Last Will (The Lockes) Page 3
For the only time I could recall, I saw a trace of fear in Celeste’s eyes, a chink in her stonewall of confidence. I knew better, however, than to trust what I saw, as my instincts where Celeste was concerned had a history of being deeply flawed. “You’re not making sense,” I said. “You have retained legal counsel and now you need another lawyer? What do you want this lawyer to do?”
“I want him to represent me in a very serious matter. A criminal case. You see, by this time tomorrow I expect to be charged with Ralph's murder.”
5
Ian
AS I OPENED the gate of the wrought iron fence that enclosed the Wainwright yard, I was met by Sheriff Isaac Bell and his young deputy, Jimmy Hawkins, who were hitching their horses to the rail in front of the gate. A somber look clouded a ruddy face that ordinarily would have been dominated by a broad smile and twinkling sky-blue eyes. A bear-like man about my height, but carrying a hundred more pounds, Ike Bell was a displaced cowboy with a gimpy knee, who had carved a new career as a county politician with his amiable disposition and glib tongue. It was next to impossible not to like this genial white-haired man with the ragged, brushy moustache. Ike had a well-honed skill of making almost every man who met him think of him as a good friend. Some of the more refined ladies in the community didn’t care for his rough ways, but they didn’t have the vote. Still, I always had the feeling Ike was more an actor playing a role than a dedicated lawman, and I suspected he was not above playing fast and loose with the truth if it suited his purposes.
“Good afternoon, counselor,” Ike said with his trademark voice that sounded like gravel rubbing on a washboard. “Didn’t know Mrs Wainwright had company. Don’t see Hemlock tied nearby.”
“I walked.”
“You need an old cowpoke to help you with that mean-tempered critter, counselor. For a good steak and a few beers, I’d take the cussedness out of him.” My reputation as a horseman left something to be desired in our little county.
“I might take you up on that some time, Ike.”
Ike spat a stringy brown cud of tobacco, barely missing string bean Jimmy’s scuffed boots. Some folks referred to Jimmy derisively as “Ike’s pup.” The red-haired youngster worshipped Ike like a loyal hound, and his gawky manner and peach-fuzzed cheeks made him look even younger than his twenty years, but I had been told that he could ride a Kansas tornado and shoot the eyes out of a crow in flight—skills not all that critical to a lawman in relatively civilized Cottonwood County, but one never knew.
“Got to ask you something, counselor,” Ike said.
“What is it, Ike?”
“You Mrs. Wainwright’s law wrangler?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“Glad to hear that. I’m afraid she’s in a passel of trouble.”
It was said as an invitation to ask why. Close-mouthed, Ike was not. I obliged. “What kind of trouble?”
Ike turned to Jimmy, who fidgeted nervously. “Jimmy, why don’t you head on up to the big house? Wait outside the door till I get there. Just to be sure somebody don’t take a notion to leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said, drawing his Peacemaker from its holster and heading through the gate.
Ike called after him. “Jimmy put that damn pistol away. No sense in getting folks all riled up.” He turned to me, shaking his head. “Jimmy’s a good boy, but there’s a hell of a lot of drying to do behind those ears yet. Thought it best he not hear what I had to say. Boy’s got a weakness for gossip and can be a mite loose of tongue.”
The pot calling the kettle. “Look, Ike, I’ve got to be heading back to the office. I’m a bit pushed for time.”
Ike leaned back against the hitching post. “You’ll want to hear this, counselor. There’s some things you might like to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“I know about the two wills, you see. I was down at the courthouse and heard it in the treasurer’s office.”
“That’s no surprise. News in the courthouse spreads faster than a prairie fire.”
“True enough. Let me tell you, old Reuben’s about to have a calf over this. He’s downright goosey over them two wills. Reuben don’t know what he’s supposed to do.”
