Three cups later, Simon finally called Eleanor, at precisely 8 A.M. By the fourth ring he was once again wondering what she was doing with her cell phone. She struggled with it. Butt-dials were common. It was not unusual to get cut off midsentence, and Simon was expected to redial immediately and apologize for the interruption. She often forgot to wear her hearing aids and yelled into the phone while requiring him to practically yell back. At least half of his calls to her went unanswered, and he had quickly learned to stay away from voicemails.
A weak “Hello” finally came across.
“Good morning, Eleanor, this is Simon. Are you okay?”
“Not really. Have you heard?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Have you seen Clyde?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We need to talk, Simon. I need some help. He’s already called three times this morning and wants money, twenty-five thousand, to get out of jail. And he’s very mean about it. I think he’s dangerous.”
Evidently.
He said, “Eleanor, I’m happy to drive over to your house right now and talk about this.”
“No. I’ll come to your office.” She seemed firm about this.
“Very well. Anytime this morning is fine with me. The sooner the better.”
“Okay. I’m dressed and ready. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“That’s fine. Matilda will be here so be careful what you say to her.”
“Who’s Matilda?”
Chapter 15
The last she’d heard from Clyde, he was in Iraq working for the United Nations and trying to clean up the postwar mess over there. He said he was in a real danger zone, heard gunfire every day, and just wanted to check in with Eleanor so she would know he was doing something important. That had been years earlier. As usual, she didn’t believe a word of it. A phone call from nowhere almost always led to another one in which he asked for money.
Two nights ago he had called, said he was passing through, and asked to sleep on the sofa. Before she could say no or stall or do anything to avoid him, he was at the front door, banging away. Their history was complicated, filled with tension and distrust, and completely centered on the fact that he was a con man who’d never had a real job, was constantly broke and usually one step ahead of the law, and for the past twenty years had been convinced that Harry, his father, had left behind a pile of money for his widow. He was right about that, though Eleanor had never confirmed it. Harry had been adamant that neither Clyde nor his brother, Jerry, receive a dime of his money.
She fixed him a bowl of tomato soup, which he drank, then two more. As always, he ate like a pig and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Eleanor told him he could not sleep on the sofa or anywhere else in the house, for that matter, and they argued. She was physically afraid of him and thought about calling the police. Instead, she retreated to her bedroom, locked the door, and spent a sleepless night peeking through the blinds to see if his car left the driveway. It did not. When she ventured out early the next morning, Clyde had made himself at home in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and the morning paper.
They spoke and things were cordial but forced. Then she realized she had forgotten to lock the door to her small study where she kept a desk and some file cabinets. The door was partially open. There were two wills: the first prepared by Wally Thackerman and signed by Eleanor four months earlier, and the second prepared by Simon two months ago. The second revoked and negated the first, though poor Wally had no clue. Both were locked in a fireproof safe, along with the deed to her home, car title, burial policy, disability policy, life policy, and a few other papers that she thought were important. The safe was hidden in the bottom of her closet.
On the desk in her study was a neat stack of current bills and a tray of letters and articles and other papers she had chosen not to throw away yet, though almost all would get tossed in a year or so. In the center drawer was her checkbook, issued by Security Bank, and showing a balance of just over $3,100. The drawer was unlocked and would have been an easy target for anyone nosy enough to be browsing.
She did not offer breakfast, though he mentioned at least twice that he was hungry. She mustered the courage to tell him, rather bluntly, that he was overstaying his welcome and it was time to leave. He asked to borrow $5,000 and she flatly refused. He finally stormed out, and she immediately called the locksmith and changed every lock in the house, with the exception of her hidden safe.
On her desk, in the mail tray, under at least two inches of miscellaneous correspondence and other papers, the majority of which she could not remember why she was keeping, she found the problem. It was a letter from the law offices of Walter J. Thackerman, and it read, in part: “I called twice yesterday and once the day before. Let’s meet next Tuesday at three P.M. in my office to finalize your last will and testament.”
At this point in her narrative, Simon could not help but interrupt. “Any stray letters from me lying around on your desk, Netty?”
“Oh no. I checked.”
He was relieved. He did not want to live the next few months with a pistol in his pocket or within reach.
She went on to explain the obvious: Clyde had searched through her desk during the night and found the letter. After he left, she carefully went through every other piece of paper in her study and found nothing else that might cause problems. Then she threw it all away. “Just junk, stuff I didn’t need.
“What am I going to do, Simon?” she asked, pleading. “He’s sitting over there in jail and there’s no one to help him.”
“Let him sit, Netty. He’s been there before and he deserves it now. The man is dangerous. He carries a gun and he’s desperate.”
“Can he get his gun back?”
“I doubt it.”
“Will he go to jail?”
“More than likely. Judges take a dim view of thugs who attack lawyers in their own offices. Plus, he’s a felon with a firearm. He’ll serve some time.”
“Well, I guess that’s a good thing. He scares me.”
“Will his brother bail him out?”
“I don’t know. Jerry lives down in Florida somewhere and they’re not that close, or at least they were not way back then.”
Matilda had kicked off her heels and was tiptoeing around the building, listening in all the good places. However, Simon and Ms. Barnett were in a small conference room with thick carpet and vents in the floor. The voices didn’t carry.
Simon said, at low volume, “Don’t answer the phone, Netty, and don’t go anywhere near the jail. And please don’t talk to Wally, should he call.”
“Why would Wally call?”
“I don’t know, but he’s probably quite concerned with the will and the notoriety. If word gets out that he got attacked because he prepared the last will for a client whose stepson is unhappy, then the will becomes an issue. The last thing Wally wants is for anyone to know what’s in that will. Don’t forget, Netty, that he provided for himself, to the tune of almost a half a million dollars in cash.”
“I’m confused. That will is no longer valid, right?”
“It’s not valid, it’s not invalid. It’s just sitting there waiting for you to die.”
“Oh dear.”
“Sorry to be so blunt. A will is not valid until it is probated after death. The will I prepared for you expressly revokes the will Wally prepared, so his will becomes invalid. Of course, he doesn’t know that.”
“It seems only fair that we tell him. I mean, he just got beat up over nothing.”
“He just got beat up because Clyde is an idiot. No, the law does not require you or me or anyone to tell Wally that you have prepared a new will that revokes the one he prepared.”