Little Girls(20)

“The will is straightforward,” Cushing said. He spoke with the charisma of a frat boy, with one corner of his mouth turned up into a sardonic grin. “Being the only living relative, Mrs. Genarro, he left pretty much everything to you. You’ve got the house and the property, the items inside the house, and the remaining money in his bank account.”

Cushing slid a stack of paper across his desk to Laurie. She took it and looked at it. The numbers on the printout made her dizzy.

“There were no outstanding debts in your father’s name at the time of his death, although there is still some money owed to the Mid-Atlantic Homecare Services. It isn’t much—it’s all there in the paperwork—and that will be taken off the top.” Cushing reclined in his chair. “As you probably know, the house had been paid off years ago. The only real bills he had, aside from the monthly payments to his homecare service, were for food, utilities, insurance premiums, property tax, and the like. There’s ten thousand dollars in his savings account after the payout to the homecare provider and another two thousand or so in checking. Some of that will go toward covering some of the medical bills when they come in, but your father had Medicare, so it shouldn’t be too much.”

“What medical bills?” Ted asked. “I thought he died instantly in the fall.”

“Well, sure . . . but there were paramedics, an ambulance, and all the stuff that goes along with it. The police report details all of that.”

Laurie blinked. “There was a police report, too?”

“Of course,” said Cushing. “As well as a coroner’s report. You never received it?”

In unison, both Laurie and Ted said, “No.”

“I apologize. My assistant should have told you,” Cushing said, playing with his sparkly gold watch.

“I never spoke with your assistant,” Laurie told him. She rolled the papers into a cone and held it in her lap. “I just didn’t realize there had been police involved. I guess it should have occurred to me. . . .”

“I don’t understand. We were told it was a suicide,” Ted cut in. “What’s the purpose of a coroner’s report? He broke his neck in the fall, didn’t he?”

Cushing displayed the palms of his hands in a lazy shrug. “It isn’t unusual in cases where there is an untimely death.”

Untimely, Laurie thought. Her feet felt cold in her shoes. My father jumped out a window.

“Please don’t be concerned about any medical costs. They will be minimal, as I’ve said.” Cushing looked at a printout he had on his ink blotter. “Besides,” he went on, “the real worth is in the house itself. I had my secretary run some comps on houses in the area. Your father’s place has been assessed at seven hundred thousand dollars.”

“Wait,” Ted said, leaning forward in his chair. “What?”

“Seven hundred thousand dollars,” Cushing repeated. His dark, sculpted eyebrows arched. “Back before the housing market crashed you could have put it on the block for closer to eight, but what with the status of the economy at the moment. . .” Cushing seesawed one hand to illustrate the instability of the current housing market.

Ted gaped at the man. Then he turned his ridiculous gaze onto Laurie. She smiled at him without much emotion, then looked back down at the rolled up papers in her lap. She feared she would burst out laughing if she kept staring at the flabbergasted look on Ted’s face.

“I’ve already filed the will with the probate court on your behalf,” Cushing said.

“Thank you,” Laurie said. She glanced at Ted again and saw him smiling as he looked out one of the office windows.

“You mentioned your desire to liquidate your father’s remaining assets,” Cushing said. “The items in the house, for example.”

Laurie nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ve contacted a liquidator I’ve worked with a number of times in the past. She’s quite good.”

“That’s good,” Laurie said, although she had no idea what was involved in being “quite good” at selling a dead man’s things. Was it any different than having a yard sale? When Laurie’s mother had died, her aunts had taken care of the details. This was all new to her.

“She’ll take thirty percent of the proceeds, which you’ll find is standard. Of course, you’re more than welcome to find someone else if you want to. Or to sell the stuff yourself, if that’s more amenable to you. However, given the circumstances, most family members don’t have the wherewithal to oversee such an undertaking, so I usually assist.”

Ted nodded. “Okay. We’ve never done this before.”

“I can have the liquidator contact you folks directly. Or, if you prefer, you can contact her.” Cushing flipped through a rolodex, then presented Ted with a business card. “Her name is Stephanie Canton.”

“All right,” Ted said, looking at the card.

“Bored,” Susan said from the back of the office.

“Hush down,” Laurie told her from over one shoulder.

The corner of David Cushing’s mouth tugged up a bit higher. “Cute kid,” he said. Then he pointed at the business card in Ted’s hand. Laurie could see that Cushing’s fingernails had been recently manicured. “Stephanie’s a peach. She’ll be able to answer any of the questions you good folks might have. I’m sure you’ve got quite a few.”