The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(80)

For the remainder of the day Hoggman paraded in a string of character witnesses, all of who had little or nothing to do with the case. They attested to the fact that Elliott did indeed bank at their bank, or shop at their store, and was a fine upstanding person.

“How long have you known Mister Emerson?” Charles asked the banker who seemed the most credible of the lineup.

The man answered, “Three, maybe four months.”

“In that short time, you’ve determined him to be an upstanding citizen?”

“I’ve had no reason to think otherwise.”

Charles shook his head wearily and dismissed the witness.



On the third and last day of depositions, Hoggman produced the Lannigan bible. Charles spread it open and methodically copied down each and every entry.

“Do I need to make note of those names?” the stenographer asked.

“Uh-uh,” Hoggman said, “he’s just wasting time.”

The final witness was Elliott’s mother, a woman nearing ninety and so hard of hearing that Charles had to bellow to make himself heard. “Do you believe that either you or your son are entitled to a portion of the Lannigan estate?” he shouted.

“Hell, no,” the woman shouted back. “Were it up to me, I’d tell that miserly old skinflint to stick his money where the sun don’t shine! He wasn’t no kind of grandpa, never so much as laid eyes on my face. Rot in hell with your money, old man – that’s what I’d tell him.”

“Are you aware that your son Elliott is filing a suit against Abigail Lannigan’s estate? He claims to be the rightful heir.”

“Abigail? I don’t know no Abigail.”

“She was the last of William Lannigan Senior’s children.”

“Oh. Well, if she got anything out of that miserable bastard, I’d say she deserves to hang on to it.”

“Unfortunately,” Charles said, “Abigail Lannigan is deceased.”

“Well then,” the woman sighed, “she don’t have no use for the money and I suppose Elliott’s as good as any to get it,”

The depositions ended at three-thirty and Judge Kensington was advised that both sides were ready to schedule a trial date.



In the months prior to the start of the trial, Charles saw Destiny two or three times a week. He’d call and say he had this or that to discuss, but more often than not they’d end up going out to the movies or some cozy little restaurant and never mention word one about the case.

When Destiny went back to working full-time at the restaurant, Charles started coming in for lunch every day and waiting on line to get a table in her section. “I’ve got a single at the counter,” Hilda, the hostess, would say but he’d shake his head and hold onto his place in line. Once he was seated, he’d order one thing at a time to keep her coming back to his table. First it would be a soda, after she’d brought that, it would be some sort of sandwich, next he’d ask for another pickle, then a piece of pie or a single scoop of ice cream. By the time he got around to ordering coffee, he’d usually been there almost two hours.

“Aren’t you tired of this food?” Destiny asked, but he just looked at her with a goofy-eyed grin and said she had the prettiest smile he’d ever seen.

About three weeks before the trial was scheduled to start, they did have an actual conversation, not so much about the case, but about the outcome. Destiny had made a home cooked dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, and then they’d settled down on her living room sofa. Charles slipped his arm around her shoulder and asked, “Not that I’m expecting it to happen, but if the judgment should go against us, will that change your feelings for me?”

She bolted to a straight-backed position, “Are you saying I could end up in jail?”

He laughed, “Absolutely not. Honey, this is a civil trial, it’s only about the money – who’s entitled to what. There’s no aspect of criminal prosecution.”

“Thank heaven,” she sighed and cuddled herself back into the arch of his arm. “For a moment you frightened me.”

“Well? Would it change our relationship?”

She looked at him with a puzzled expression, “Change it how?” she asked.

“Say you didn’t get Abigail Lannigan’s money, would you be angry enough to maybe stop seeing me?”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, an echo of sadness in her voice, “How could you think such a thing? I wasn’t a friend to Abigail Lannigan because of her money; we were a tiny little family. Two people with one thing in common – neither of us had anyone else to love. It wouldn’t have mattered if she was poor as a church mouse. I needed her just the same as she needed me. When I did the least little thing to make her happy, it gave me a good feeling about myself. You think that’s about money?”

“No,” he mumbled sheepishly, “but leave it up to a fool lawyer to ask.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Destiny said, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate having the money, but it’s not important as having someone to love. If the judge decided to take the money and flush it down the toilet bowl, I wouldn’t give a fig; but I hope Elliott Emerson doesn’t get his hands on it. Miss Abigail hated the man; the thought of him having her brother’s money would probably make her rise up from her grave.”