The Return of the Fallen Angels Book Club (A Hollis Morgan Mystery 3) (7 page)

She punched another number into the phone and got a message machine. She introduced herself and briefly went into why she was calling. “Denise, please give me a call tomorrow when it’s convenient for you to talk about Shelby. I’m anxious to resolve the issues regarding your mother’s house.”

“What about Shelby Patterson? What issues?” George came in and took a seat across from her.

“George, let’s meet in your office.” Hollis got up and walked with him down the hall. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m not sure I’m right for the Patterson case.”

Instead of sitting in front of his desk, she chose the upholstered side chair. His corner office was three times the size of hers and had a comfortable seating area as well as a small meeting table. He sat across from her.

“Tell me what’s happened.”

Hollis told him about the conversation with Shelby as well as the visits from her family.

George frowned. “He threatened you?” He crossed his arms across his chest. “You’re right. You’re a probate attorney, not a family counselor or a street cop. Contact your client and send her a cancellation form.”

“Still .…” Hollis ran her fingers through her hair. “I hate to give up on my first client before I’ve had the chance to do anything.” She sighed. “I might be overreacting; when I say it out loud to you, the situation doesn’t sound as dire.”

“If these people are violent—”

“They’re not violent, they’re just … loud.” Hollis laughed. “It’s true. I realize I’m all hyped up over loud voices. What’s the matter with me?” She took out a pen and started writing a note. “George, forget this conversation. I’m fine. I’ve already made contact with the sheriff about the best way to handle this. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

George shrugged and stood. “Don’t burn out trying to be an ace, Hollis.”

“Who, me?” Hollis looked down at her hands. “Ah, George, one other thing … I kind of have another client I’d like to sign.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair. “Define ‘kind of.’ ”

Hollis went through the circumstances of Jeffrey Wallace’s death, his trust, and her conversations with Brian.

“So, I’m not sure if he’s technically a client. The Fallen Angels are in it together.”

“Are you giving legal advice?” he asked. “Is he willing to pay you?”

“Yes, some amount, anyway, for being co-executor He says he doesn’t have the money, so I would be limiting the legal work.”

“If you’re going to be talking to another attorney, I think you should write up a client engagement form. Also, the responsibility and liability will be with you, not with your book club members.”

“I know.” She sighed.

At home Hollis put her feet up on the bolster of her bed and took a sip from her glass of Zinfandel. John was running late. He had to drive up the coast to Mendocino “to see a man.” Hollis wondered if this was a typical Homeland Security assignment. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t a worrier. She used the extra time to clean out the drawers in the bathroom. The mundane task would help her to wind down her brain after a day with the Pattersons.

By the time John arrived an hour later, Hollis was reading and only mildly annoyed. They chatted easily over a reheated dinner.

“Spring cleaning a little early, aren’t you?” John pointed to the full garbage bag in the bathroom doorway.

Hollis grimaced. “I had a difficult conversation with a client. This is my way of venting.”

“Ah, this is good to know in case ….” He stopped.

She looked up. “In case what?”

He reached down and brought her to a standing position. “In case we ever live together.”

Hollis suddenly knew what it felt like to look panic in the face. “John, I … I’m ….”

John pulled back and let her arms go. “I didn’t say tomorrow.” He stiffened. “But maybe it’s never going to happen.”

Hollis touched his arm. “No, no … I’d like us to live together … sometime. It’s just that I … I’m … I’m not there yet.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I know.”

T
uesday was starting out a lot calmer than the day before. From the package of information Brian sent over, Hollis reviewed Jeffrey’s separate will and highlighted the parts that spoke to his personal wishes. She was almost finished when the phone rang, jarring her.

“Hollis, this is Denise Patterson-Hoyle. I got your message about Shelby. I guess we need to talk. I called her before I called you, and she explained what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Like her brother, Denise sounded educated and professional. Hollis took out her notebook. “Yes. To be frank, I called to tell you that I didn’t think I’m the right attorney for Shelby’s case.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Well before we go further, since then I’ve had second thoughts, and I’ve decided to continue.” Hollis cleared her throat. “However, in the last few days I was visited by your brother and his children. Both times I was very uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Denise said quietly. “I’m sorry, real sorry, but Shelby is counting on you. I’m glad you changed your mind because if you won’t help her, who would? I’ll talk to my brother, but he doesn’t always listen to me either. When Mama divided up her estate, she gave me her bank accounts and some jewelry. But she only left Darol some savings bonds.”

Hollis knew this from reading Mrs. Patterson’s trust, but it didn’t address the issue of the occupancy of the house.

“Denise, I only took Shelby’s case because Rena asked me to. I’m brand new at this. Disputed wills are not unusual, but this is the type of thing that can rip families apart. Are you sure you want to go down this path?”

“It’s what my mother wanted. I’m not going to go against her wishes just because it’s uncomfortable.”

Hollis took a deep breath. “Okay, then I also want to point out that there are plenty of lawyers out there who are experienced in domestic er … cases and would be much better at handling the issues facing Shelby. I’m still going to suggest to her that she may want to contact one of them. I don’t want to waste her money or time. Email me and I’ll send you names of at least two attorneys who specialize in … in family probate and domestic disputes.”

