The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(77)

“What!” Brown snapped. “You called me down here to ask bullshit questions like that? I’m a busy man!”

“Sorry,” Hoggman mumbled, sensing he’d stepped across the line.

“I did my job,” Brown said. “Abigail Lannigan asked that Fairchild’s name be added to those accounts. It was her decision, hers and hers alone.”

“But, did she seem confused, under duress at the time?”

“No. She seemed quite happy – told me it was a relief to have somebody trustworthy taking care of things for her.”

“Did she know that Fairchild was going to use that money herself?”

“How would I know what she knew?” Brown glanced at his watch impatiently. “Is this going to take much longer?”

“I’m finished,” Hoggman moaned. “I’ll be in touch if there are any more questions.”

“I’m a busy man!” Brown repeated.



There were two more days of interrogatories. Hoggman called in several clerks from the supermarket, a man who owned the local dry cleaners, and the attendant who worked in an Exxon station close by. No one offered anything that was of use to Hoggman, so he moved on to three of Abigail Lannigan’s neighbors – the first two claimed they knew nothing of the relationship, except that from all outward appearances it seemed pleasant enough. The third was Mary Beth McGurke, a woman willing to say whatever Hoggman wanted to hear, for the pleasure of being in on some gossip.

“So,” he said, “you actually saw the Fairchild girl removing Miss Lannigan’s possessions from the house?”

“Oh, yes!” Mary Beth said, then she launched into a story detailing hundreds of different things she’d seen Destiny cart off – almost all of them pure fiction. “A six-foot tall coat rack, a three-tiered tea cart, some dishes, a soufflé pan…”

A soufflé pan? I wondered if Mary Beth was losing what scrap of common sense she might have once had. Why, I never even owned a soufflé pan – besides, anyone who knew Destiny would have realized she’d have no need of such a thing because she only made frozen dinners and chocolate chip cookies. The only truth about Mary Beth’s statement was the part about the overstuffed chair and, of course, my car.

By the time she ran out of things to lie about, Hoggman was puffed up as a frog and grinning ear to ear. “Well, I suppose,” he finally said, “I guess that wraps it up for me.”



That night Charles took Destiny to dinner. She wore a black crepe dress that molded itself to her body as if she’d been born in it, when in truth she’d clipped the tag from the sleeve just moments before slipping it over her head. The earrings she’d chosen were the color of emeralds and made her eyes appear greener than the make-believe stones. She’d hesitated in the middle of dressing, thinking that perhaps a person who usually wore jeans would appear foolish in such an outfit, but the hour was late and rushed as she was, she stayed with the dress. She was sliding her foot into a black silk sandal when the doorbell chimed.

“Whoa!” Charles said when she opened the door. “You look great!”

She smiled.

“Really great! Fabulous, in fact!”

He’d had in mind a little Italian restaurant just minutes from the house, but as it turned out they drove back to the downtown area and ate in TrumbullTowers, a restaurant which looked down on the city – a restaurant that had music and dancing and tables lit with the tiniest of candles. He’d planned on discussing the things he’d be asking about next week when it was his turn to question Elliott, but instead he wound his fingers through hers and stared like a schoolboy. After dinner they danced to waltzes, rumbas, fox trots, and even a tango that forced them to laugh at their own clumsiness. They danced until the music stopped, then long after the trumpet player had disappeared down the elevator, they remained in the center of the floor still swaying to the strains of something only they could hear.

On the way home, Charles mentioned that next week, he’d start deposing the plaintiff, but, try as she may, Destiny couldn’t imagine him belching in Elliott’s face.



It’s always been my belief that a no good lying snake will slither out into the open if you give it enough room – apparently that’s what Charles McCallum thought also, because when he started deposing Elliott he sounded so pleasant and polite you could start to wonder whose side he was actually on. “Are you comfortable?” he’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water? Soda, maybe?”

“I understand you were very close with your aunt,” Charles said in a sort of sympathetic way. “You saw her pretty often, didn’t you?”

“Not real often. That one,” Elliott pointed to Destiny, “wouldn’t let blood relatives near Aunt Abigail. She didn’t want to lose control of the old lady’s money.”

“When was the last time you tried to see your aunt?”

“About eight months ago.”

“What happened at that time?”

“That bitch attacked me. Jumped on me like a she-lion – sent me flying over the living room coffee table and damn near broke my back.”

“Oh, so you were inside Abigail Lannigan’s house when this happened?”

“I don’t know anybody who keeps their coffee table outside.”