In the lobby, he bumped into Officer Pully and they had a tense chat about the situation. He inquired as to how Simon wanted to handle the arrest.
“Are you kidding? What’s the hurry? She’s not going anywhere.”
“How long will she be in the hospital?”
“She just got here. Give her a break.”
“Well, her victims are making some noise.”
“Let ’em squawk. There’s no rush. When she’s able to walk we’ll cooperate fully. Just back off, okay?”
“I’d like to take her statement.”
Simon bristled even more and said, “You’re not speaking to her, got it? Not a word. Back off or I’ll call the chief.”
“Hey, I don’t like threats, especially from lawyers.”
“And I don’t like pushy cops. Surely you have better things to do than to harass old women in the hospital. Just take it easy and we’ll cooperate.”
“Damn right you will. I’ll see you in court.”
“Sir, that’s the last place you want to see me.” Simon walked away with a swagger, like a real badass trial lawyer.
Chapter 25
Simon did not want to be in the house after dark, with a strange car in the driveway. He did not want nosy neighbors ringing the doorbell and asking questions. He did not want to look like a lawyer or a person with authority so he wore jeans and a sports coat. And, he did not want to be rushed.
At 3 P.M. he parked where the old Lincoln once parked and turned off the engine. He had just left Netty’s car in the city lot, waiting to be hauled to the scrap heap. It was a total loss, and he considered her lucky to escape with minor injuries. He took some photos for the file but would never need them.
The house had no alarm system. She said Harry didn’t believe in them and wouldn’t spend the money. Harry had been dead for ten years and she often talked about him as if he were still around.
Once inside the den he inhaled a pleasant aroma, probably the remains of a scented candle. Maybe pine. He switched on lights in the den and kitchen and paused to take inventory. The house was spotless, with everything in order. The kitchen counters were uncluttered, with only a toaster and coffeepot, both at least thirty years old. He wiped a finger across a wooden snack bar. Not a trace of dust. The furniture was fairly modern, nothing ancient, nothing new. The television was a bit dated, though, an old Motorola with two remotes. There was an upright piano against one wall. He could not remember Netty ever saying anything about a piano. He stepped into her small study and went straight to her desk, a government surplus throwback from the 1960s with chrome legs and metal panels. As she said, the current mail was in a tray in the right corner.
Her chair was a wicker straight-back that was fragile and shaky and seemed designed for a woman who weighed less than a hundred pounds. He settled into it, moving slowly to make sure it would not collapse. The desktop was covered in glass and well organized with nothing out of place. A large cup held the usual collection of pens, pencils, paper clips, etc. Netty was very neat and tidy. There was no computer, no iPad, no devices at all. He took a stack of mail and began sifting through it, at first careful not to misplace anything. He did not find a bill for an internet provider. Perhaps it was packaged with her cable, as was his. He knew that the stack did not include all of her monthly bills. Others would arrive later.
Though his curiosity was piqued, he felt like some creepy voyeur looking at the private affairs of an old woman. He kept telling himself that he had no choice. Someone had to do it.
He found the rather abrupt letters from Allstate canceling her auto insurance. He found several other past-due notices and unpaid bills. The checkbook was in the bottom drawer, left side, exactly where she said. It was in a blue leather notebook-style binder, with three checks to a page and stubs that dated back two years. He flipped through the stubs and got a clear picture of where she shopped and what she bought, and nothing was unusual or surprising. She did indeed have a credit card, a Visa, which she had been forced to use when she checked out of the lake cabin two months earlier. But she used it sparingly. In another drawer he found the old Visa statements filed in perfect monthly order. Behind them were the monthly statements from the local bank. The latest was for October and showed a balance in her checking account of $3,100. There was no sign of the past-due bill from his office. An hour passed before he realized it.
In the bottom right drawer was a stack of old magazines — AARP, Southern Living, Medicare Bulletin, Travel & Leisure. Some were ten years old and there was nothing to indicate why they had been kept.
What Simon wanted to find was a monthly statement from Rumke-Brown, the wealth management firm in Atlanta that handled her stocks. And he wanted bank statements from East Federal, the bank where she allegedly stashed her cash. The fact that he found neither was troubling. Why would she hide them?
She said her important papers were in a locked safe hidden in the bottom of her closet. He did not ask for the key and she did not offer.
When he had gone through every drawer it was dark outside. He had been there long enough for the first visit, though he had more questions now than when he arrived.
The doorbell rang and Simon jumped out of his skin, as if he’d been caught in a burglary. He rushed to the front door, opened it, and smiled at a couple in their sixties.
“We live next door and saw the car,” the man said.
“What are you doing here?” the woman demanded.
“My name is Simon Latch, I’m Eleanor’s attorney. She’s in the hospital.”
“We know. We heard all about it.”
Simon looked them over as they examined him. He said, “Relax. I’m helping take care of her business.”
“How’s she doing?” the man asked.
“Okay, I guess. She’ll be there for a few days.”
“We heard she was drunk,” the woman said. “Drinking and driving, but that doesn’t sound like Eleanor.”
“I can’t comment, sorry.”
“What’s your name again?” the man asked.
“And what’s yours?”
“Frazier, Norris Frazier. And my wife Rose.”
“Great. Nice to meet you. I’m Simon Latch, attorney. I’ll tell Eleanor that you checked on things.”
“You do that. Can we visit her in the hospital? We probably won’t though. Last year Rose was in the hospital for a week and not a word from Eleanor. No sir.”
For a second Simon wasn’t sure of a response. He said, “Not yet, maybe in a couple of days. I’ll let you know. And you’ll probably see my car parked here off and on for some time. Feel free to say hello.” He was closing the door as he spoke.
Was it Frazier Norris or Norris Frazier? He would have to report it to Netty and he couldn’t even remember the name. Rose was the wife. His head was spinning with questions and possibilities and his heart was still racing from the interruption. He needed to get out of the house. Avoiding her fragile chair, he sat on a leather stool near her desk, closed his eyes, and took ten deep breaths. An ugly reality was falling slowly around him as he sunk into a dark gloom.
There was no money, no fortune, no pot of gold filled with shares of stock in Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart, no pile of cash in an Atlanta bank. He was a sucker, the victim of a nutty old woman with a devious mind, a lonely soul who had duped him and probably others into believing she was rich. Rich? He looked around her small study and saw nothing to indicate Eleanor Barnett had the slightest bit of real wealth. Sure, everything was paid for, and given his current state of affairs that was a dream, but she was no richer than many elderly widows whose husbands had been frugal. In the nine months he had known her, he had not seen her spend one dime on anything that wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t even pay her bills. She had stiffed him for a dozen lunches. She wore the same clothes over and over. She never traveled, never talked about doing so.