Reuben Helvey served as the county judge and also was the proprietor and operator of Reuben’s Tavern. He could sign his name and read a bit and carried enough common sense to dispose of the misdemeanors and routine probates and guardianships that were within the jurisdiction of his court. He even looked the part of a distinguished jurist when he donned a black robe, but knowledge of the law or any of its mysteries was not a requirement for getting on the ballot for the part-time job. Reuben had a tendency to go berserk as a rabid skunk when a serious legal issue was dropped on his plate.
“I’m sure Reuben can handle it,” I lied.
“Well, anyhow, it don’t matter to me. I’m here on more serious business. Afraid me and Jimmy have got to arrest Celeste.”
“Celeste? What in God’s name for?” I asked, knowing the answer to my own question.
“Ralph's murder.”
“You think Celeste killed Ralph?”
“Sure of it. Got me a witness.”
“You’re serious?”
“Karl.”
“Karl who?”
The sheriff tossed his head and let loose with another slimy wad of tobacco. “Wainwright. Who the hell do you think? Karl’s back in town, and he seen it all. Seen Celeste put a bullet in Ralph's brain and seen her throw him to the pigs. The whole works.”
6
Ian
WHEN I RETURNED to the office, I found Will Heasty hunched over the typewriter. Will worshipped the typewriter and practiced on it like a virtuoso at the piano, and he was more than proficient, adding a bit of class to the legal documents produced by our office, in sharp contrast to the barely legible, hand-written instruments dispensed by others of the local bar.
My own fascination with the contraption was not so much with the intricacies of its operation, but with my vision of the efficiencies and improvements it could bring to the only tangible product a lawyer could show his client—the written word. When I left my Omaha law firm, I had taken it with me, as a part of the dissolution agreement—my oak desk and the latest model Remington typewriter in the office. It was ironic, I thought, as I watched Will push a crisp sheet of paper into the rubber platen, that E. Remington & Sons, the gun manufacturers, had become the dominant producer of typewriters in the world. Perhaps the pen was mightier than the sword, or at least as profitable.
Will was totally absorbed with the work in front of him and had not heard me enter the outer office, so I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He leaped from his chair, nearly knocking his precious typewriter off the table. “Oh God, Ian, you spooked the hell out of me. I never heard you come in.”
“Sorry, Will, but you seemed caught up in your project.”
Will brushed back the unruly black hair from his forehead and slipped back into his chair. “I’m working on that contract for the McDowell land that George Washington plans to buy. George wants to put something on McDowell’s desk tomorrow. I’ll be finished in another hour.”
“I appreciate your taking care of that. When George is itching to strike, he gets a little impatient.”
“You’re always saying, Ian, that the guy on the street who comes to our office doesn’t have a notion of whether our work’s any good, but he sure as hell knows if we’re not getting it done.”
“True enough, and if we don’t get the work turned out, the client never gets a chance to judge the product anyway . . . and eventually we don’t have any clients. Any problems with George’s contract I need to know about?”
“No, it’s very routine. It could be done on a handshake, if you could trust Clint McDowell to keep his word. George doesn’t trust the old fox, though, and probably with good cause.”
“I agree.” I had total confidence in Will’s ability to handle the matter. He was conscientious to a fa
ult, cared about our clients and was a fine wordsmith.
I told Will about the holographic will that had turned up. “It puts a different light on things,” I said. “I have to admit this caught me by surprise. I can’t imagine Ralph making a new will without speaking with me. I have to ponder our responsibilities here. I guess the final decision is pretty much in Emily’s hands. She’s the beneficiary of our will. I’m going to catch a train to Omaha tomorrow to speak with her. I hope to see Mandy while I’m there.”
“Do you think Celeste’s will is genuine?”
“Who knows? I’d like to have you pull some samples of Ralph's handwriting from his file and go over to the county court and compare it to the holographic will and see what you think. Eventually, if we were going to challenge it, we’d have to find a qualified expert of some kind. On the other hand, it’s the proponent’s burden to establish validity, so Albert will have to produce some proof of his own. My hunch is that Ralph wrote and signed the will. The larger question is ‘why?’”
