The Silent Sister(6)

Damn. Now I felt really terrible. Whoever Fred Marcus was, he wouldn’t get this card because I’d taken it from his post office box. I should have left it there. Maybe even paid to keep his box open for a while.

With a sigh, I leaned over to toss the card and envelope into the trash can next to my night table. I had enough to deal with without taking on the problems of a stranger. Fred Marcus would have to figure this out on his own.





3.



“So your father drew up this will three years ago.” Suzanne Compton, my father’s attorney, leaned across her desk to hand me a copy of the will. I paged through it on the edge of her desk. While I’d still been in Durham, Suzanne had helped me file information with the court and get into my father’s bank accounts, but I’d put off dealing with his will until now when I could talk to her face-to-face.

“As I mentioned on the phone,” Suzanne continued, “he split everything fifty-fifty between you and your brother’s trust. The house. The RV park. His bank accounts. The only exception is that five-acre parcel that goes to Daniel alone. You’ll take over as the trustee of his trust now, so we’ll have to talk about your responsibilities in that regard.”

I nodded. I knew about the trust, of course, but I hadn’t realized I would now be in charge of Danny’s money. He could only spend it on certain things to avoid losing his disability checks. I was relieved that my father had left the land to him.

“Your father had a small life insurance policy he apparently bought when he worked for the government,” Suzanne said, “and it appears he kept up the premiums, so that’s fifty thousand that also goes to the two of you.”

“He never worked for the government,” I said, wondering if she had her cases mixed up. “He’s always just run Mac’s RV Park.”

“Well, it’s an old policy.” Suzanne rubbed the back of her neck beneath her blond chin-length hair. She looked a little sleepy as she flipped through some notes in what I assumed was my father’s file. She couldn’t be half as tired as I was after my mostly sleepless night. “He bought the policy in 1980 when he was with the U.S. Marshals Service,” she said.

“U.S. Marshals Service? My father? I don’t think…” My voice trailed off as a vague childhood memory came to me. Danny and I were working on a sand castle at the beach, watching a police officer arrest a couple of noisy drunks. Daddy used to arrest people, too, Danny had said. He was a marshal. I remembered the pride in his voice, but I couldn’t have been more than five and had no idea what he was talking about.

Now I smiled. “When I was little, Danny told me our father used to be a marshal. That must be what he meant. In 1980—when you said he bought that policy—my family lived in northern Virginia outside Washington, D.C., so I guess it makes sense. But I had no idea he ever had a government job. He never talked about it.”

“Well, it was a long time ago.” Suzanne looked down at the will, clearly wanting to get on with business. “Now, your father was quite the collector, wasn’t he? He told me the violins were the most valuable, but second to that was his pipe collection, and he wants that to go to Thomas Kyle.”

“Seriously?” I sat back, surprised. Tom Kyle? He and his wife, Verniece, were longtime residents at my father’s RV park, but I barely knew them. Tom always struck me as a grouchy old man, though Verniece was sweet. When Daddy died, I’d asked Suzanne to work out an arrangement so that Tom could temporarily handle the reservations and payments for the park. As far as I knew, that had gone well.

“Is that something you want to contest?” Suzanne asked.

I shook my head slowly. “No,” I said. “I’m just surprised. I guess Tom Kyle and my father were closer than I thought. It’s nice my father left him something.” I was glad to know Daddy’d had a friend he cared about that much. The pipes were probably worth a few thousand dollars. “Does Mr. Kyle know?” I asked.

“No. As executrix, you should notify him. You can have him call me with any questions and I’ll draw up a document you and he will need to sign.” She glanced down at the will again. “The only other thing he’s spelled out here is that he’s leaving his piano and ten thousand dollars to Jeannie Lyons.”

The name didn’t register right away. I hadn’t heard it in years. “Really?” I asked.

“Do you know Jeannie? She’s a real estate agent?”

“She was an old friend of my mother’s from back when they were kids, but Mom passed away seven years ago.” I remembered that Jeannie and my mother went away together every couple of years when I was growing up. A girls’ getaway, my mother called it. They’d go to the beach or to Asheville, which was where Jeannie lived then, if I had my facts straight. “I didn’t know my father stayed in touch with her.”

“It’s always possible your mother asked him to leave something to Jeannie,” Suzanne said. “Do you—or your brother—have any problem with her getting the piano or the money?”

I shook my head. “Not if that’s what my father wanted,” I said. “Besides, Danny lives in a trailer and I have a tiny apartment.” Then I added with a smile, “Plus, neither of us can play.”

“Then you’ll want to see Jeannie,” Suzanne said. “She can help you with the house and RV park, too, if you plan to put them both on the market.”