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Authors: Barbara Allan

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Soon chair legs were screeching as the Romeos stood; Harold, ever the gentleman, assisted me to my feet.
But it was Wendell who gave the parting shot: “Maybe Lillian
did
make a will, and somebody ... guess who ... suppressed it. Ever consider that?”
I actually hadn't, I'm embarrassed to say.
“Vivian,” Vern said as we stood at the register, “you're thick with old Wayne Ekhardt, aren't you?”
“Wayne's still our family lawyer,” I admitted.
“Isn't that old workhorse ever going to retire?” Vern grinned and shook his head. “Well, if you're interested in this subject, you ought to ask him about this. I'm pretty sure, back around that time, that he was the Lawrences' lawyer.”
 
NOTE FROM BRANDY: Because Mother was not given a word-count limit, she wound up writing a double-length chapter. In order to preserve my sanity (and yours), I have divided it into two sections. This will give you the opportunity to (a) put this book aside, turn off the light and go to sleep, (b) toss cold water in your face and dry off and mentally prepare yourself, (c) self-medicate, preferably a nice glass of White Zin, or (d) press on after taking a deep breath. You're welcome.
 
Mother's Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
Usually, the best items in a storage unit are in the back, often hidden from view—that's why I bring a floodlight and stilts.
Chapter Seven
(A.K.A. Chapter Six)
W
ayne Ekhardt occupied an office atop the venerable Laurel Building, an eight-story Art Deco edifice just a hop, skip, and jump away from the Riverview Café. (Figuratively speaking, that is—not much literal hopping, skipping, and jumping these days, with these artificial hips!)
At one time, the successful trial attorney had owned the entire shootin' match, using all but the first floor for his flourishing practice (although he'd never taken on a partner, Wayne's world had once swarmed with legal secretaries and interns). Then just as the city's most famous criminal attorney seemed to be easing into semiretirement, Wayne sold the building to an engineering firm with the stipulation that he be granted a lifetime lease of the eighth floor at one dollar a year—possibly the worst business deal the engineering firm ever made, considering that Wayne was still practicing at nearly ninety.
I entered the refurbished lobby, took the modern elevator up (whatever happened to those original Deco fixtures?), then stepped off on the eighth floor ... and back into time.
While the other floors had been remodeled into typical office building sterility, this one retained its original flavor: scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramic-tiled floor, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, antique scone wall lighting, even an old porcelain drinking fountain (still functioning).
One could imagine Philip Marlowe in a trench coat and fedora pausing halfway down the hall to light up a Philip Morris! (Or is that Philip Morris pausing to light up a Philip Marlowe? Afraid I'm no expert on the hard-boiled detective field.)
Wayne—long since a one-man operation—had retained only a few choice clients (myself included) and perhaps ten years ago had pared his business hours back to only one afternoon a week, which luckily enough happened to be today.
As I walked down the long corridor to his riverview corner office, I tried the doorknobs of the ancient offices on either side of the hall.
Curses!
Still locked and inaccessible. One day Vivian Borne would get inside those treasure caves and find a trove of antiques: rolltop desks, oak swivel chairs, coat trees, ancient typewriters, banker's lamps and who-could-say what Art Moderne booty.
Arriving at Wayne's office, I rapped on the pebbled-glass door; receiving no answer (nor having expected to), I tried the knob, which turned, then went on in and found the inevitable.
