The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(73)



Four-hundred and twenty-six people crowded into the library for her retirement party – many were parents who came to the library as youngsters and then returned with their own children, so that they might also listen to the magical tales of Miss Abigail. The Mayor came along with two City Councilmen, one of whom was a woman.

Abigail, who by that time had to rely on a pair of spectacles to distinguish one face from the other, searched the room, still hoping to catch a glimpse of a tall dark-haired man lingering at the side of the crowd, waiting for a chance to step back into her life. Although she knew that by now, his hair was probably silver and his shoulders stooped as hers, Abigail still pictured him as he had been the day he walked through the library door and asked to see a city map.

In all the time they’d been together, there had been only one photograph of the two of them together – a grainy souvenir photo taken by the girl at the Tivoli Restaurant. In it, John’s arm was draped over Abigail’s shoulder and they smiled at each other like lovers with no fear of the future. That photograph was on Abigail Lannigan’s bedside stand the day she died.





The Blind Eye of Justice



2001



Herbert J. Hoggman, the lawyer Elliott retained to prosecute the civil case, was wide as a house and constantly belching – but a man rumored to be cutthroat in matters of litigation. The interrogatories started six weeks after the civil complaint was filed in Dalton County Probate Court. From the moment Mister Hoggman opened his mouth, you’d know whether he had eaten pastrami, pizza or banana blintzes for lunch because a rolling burp came with every question. “Do you have the account number for Abigail Anne, burrrrp, Lannigan’s savings account?” he asked, but before Destiny could answer she had to fan the odor of fried onions from beneath her nose.

Destiny offered up the account number, but before the smell of fried onions floated off, he burped a blast of strong coffee and asked for the dollar value of the account. Elliott, who wasn’t allowed to ask anything, passed a note to Mister Hoggman. There’s more money he wrote, what about other accounts. “Did she have a household fund?” Hoggman asked. “What about a Christmas Club?” It was a sorry sight to watch them badgering Destiny over nickel and dime accounts, especially since she didn’t even know I had the bonds, let alone where they were hidden.

“It’s my understanding,” he said, “that Miss Lannigan’s, burrrrp, brother realized a sizeable profit from the sale of the family farm, burrrrp, now can you detail where exactly that money has gone to?” She answered that to the best of her knowledge, the money was in my account at the Middleboro Savings Bank – then Hoggman asked the exact same thing all over again, just switching the words around.

“It’s in the bank,” Destiny told him over and over again, “almost one-hundred thousand dollars in the Middleboro Savings Bank!”

“The Lannigan farm sold for over a million dollars, and, burrrrp, you want us to believe a paltry one-hundred thousand is all that she had left?”

Destiny started to answer but before she could say yes, he burped again – directly into her face. She finally asked for a break so that she could go out into the hallway for a breath of air.

Once Mister Hoggman found out where my money was he went running to Judge Kensington and filed a motion to freeze the bank accounts. “Those funds belong to the Lannigan estate,” he argued, “and should be held in escrow until a settlement decision is reached.” It was ironic to note that when Mister Hoggman was standing before Judge Kensington, he spoke on and on without a single burp.

Two days later, Charles McCallum received a notice indicating that Judge Kensington had granted the motion. “But,” Destiny exclaimed, “I won’t have enough money to pay you.” She suggested she could take on the Saturday dinner shift, which usually meant pretty good tips, “I’ll pay on the installment plan,” she said. “Twenty-five dollars a week?”

Charles laughed, “Why, that would take years!”

Destiny, completely oblivious to the twinkle in his eyes, sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “I could sell my car.”

Charles laughed again, then reached across the desk and took her hand in his. “First, let’s concentrate on proving you’re innocent,’ he told her, “then we’ll worry about the money.” That afternoon, after they finished reviewing the interrogatory transcripts, he took her to lunch. He hooked his arm through hers and strolled past the luncheonette, past the pizza parlor and into Stephano’s – where they sat at a linen clothed table and shared a bottle of wine.

“I owe you so much,” Destiny cooed in that sweet-voiced way of hers and I watched Charles McCallum’s face melt into a boyish grin of satisfaction. Anybody with half an eyeball could see what was happening, and I’d already noticed that he didn’t have any woman’s picture sitting on his desk nor was he wearing a wedding ring. Back when I was a young woman very few men wore wedding rings so you couldn’t tell if they were married or not; and I can certainly bear witness to all the heartache that causes.



The second day of depositions started off with a barrage of questions. Where was this, where was that, what about the silver coffee service which, in all honesty, never existed. Elliott was insistent that there was more money and a bunch of valuables his lawyer had not yet uncovered, so he continued writing notes to Mister Hoggman. Each time a slip of paper was unfolded, the lawyer would ask about another far-fetched thing. “Diamonds, maybe? Gold Bullion?”

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