The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(81)

I watched as he leaned over and kissed her. The look in his eye was that of a man head-to-toe in love. Believe me, I know. Being dead wipes away a bunch of heartaches but it doesn’t stop a soul from remembering the good parts of love. You might think a woman my age was too old and withered to be dreaming of romance, but up until the night I died, I was still wishing John Langley would come knocking at my door.




Ten days before the trial started, Charles called Destiny and said that he had to see her right away, that very day. She twiddled the telephone cord through her fingers and smiled, “Sure,” she said, “how about coming here for dinner?”

“No,” he answered, “this really is about the case. I need to see you soon as possible. Can you get to my office this afternoon?”

“Office?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Afterward we can grab a bite.”

When she arrived at four-thirty, Charles was at his desk with his nose pointed toward a computer screen. “Tell me something,” he said without turning around, “did you really mean what you said?”

“What did I say?” she asked.

“You said you’d rather see the money flushed down the toilet than have Elliott Emerson get hold of it.” He swiveled to face her. “You mean that?”

“I suppose I do. Of course, I’d rather keep the money. If Judge Kensington decides I’m not entitled to the inheritance, it’ll take me thirty years to pay off your fee.”

“My fee?” Charles chuckled, “that’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes,” she answered indignantly. “Did you think our relationship was about me trying to freeload some legal services?”

“No,” he laughed, “I never thought that. But,” he stood, walked around to the front of the desk and took her hand in his. “I thought you knew, I took this case on a contingency basis.”

“Contingency?”

“Yes. The only fee I’m entitled to is a percentage of what the court awards you. If you don’t keep Abigail Lannigan’s money, you don’t owe me a cent.” Charles was telling a lie, because he’d taken her on as a client facing a criminal charge, but he didn’t want to wonder if her affection was just a feeling of obligation.

“That hardly seems fair,” she sighed, “after all the work you’ve done?”

“That’s the way lawyers work.” He kissed the tip of her nose, and then moved back to his side of the desk. “Well,” he said, “how about it? If the jury does find in the complainant’s favor, could you live with losing the money if it doesn’t go to Elliott?”

“I suppose so,” she answered. “Although it would mean that you don’t get anything either and that would make me feel pretty bad.”

“Forget about it,” he said, then he swung over to talking about the differential in the estimated and actual value of Abigail Lannigan’s estate. “Hoggman claims that the Lannigan Farm sold for one point three million, and of that, almost one million dollars is unaccounted for –”

“I didn’t take it!”

“I’m not saying you did. As a matter of fact, I’ve gone through Abigail Lannigan’s accounts and can’t find a trace of there ever being such an amount. You don’t know of any other holdings – right?”

Destiny shook her head.

“Any bank accounts outside of Middleboro?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you know the name of the lawyer who probated her brother’s will?”

Destiny pressed her fingers to her forehead and stretched her lips into a straight line. “I think so,” she answered pensively. “I remember Abigail mentioning him several times – a fine gentleman, she said, who’d done right by her. His name was, um, Culpepper! No,” she corrected herself, “he came from Culpepper. His name was Bartholomew, something like that.”

“Culpepper, huh?” Charles turned back to the computer and started a search of lawyers registered in the state of Virginia. He zipped ahead to Culpepper. “Babcock? Baguchinski? Bartell?”

“That’s it!” Destiny shrieked.

“Scott C. Bartell?”

She nodded. “I’m almost positive, that’s him.”

Charles reached for the telephone. “Okay,” he said, “let’s see if he knows anything about this supposedly missing million.”

As it turned out, Scott Bartell had gone for the day, but once Charles explained what he was looking for, the secretary promised to pull the file and have her boss return the call first thing in the morning.




The following morning, while Charles was in the middle of working up a list of Lannigan descendents, the phone rang. “Scott Bartell,” the caller said, “you wanted to talk to me about the William Lannigan estate probate?”

“Yes, indeed,” Charles replied, then he explained the situation and asked if Mister Bartell could detail the contents of the estate that was passed on to Abigail Lannigan.

“Hold on, I’ll take a look,” Bartell said.

Charles heard a click, then found himself listening to a particularly loud rendition of Send in the Clowns. That eventually changed over to Pretty Mary and finally Scott Bartell clicked back onto the line. “Sorry,” he said, “it took me a while to locate this.”