Wayne was seated behind his grand old desk, head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open, looking even more frail than usual in a suit that had become too large. More than once this sight had given me a start, as I assumed my friend had finally passed into that Great Court of Last Resort. But I could see his nostrils quivering, so I still had representation.
I coughed loudly, and when Wayne didn't stir, I simply said, “Ah
-hemmm!
”
His eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to focus on his guest.
He tried to speak. Coughed. Coughed some more. Then found his voice. And a smile.
“Why, Vivian, my dear,” he said. “Is there any more pleasant sensation than awaking to look into the eyes of Vivian Borne?”
He was always more flirtatious when I wasn't accompanied by Brandy.
“Hello, you rascal.” I took one of two visitor chairs opposite him. “I don't have an appointment, and apologize for dropping by ... you did once say I was always welcome.”
Pulling his shrunken self up into his suit, he waved a bony hand. “And you are. No appointment necessary, Viv. I always have time for you.”
I smiled slyly. “The feeling is mutual, Wayne.”
At one time, after both our spouses had passed away, I'm confident I could have snagged Wayne—he'd always had a thing for me. But a criminal lawyer's wife stands in the wings, and I'm more comfortable center stage.
“What's on your mind, Vivian?”
“There are those who would say asking me that question is a dangerous one.”
“I've survived a lot in this career of mine. Please be frank.”
“Glad to hear you say that, Wayne, because I may be overstepping.”
“Nonsense.”
I drew in a breath, let it out, smiled again, not slyly. “You represented Milton and Lillian Lawrence at one time, didn't you?”
He frowned in surprise. “Heavens. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, you know how it is. The Romeos and I were just having a gab fest, and—”
“Ah,” he said, beaming, “you and the Romeos are speaking again ... splendid. I hated to see your ... public spiritedness, in that unpleasant matter last winter ... get in the way of old friendships.”
I waved that off. “Water over the bridge. At any rate, you know how those boys like to gossip, and something came up that I find intriguing.”
“Oh?”
“We were wondering if it's true that Lillian never made a will ... and if so ... why?”
Wayne studied me so long and motionlessly that I almost thought he'd drifted back to sleep.
Then he said, “It's been ages since I represented the Lawrence family—thirty years, at least.”
“That was a lawyerly response, Wayne.” I gave him a tiny teasing smile.
Another long moment. “There's such a thing as client confidentiality.”
“Lillian is gone.”
“Milton isn't.” He sighed. “Let's just say Milton and I disagreed on whether or not his wife needed a will.”
“And you thought she
did
.”
“Yes. Certainly. Ridiculous with that kind of wealth not to. And ... there was another reason.”
I felt I knew. “The estranged son, you mean. James?”
He nodded and sighed. “The boy who went to Canada to avoid the draft. Milton assured his wife that he would do the right thing by the boy, and showed her his own will, with a generous provision for James, to convince her. Anyway, Milton could always bully his wife into doing things his way, for business reasons.”
“But you thought doing the ‘right thing' by a draft dodger meant one thing to Lillian and another to Milton.”
“I felt confident that if Lillian preceded Milton in death that, yes, Milton would remove the boy from his will. He'd already cut him off from any kind of supportive funds.”
“Oh dear. And is that what Milton finally did?”
Wayne shrugged. “Frankly, I don't know. Milton did me the favor of finding another family counsel. But my guess is that James has been removed from his will, and as for Lillian? If she did have a will, none was ever found.”
I rose and reached a hand across the desk and he took it. We didn't shake hands—more of a clasp, a warm one.
“Thank you for your time, Wayne.” At the door I turned and said coquettishly, “Be sure to bill me, now!”
“Of course, Vivian.”
But he wouldn't, because he never did.
 
