The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(50)

Much as I hated it, I was starting to understand how someone who didn’t know Destiny for the person she truly was, could believe there was foul play going on.

After he left the bank, Tom Nichols called on Doctor Birnbaum. The doctor, bless his heart, had nothing but nice things to say about Destiny. He told how she’d cried when he said I had cancer and how she’d been right there with me ‘till the day I died. Still, I was worried that Tom Nichols’ ears had started to close up on the good qualities of Destiny, because he zeroed in on questions about whether or not she might have exercised undue influence on me and in my state was I lucid enough to prepare a will.

“How lucid is anyone racked with the pain of pancreatic cancer?” Doctor Birnbaum asked right back at him.

I suppose it’s like having a hole in a rowboat, it’s hard to take notice of all the good planks in the boat when you’re focused in on the one with the hole.



I’m mostly to blame for what was happening to Destiny. I should have known that after the way Elliott claimed the money from the farm was rightfully his, he’d sure as certain be standing in line like a hungry wolf once I was gone. I meant to take care of things, specify exactly what my intentions were, but I always thought I had more time. Now I look back and ask myself, how long did I think I had?



On Thursday morning, Detective Tom Nichols took his report, walked down the hallway and asked to speak to Morgan Broadhurst, the Assistant District Attorney.

Under other circumstances Morgan Broadhurst may have been a pleasant enough person, but on this particular morning he had a scowl etched into his face, so deep that a person could easily believe it had been there since birth. Apparently a woman driver had rear-ended his brand new Lincoln Continental and sent a full container of coffee spilling into his lap. His trousers were dangling from a hat rack that had been moved alongside the heating vent and he was crouched behind his desk in a pair of damp boxer shorts. Anyone could see Morgan Broadhurst was just waiting for someone to cross his path.

“I’ve got an unusual situation here,” Detective Nichols said.

“Get to the point!”

“Well, the point is, I’ve got an unusual situation.”

Morgan Broadhurst grimaced. “Either you –”

“I’ve got a case where a man named Elliott Emerson is accusing his aunt’s neighbor of swindling the old woman. He claims the neighbor, Destiny Fairchild, exercised undue influence on his aunt in order to gain control of her assets.”

“Did she or didn’t she?”

“It’s not cut and dry. The nephew claims the girl has gone on a wild spending spree using his aunt’s money and she’s made no attempt to have the estate probated. The girl, on the other hand, says she was a friend of this Abigail Lannigan and she has a handwritten document that supposedly is the old woman’s last will and testament.”

“Then it’s a civil case.”

“Yes and no. The will that the Fairchild woman produced is totally illegible. It also appears that she forged Abigail Lannigan’s signature to a title transfer on the car and all of Lannigan’s bank accounts have been transferred over to Fairchild.”

“Fairchild got power of attorney?”

“Nothing official. But, she swears this Abigail Lannigan told her to do it.”

“Stop dancing around the issue. Is there an indictable offense here or not?”

“Possibly. The nephew swears up and down that she was exploiting the old woman, but I gotta say the girl comes across as pretty believable. My gut instinct is to say kick it back and let them settle their differences in a civil suit.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what your gut thinks! Is there enough evidence to indict her or not?”

“Hmm. It could be a stretch.”

“Tough shit, find a way to do it! If the press gets wind of a story where somebody’s swindled an old fart and we’re covering it up, our ass is fried! Charge the Fairchild woman with forgery, falsifying a document and exploitation of the elderly. How much money was involved?”

“One hundred thousand give or take.”

“Add grand larceny.” At that point Morgan Broadhurst stood up and strode across the office in his underwear to retrieve his trousers. He turned back to Tom Nichols and snapped, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

An uneasy feeling settled into my heart and I knew that Destiny’s streak of bad luck had not yet come to an end.



That afternoon Detective Nichols brought Destiny into the stationhouse and started rattling off some long-winded statement about how she had the right to an attorney and such.

“An attorney?” Destiny said, “Why would I want an attorney?”

“If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you…” Stone-faced, Tom Nichols went right on with what he had to say before they launched into the questioning. Right then, Destiny should have called for a lawyer, but she didn’t. Instead she sat there and answered his questions, one by one, and she peeled off a truthful answer every single time. I can say for certain those answers were the God’s honest truth because I’d been there when it happened.

“Now what exactly is your primary source of income?” Detective Nichols asked.

“I do waitressing at Aristotle’s. Thursday, Friday, Saturday.”