The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(53)

“Sorry,” Charles mumbled, the rim of his right ear turning red.

“Cream soda?” Destiny smiled, “Why, that’s one of my favorites!”

A few minutes later, Grace, a pair of yellow bedroom slippers on her feet, shuffled into the office and set a can of soda and a straw in front of each of them. “Here you go, honey,” she said, then shuffled back out.

If Charles McCallum had known Destiny as I did, he might not have felt the need to apologize, but as it was, he said, “Please excuse Gracie, she’s new to the business.” What he didn’t mention was the fact that Gracie was his aunt – someone he’d hired out of sympathy after her husband died, someone who couldn’t type a letter without at least seven mistakes, someone who would have no reason to get up each morning if it weren’t for her job. A kindness such as that was enough to make me start liking the young lawyer.

Not long after that, they got down to business and Destiny told Charles the entire story, including the part about how I wrote my intentions on a scrap of paper and stuck it in the nightstand drawer. “Miss Abigail was always doing nice things –” she said, and then she stopped talking for a few seconds and snuffled, like a person trying to hold back a river slide of tears.

When she finished the story, Charles McCallum smiled and said, “Miss Lannigan sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She really was,” Destiny replied, and pulled another tissue from her pocket.

“Emerson,” Charles asked, “he’s the nephew who filed a complaint against you?”

“Yes.”

“But, didn’t you say he’s not actually related to Miss Lannigan?”

“That’s what Miss Abigail said, but –” Destiny shrugged and spread open her palms as if to signify she had no knowledge of the true answer. “Miss Abigail was the only Lannigan I ever knew,” she went on, “so how can I say for sure whether or not there were any other Baptists in the family.”

“Baptists?”

Destiny started explaining how I told her Elliott couldn’t be a Lannigan because he was a Baptist – and as I listened to her giving voice to such a silly thing, I felt my toes curl. Preacher Broody always said the Lord didn’t hold with lying or trickery and those who did would someday suffer. Of course, it would be a lot fairer if I was the one suffering; but it was beginning to seem as though Destiny would be held accountable for my doings. See, all along Elliott was just pretending to be a Baptist to get hold of Will’s money, I knew that, but never said so.

When she finished telling the tale, Mister McCallum asked, “Is that the only reason for believing him to be unrelated?”

Destiny shrugged again.

“What about his lineage?”

“His what?”

Charles rephrased the question. “Did he and Miss Lannigan have any common ancestors? People related to them both?”

“He claimed his great granddaddy was Miss Abigail’s daddy, but she said you couldn’t believe nothing that came from Elliott.”

“It does sound preposterous,” Charles said. “If such a thing were true it would cover an extensive period of time.”

“Elliott said his grandma, Margaret Louise, was the first born child of old Mister Lannigan and Abigail Anne was the very last. Of course, they had different mamas.”

“Of course,” Charles repeated, but a blind person could see the confusion swirling around his brain. “Did Abigail Lannigan know Elliott’s grandmother?”

“No. Margaret Louise was a whole lot older than Miss Abigail.”

“Was there ever any proof that this Margaret Louise was actually a Lannigan?”

“Uh-huh.” Destiny nodded. “Her name’s written in the family bible.”

“Did Miss Lannigan ever say anything about that?”

Destiny hesitated a moment and grinned – I knew she was remembering back to what I’d told her. “Yes, she said it didn’t make a bean of difference where the woman’s name was written, she still didn’t believe Elliott was related to the Lannigans.”

“This family bible, who has it?”

“I do. Well, at least I did. It’s at Miss Abigail’s house. I used to go there and tidy up once a week, but the detective said it would be better if I stayed away, until the question of ownership is resolved.”

Charles McCallum was starting to knit his brows together like a man with some concerns. “Which detective?” he asked. Destiny told him it was Tom Nichols; he made note of the name then asked if she had the will Miss Lannigan had written.

“A copy of it,” she answered and started rummaging through her purse. “Mister Nichols has the original.” She handed Charles a folded sheet of paper.

“Hmmm,” he mused eyeing it, “this didn’t copy very well.”

“Yes, it did,” she said innocently, “That’s how it looks.”

“It is?”

Destiny nodded.

He angled the paper, squinted at it sideways, then glanced across the desk like a man who suspects he’s the butt of a joke. Destiny wasn’t laughing. He went back to the paper and studied it for a full minute trying to make sense of a page of chicken scratch – a roadmap of scribbles, not a single word legible, not even the signature. Finally he asked, “Do you have anything else? Any other documents?”