As I've mentioned before, Brandy and I maintained a booth at the antiques mall, which was housed in a yet-tobe-restored Victorian building at the tail end of the shopping district, just before Main Street rose into the bluffs where the rich of Serenity once dwelled (some still did).
The building had an ornate facade, a unique corner entrance, and a notorious reputation, several murders having taken place there, which did not seem to bother antiques hunters looking for a bargain. In fact, the old building's history only attracted tourists and antiques fiends. (Fiends in the collecting sense, not homicidal.)
The current owner, Ray Spillman, was a short, spry, slender fellow in his late seventies with thinning gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a slash of a mouth.
At the moment, he was busy with a customer behind the center circular counter, so I went to check on our booth, hopeful we'd had some sales, October being a good month for antiques shoppers. Something about the cool, crisp air brings them out.
I surveyed the booth, noting with relief that among the happily missing were the brass spittoon, a Roseville vase (Clematis pattern), a Honey Bear cookie jar (rough—meaning chipped), and a small Whiting and Davis silver mesh evening bag, that didn't hold squat.
However—Brandy insists a sign of a bad writer is if he / she begins a sentence with “however,” saying that word belongs in the middle of a sentence, though I could care less (Brandy also insists it's “couldn't care less,” which just doesn't sound right) (but I digress)—
however
, much to my chagrin, one item had been added to our inventory: a bright yellow smiley-face bedside clock.
I snatched up the item, marched over to the counter where Ray—having finished with his customer—was now tinkering with an old sewing machine.
Placing the demonically grinning clock before him by way of accusation, I demanded, “And what is
this
doing back in our booth?”
Ray looked at me sheepishly, then muttered, “Brandy returned it. She figured out you bought it yourself, Viv, just to ... you know.”
“I
do
know, Ray. To get rid of it.”
The clock had been with us from the beginning of our antiques booth, one of Brandy's early acquisitions—which I'd advised her against. Even after marking the clock down to a measly simoleon, we couldn't get rid of it.
I said reproachfully, “You were supposed to throw the wretched object away, so Brandy wouldn't find out!”
Ray shrugged his slight shoulders. “She found it out back—in the Dumpster.”
I
harrumped
my annoyance at this bit of information, though one aspect did please me: Brandy—always one to haughtily refuse to go through trash with me looking for treasure—had finally joined the ranks of us Dumpster-divers!
Returning to the booth, I retagged the clock at five dollars, and placed it in a prominent spot. Then I dug into my orange tote bag and brought out Bix Beiderbecke's cornet. Carefully, I removed the protective tissue from around the instrument and—finding just the right spot on the pegged-board wall—hung it amidst the clutter.
What better place to hide a treasure, than out in plain sight, among trash like the smiley-face clock?
To discourage anyone from
playing
the cornet, I removed the mouthpiece (Bach, no. seven)
plus
the center finger valve. And to discourage anyone from
buying
it, I marked the cornet at a firm five hundred.
The sales receipt and letter of authentication from Stephen to Anna would go into my safe deposit box, along with the mouthpiece and valve.
I had another reason for “hiding” the cornet in our booth: I could get to it at any time I wanted, twenty-four-seven, because I had kept a key to the mall from when I'd filled in for Ray while he was recouperating from a hernia. Plus I knew the code to the building's security system. Knowledge is power, they say. And they're right.
Pleased with myself, I returned to Ray, who was bent over the dissembled sewing machine, an oil-can coroner performing a mechanical autopsy.
I said, replacing my irritation with sugar and cream, “Ray, my darling? A favor?”
Ray looked up like a puppy recently spanked for piddling, sensing an opportunity to get back in good graces. “You name it, Viv. Feel like I let you down with the clock incident.”
Men. So easy to handle in the short term, such a burden over time.
I said, “I want to know the name of anyone—and I do mean
anyone
—who expresses interest in the cornet I just put in the booth.”
Ray knew better than to ask why. “You got it, Viv.”
I turned to leave, then glanced back.
“Say, Ray?”
“Yes?”
I turned back to him. “Did you ever happen to do any business with that fellow Big Jim Bob?”
“The one that got killed?”
“Yes.
That
Big Jim Bob.”
“Whose body you and Brandy found?”
“I believe we've established the man's identity, Ray.”
He frowned, suspicious now that he realized I was on another murder inquiry. “What
kind
of business, Viv?”
I gestured around us. “Antiques? Did he try to sell you any?”
Ray thought about it, hesitant to get involved in murder; but finally he nodded. “He
tried
to sell ... but I didn't buy.”
“Why not? Too high an asking price?”
“Actually, no ... almost the opposite. It was a damn bargain, pardon my French. But he couldn't provide me with proof of purchase.”

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