The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(20)
“Do you know where Destiny Fairchild came from? The state? City?”
“I couldn’t even venture a guess,” Elliott answered. “For all anybody knows, she’s an escaped convict on the run!”
I noticed how Detective Nichols had started penciling in a bunch of interlocked boxes along the margin of the yellow pad. It seemed the more Elliott talked, the less the detective was inclined to write down.
“Can you give me a physical description of the woman? Height? Weight? The color of her hair? Eyes?”
One week after Will’s funeral, Elliott telephoned me. “Being the only other Lannigan heir,” he said, “I was wondering when there is going to be a reading of my great uncle’s will.”
Of course, I was missing Will something fierce and feeling pretty blue to begin with, but the sound of that man’s voice edged me into a downright foul mood. “Stop pestering me,” I told him.
“Well, Aunt Abigail, there’s a sizeable estate involved here, and my grandmother told me that Lannigan property is always passed along to the eldest male. As you know, I’m the one and only remaining male in the Lannigan family.”
“You’re no Lannigan! Shit, you’re a Baptist! Papa would roll over in his grave if Will ever left one nickel of his money to a Baptist!”
“But,” Elliott stammered, “you said…”
“I lied!” I slammed the received down so hard it probably made his ears ring.
At that point I thought I might be rid of that nuisance, but no, two weeks later I get a call from this lawyer who claims to be representing Mister Elliott Emerson.
“Oh, really?” I said. “And just what does that have to do with me?”
“My client has grave concerns,” Mister Binkerman said, that was the lawyer’s name, August J. Binkerman. “Grave concerns, regarding the distribution of assets belonging to your late brother, one William Matthew Lannigan.”
“Anything that belonged to my brother is none of Mister Emerson’s concern.”
“Mister Emerson feels differently. He believes that William Lannigan left a will which has not yet been submitted to the court for probate.”
“Listen here, Mister Binkerman,” I told him, “you’ve no cause to say such a thing. First off, I don’t even know if my brother had a will. Second off, Elliott is not real family and my brother knew it.”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand, Miss Lannigan, Mister Emerson is not accusing you of anything. He’s simply questioning whether you might need help in bringing such a document to probate.”
“Elliott, helpful?”
“Yes, indeed. He’s quite prideful of his Lannigan heritage.”
“Lannigan heritage, my foot! My brother came into some money, that’s what brought Elliott Emerson knocking at his door!”
“Mister Emerson can establish the authenticity of his bloodline, so I hardly think the fact that your brother realized a profit from the family farm means—”
“Related or not, my brother wouldn’t have left a dime to a conniver like Elliott.”
“Well, we can’t know that for certain unless there is a will.”
By the time I hung up the receiver, my blood was boiling; and off I went, hell-bent on sorting through every sheet of paper packed away in my garage. After Becky died, Will didn’t much care what happened to anything, “Do as you want,” he told me. So, I hired a bunch of movers to come in and pack up their personal effects; then I shipped most of the furniture off to The Salvation Army. I didn’t get rid of Mama’s sewing cabinet and some other things that brought to mind pretty good memories.
I certainly could have used Destiny’s help in going through that stuff; but, she didn’t move into the Meyerson place until the following summer so I was on my own. It took almost four weeks to sort through all those boxes; probably because when I’d happen upon one thing or another I’d get to thinking about the farm and the happy times we had before Mama died. When that happened, I’d set that box aside, fix myself a cup of tea and visit with my memories for a while. I’d never realized Becky was such a saver but she’d held on to most everything—even those old storybooks Mama would read from. The day I came upon a tattered old copy of Grimm’s Fairytales I sat there all afternoon leafing through the crinkled pages and hearing the stories in Mama’s voice.
It was the first of April, when I found the flowered box tied with a pink ribbon. It was sort of frilly-looking, the kind of box where you’d expect to find things like gloves and lace hankies, but instead it was filled with papers and sealed up envelopes. Right on the top was a blue envelope marked Abigail Anne. I could have sworn it was Papa’s handwriting, but of course there was no way of knowing for sure. I opened that envelope first and found a gold wedding ring—a tiny narrow band, plain as could be and probably just like a million others; but I knew it was Mama’s. I could picture the way she’d fidget with that ring when she was fretting about something—one hand folded over the other, twisting the ring round and round on her finger. Holding her ring in my hand I realized how slender my mama’s fingers must have been. Mama had always seemed bigger than life to me, strong and powerful, like she could move a mountain if she had to; but here was her ring, too small to fit my pinky. Even though she’d been gone for over sixty-five years, seeing that ring made me miss Mama so much that I just sat there bawling like a baby. I’ll admit it’s pretty strange, an old woman crying over something like that; but it don’t matter how old you get—your mama’s always gonna be your mama. That day I’d have given everything I owned just to have my Mama hug me one more time.