“I’ll be at the county judge’s office when it opens in the morning, Ian. I’ll try to write out a copy of the will and bring it over to the office to type before you leave for Omaha, so you can have it with you. I’ve already typed a copy of the other will for Emily.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’m going to stay in town tonight. I’m good for supper if you’d like to eat over at Reuben’s with me.”
Will’s face flushed slightly. “Well, I thank you, Ian, but I’ve got an invitation for later—as soon as I’ve got this contract finished.”
“A supper invitation? It wouldn’t be at Elizabeth’s, would it?”
Will grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”
“She’s a fine young woman.”
“I’m going to ask her to marry me if I pass the bar examination this fall.”
“You’ll pass. Have you considered what you’re going to do after that? Are you going to head for the big city?”
“Elizabeth would like to stay close to family, I know that. I don’t have any living kin that I’ve ever met, so I’d be happy enough to locate nearby.”
“Well, I want you to know there’s a place for you here if you want it. This is a growing practice, and I’m ready to take in a partner.”
Will beamed and stood up and grabbed my hand and started pumping it enthusiastically. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I take that for ‘yes.’“
“Yes, damn right, yes. You’ve got yourself a partner.” Will finally released his grip on my hand.
“We’ll talk about the particulars later, but I’m pleased, Will. I think this can be a good decision for both of us.” I was delighted with the prospect of Will remaining with the law office. He had a high school diploma, which was more formal education than most Western lawyers had, and he had started absorbing his knowledge of the law and its sometimes bizarre workings as a clerk “reading the law” in the office of old Cyrus Flowers, who had started winding down his practice a few years previously and had prevailed upon me to take Will in. Cyrus had said we would be a good fit, and, as usual, he had been right.
I heard TJ yowling from behind my office door and walked over to let him out.
“Oh, I almost forgot, Ian,” Will said, as he sat back down at his typewriter. “Be sure to check your desk. There’s a Western Union from Omaha.”
7
Ian
I LAY NAKED on top of the scratchy sheets that covered my bed in the Fremont Hotel. TJ snoozed nearby on the windowsill, claiming first rights to any breeze that might find its way into the steamy room. The glow of a full moon sifted through the filmy curtains, and I did not need the oil lamp to skim the pages of Mark Twain’s latest effort, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, especially since my eyes stared at the pages without seeing the words.
The telegram had been sent by the former Mrs. Locke, now Nadine Hampton. Simple, but ominous, words: MUST SEE YOU IMMEDIATELY. STOP. NADINE. STOP. My immediate reaction had been momentary panic—something had happened to our daughter, Amanda. After a brief dialogue with myself, I was somewhat reassured. All messages I received from Nadine carried terse, urgent tones and were laced with mystery. She had always had a flair for the dramatic, and she was a bright, perceptive woman with a keen instinct for getting one’s attention. After a dozen years of marriage, she had me pretty much on a neck rein and knew what gentle yank would yield what result. She was sleeping soundly this night, confident I was tossing in my bed, stewing about her summons, certain I would be in Omaha by nightfall tomorrow. And, of course, I would verify her confidence. Tomorrow morning, I would leave TJ at the office, since Will had offered to look after him during my absence. Then, after a brief stop at the county jail, I would purchase a ticket for the ten o’clock train and embark on the sweltering journey to the growing metropolis of thirty thousand souls on the Missouri River.
I pay monthly rent for a room at the Fremont and maintain a modest wardrobe there, as my work seduces me too many late nights, and it is often easier to drop in the hotel bed than to saddle up a cranky horse and make the half-hour ride out to the ranch house. I love the isolation and open spaces there, but I can’t savor them much when the hour approaches midnight. Fortunately, my best friend and neighbor, George Washington, looks after my cow herd, which only numbers about forty cows with calves at side, and keeps an eye out for any trespassers. George even checks in with TJ when I leave him in charge of operations, usually depositing a fresh catfish yanked from the nearby Little Blue for his culinary pleasure. TJ considers George a friend, too.
