. Except in this case, they had the car and it belonged to Stanley Collins. Even so, whoever had driven it would be a nervous wreck.

The widow was in the front row, in black, a miniskirt. One of those gauzy black things over her head. Mantilla. Who was the guy next to her? Cy whispered the question to Phil.

“A dentist named Jameson.”

“Like the whiskey?”

“I guess.”

Well, he was a tall drink of water, anyway. Most of the people Cy didn't know, and that seemed an excuse for sticking around afterward. Phil seemed to know a lot of them. Of course, Cy knew Amos Cadbury.