me alone!” I pounded the keyboard. “I’ve told the police about you. You won’t get away with this.”
As soon as I sent that off, I suddenly felt more vulnerable than I had in my whole life. I logged offline before she could respond to my last email. Then my hand hovered over the telephone. But if I called the police, what could they do? What could I do? What should I do might be a better question. At least I’d confirmed in my mind that GQ was most likely a female.
I decided to read the file. After all, that’s what I really wanted to do.
I closed the drapes, turned off the telephone, locked all the doors and still felt accusing eyes staring at the back of my head so I unplugged my monitor. I do guilt very well.
I started the coffee maker and threw out the empty ice cream carton somebody left in the freezer. Desperately in need of carbohydrates, I found and discarded hairy bread, green-crusted cheese and something I hadn’t the courage to identify. My shopping fairy was falling behind in her duties.
Finally, sucking on a leftover candy cane from last year’s Christmas tree, I curled up in a corner of the sofa to read the contents of the file. The pockets of the folder were stuffed with documents and when I opened the file, a medium-sized manila envelope fell into my lap.
It was grimy and stained with a document stuck inside. It looked like some kind of certificate with curlicue designs around the border. I tried to pry it loose, but a corner of the paper split, leaving traces of the ink behind. I stopped and placed the envelope on the end table, hoping I hadn’t damaged something important.
The largest file was a copy of a will. I read that a wealthy woman named Cressida Fortunata had apparently left a lot of money to her heir, her precious two-year-old Simmis Fortunata. Upon her demise, the faithful housekeeper, Rhondalee O’Toole, would inherit the estate with the stipulation that she’d see to the care and nurturing of Simmis. It sounded straightforward to me, except for two cryptic entries. One specified that “Simmis’s guardian and any of his descendants must reside in the mansion to benefit from this inheritance.”
The second was even stranger. “If Miss O’Toole is still engaged to C. at the time of my death, should it occur before the wedding, our arrangement will still be honored.”
Next there was an article clipped from the local daily newspaper: Cressida Louise Hawkins-Fortunata died on Wednesday, June first. Suffering from liver failure, she was eligible for a transplant. The eighty-eight-year-old timber heiress refused the life-saving operation, arguing that she had lived a good life. “This surgery should be reserved for younger recipients who still have their lives ahead of them.”
The article went on to describe many generous bequests to charitable organizations and scholarships.
A scrap of paper slid from the file and lodged in the space between my cushion and the arm of the sofa. I absently plucked it out to tuck back into the folder, but my fingers retained their grip. It was the soft, flannel-like texture of the paper that captured my attention. Wadded tightly, then carefully smoothed out, was a withdrawal slip from the Fortunata bank account. Written in blue ink was the amount, $84,000. The signature had been scribbled over, so I held the scrap up to the light bulb in the lamp beside me and tried to read through the obliterating marks. It looked like Cressida Fortunata, but maybe that was because it’s what I expected to see.
According to a paper clipped collection of handwritten scraps of paper, Millicent Fortunata-Turkken had withdrawn large sums of money from the Fortunata accounts.
I thought it strange that a housekeeper would inherit when there was a daughter. The next document answered my question.
A newspaper clipping showed the picture of a slightly overweight woman in her late thirties attempting to hide her face from the camera. It was Millicent Turkken being arrested for fraud and embezzlement.
Her attorney, a well-groomed, handsome man with dark, Eastern European features, accompanied her.
Next I found a small spiral notebook tucked into a pocket in the folder. It contained a short list of names. One of them was the lawyer named Fieldstone Hanaa. He’d been in the news a lot lately. There was a bold red question mark beside Judge Little’s name. Someone had paper-clipped to the notebook a folded copy of a court order signed by the judge. It appointed someone named Bert Poole as Cressida’s guardian ad lidem.
A quick shuffle through a stapled stack of odd-sized papers revealed a statement from Cressida’s doctor.
He wrote: “While Mrs. Fortunata appears to be mentally alert, I feel some concern for her ability to protect her assets. She believes an attorney is taking items from her home under the guise of obtaining appraisals. She states that she has not given anyone permission to do this and none of the items have been returned. I personally have noted rare collectibles missing while on a recent house call. She also complains that a woman claiming to be her daughter is taking advantage of her. Mrs. Fortunata insists that the woman is not her daughter.”
Though he made no recommendation, the doctor seemed to believe she might need protective assistance.
So far, all this information raised more questions without providing any answers.
It appeared that Poole hadn’t had much time to perform in his capacity as guardian. The order was signed just two days before Cressida’s death.
Inserted upside down in the file was a memo in what might have been Poole’s handwriting.
The note, perhaps written to himself, said “I’ve noticed some irregularities in Mrs. F’s accounts. Regret that I am prevented from pursuing this matter. Wonder if judge Little will let me look into it?”
It, too, had been crumpled and apparently rescued.
All this was conjecture, but it was all I had.
Another thin stack was labeled inventory. Large sums were written next to items such as antique weapons, furniture and picture frames. One item on the list was a cherry armoire, circa 1790, and beside it was a question mark with 29K scribbled in parenthesis.
One puzzling item I found stuck in the back pocket of the folder was a blank page torn from a yellow legal pad. It was protected inside a plastic sleeve. I turned it over, opened the cover a little bit in order to sniff it, and even held it up to the light, but nothing provided me with a clue to its importance. I held it up again and that’s when I saw the faint indentations in the paper. Too bad I didn’t have a light table at home. I could have back-lit the page and possibly read the imprint.
What was Conrad’s involvement in all this? Bet he was blackmailing an embezzler; wouldn’t put it past the Twit. I was beginning to wish I had minded my own business, but that was water over the dam. I became involved the moment the kid was shot with a poisoned bullet.
I needed insurance.
Donner Harris agreed to meet with me that evening at six-thirty, giving me enough time to complete my business with Tomas and maybe find a chance to interview Twitchell.
I needed to sleep, but my dreams were too much nightmare, not enough rest.
I made another pot of coffee and defrosted my freezer to pry loose a TV dinner embedded in the permafrost at the back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After a freezer-burned