Yes, his name is George Washington. In another life he was called Walking Turtle. He is a full blood Pawnee of about sixty winters, as the Indians might say, and his senior wife’s name is Martha. I say this seriously. I refer to Martha as the senior wife, because George has two other “wives,” but Martha, who is closer to George’s age, was his “First Lady,” as he puts it, and is his official emissary to Cottonwood County society, such as it is. When we were sharing an evening of tall tales and whiskey in front of the fireplace at my home a few winters back, George shared with me the origins of his name. He had learned about the first of the Great White Fathers at a Quaker school he attended as a boy and had been totally fascinated with the career of the great man. Warrior, farmer, President. When he decided to walk the white man’s trail, he believed he should adopt a white man’s name, and since the first George Washington had no children, the former Pawnee scout decided to give him a namesake. There may be some truth to this, but I would not be surprised to hear another version pass George’s lips on some future winter evening. He plays a little loose with the truth sometimes. And I would trust him with my life.
George Washington is also one of the wealthiest men in the county. If he acquires the McDowell half section, his acres of farm and grassland will tally over two thousand. He trades heavily in furs and operates a limekiln that produces building stone that is shipped to four states. His two eldest sons, married to German sisters, manage most of the enterprises these days, but George’s empire will have places for the ten younger children as they come of age. George devotes his energies increasingly to his oil painting, the avocation of his heart. He is an accomplished artist, and I treasure the painting of a nude Indian maiden that hangs on the wall of my home study—and bears an amazing likeness to George’s youngest wife. I should advise that I use the term “wife” euphemistically. The laws of the sovereign state of Nebraska, of course, do not bless polygamy, but no one seems to care much about George’s living arrangements. He is an honest man, who has always worked hard, and his dollars support many local families. Social outrage seems to dissolve in the face of such achievement.
My thoughts turned involuntarily to Celeste. She was incarcerated in the county jail, and she would be in a rage when I visited her tomorrow morning—a visit I would much prefer to avoid. I needed to confirm, however, that she still wanted me to seek legal counsel in Omaha. The whole situation was a bit messy ethically, si
nce Celeste was technically an adverse party with respect to the will dispute, and it was important that I extricate myself from the situation as soon as possible. There was an unhealthy bond between us that would not let me walk away and wash my hands from her dilemma—even if it was one of her own making. As a lawyer, her guilt or innocence was not the issue. She was entitled to the full protection of the law, and I felt an irrational responsibility to help her get it. Personally, I was baffled. Was Celeste capable of murdering Ralph? I decided that Celeste was, indeed, capable of doing about anything. Ralph's death after making a holographic will, if in fact he had, was certainly convenient timing from Celeste’s standpoint. And still, it all seemed too simple. I would have expected Celeste to find a more devious route to Ralph's wealth.
Then there was the matter of Karl Wainwright. To my knowledge he had not returned to Borderview for at least five years, having departed shortly after what locals referred to as the “Oakley thing.” I had never met the young man, who would be in his early thirties now, but Cy Hamilton had told me once that Karl was a suspect in the unsolved rape and murder of a twelve-year old farm girl, Rachel Oakley. Her brutalized body had been found on the edge of the county fairgrounds following a visit by a traveling carnival, and, at first, Ike Bell had been convinced that someone from the carnival company had perpetrated the unspeakable acts. Later, however, witnesses had attested to seeing Karl hovering around the girl at the county fair. He had purchased treats for the girl and given her prizes he won at some of the carnival games. It had all seemed innocent enough at the time, but some folks wondered after the girl’s tragic death. Ike had not found a direct link to Karl and the girl, and one didn’t arrest the son of a wealthy, popular banker on the basis of rumors. Karl discreetly disappeared and the outrage died quickly. It was interesting that Karl had returned to Borderview only a few days before his father’s murder. I was curious about this man and had no doubt our paths would cross soon enough.