“But if we still want you, what happens next?”

“Shelby is my client; I’ve spoken with her and said the same thing I’m saying to you now: I need your help. I have to show that we went overboard trying to give Darol and his family notice. If I’m to continue, I need you and your family to contact Darol, Sonny, and Joy and tell them why they must leave and what the consequences will be if they don’t.”

There was a silence on the other end. Hollis waited.

“Okay, tell me exactly what you want me to say,” Denise murmured. “It’s not going to be easy.”

This time Hollis was the last to arrive at the Fallen Angels’ meeting.

She had tried repeatedly to reach Shelby to arrange a date for her to accompany Hollis on a visit to the house. But she had not returned her calls. She would try her again after the meeting.

Quick greetings came from around the room as she sat at the head of the table. Each member already had the preliminary medical examiner’s report and the compilation of Brian’s information she’d mailed out. She passed around copies of the final ME report. The library’s community room grew quiet as everyone began reading through the material. Gene, pulling at his eyebrows, looked up. “Did you notice that the original will had only one beneficiary—Brian? He might have an ulterior motive for wanting his stepmother out of the picture.”

She nodded. “I thought that too. Remember, I’m only able to give you copies of the trust because he authorized me. In that vein, I think we need to make sure that Jeffrey didn’t have any other relatives.”

“He didn’t, I checked.” Miller was already working on his second origami crane. “Besides, it’s not as if it’s that large of an estate.”

“Good thinking ahead,” Hollis said and pointed to his paper art. “Miller, I’ve always wanted to know what you do with all the cranes you make. You must have thousands by now.”

He gave her a shy smile. “My niece is an artist. She forms them into huge paper sculptures for a pediatric ward. So they serve a dual purpose: stress relief for me and they bring joy to some kids.”

Hollis was moved. “I had no idea.”

“Me neither,” Gene said.

Rena patted his shoulder. “That’s real nice.”

“Yeah, dude, I’m impressed,” Richard said. Leaning in, he added. “Look, I hate to bring us back to our task at hand, but I did a little pre-checking of my own.” He picked up a stack of pages from a folder in front of him. “I went through the tax returns Brian gave you. They included the two years before Jeffrey was married and the year before he was killed. And they’re pretty interesting.”

He had everyone’s attention.

“Well?” Hollis prompted.

“Prior to meeting the current Mrs. Wallace, Jeffrey earned a typical civil servant salary. It was his only income source. He didn’t own any other property.” He paused.

Hollis sneaked a peek at the others. They reacted the same as she did. It had hit them all at the same time that this was Jeffrey Wallace they were talking about. This was their former parole officer whose life they were poking around in.

Richard cleared his throat.

“Ahem, he didn’t own any other property.” Richard was warming to his subject. “He and Frances Wallace filed a joint return in 2008. That year the couples’ income is reported as triple what Jeffrey had filed prior to the marriage.”

Rena straightened in her seat. “Wow, what does she do for a living?”

“She lists her occupation as ‘consultant,’ ” Richard put on his glasses and picked up an Excel worksheet. “But my best guess based on last year’s tax return is, ol’ Frances makes her real money as a gambler.”

Gene and Miller sat up in their seats.

Gene reached for Richard’s copy of the tax returns. “You’re kidding me.”

“Are you sure?” Miller picked out the tax return from his packet. “Jeffrey doesn’t … I mean
didn’t
strike me as someone who would be attracted to a gambler.”

“Maybe it wasn’t just the money he was attracted to,” Hollis said.

She had left the tax returns to Richard to plow through, but now she read her copy of the most recent return. Three separate reporting dates totaled a five-figure income from the Lucky Spin Casino.

Richard had prepared a worksheet and now he handed copies around the table “Hey, guys, you’re just looking at one year. When you dig into the schedule, there are fourteen instances of declared gambling proceeds from previous years offsetting twice that number of gambling losses.”

“You are kidding me,” Gene repeated.

Rena lifted a single well-arched eyebrow. “Are you telling us Jeffrey was rich? I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong here. I don’t believe it.”

Hollis frowned. “We all put him on a pedestal, but he’s still human. Besides, having money or even being a gambler doesn’t make him a criminal.”

“Hey, he was honest enough to report their gains on a tax return.” Miller smiled. “You’ve got to give him credit for that.”

“He doesn’t need our credit,” Hollis snapped. “Is that all, Richard?”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” He straightened his papers into a small stack. “Maybe you could ask Brian to hunt around for Frances’ old tax returns. Then we would know for sure she’s the shark.”

Gene nodded. “Let Hollis and me see what we can do. Did you find out anything, Rena?”

“Well, Frances doesn’t circulate in any social circles I’m familiar with. I’m checking with some friends to see if she has made any significant fundraising or charitable contributions. But now—knowing she hangs out with a whole different crowd—I’ll check some other sources.”

Richard smiled. “You know any mobsters?”

Rena didn’t smile back. “Maybe.”

“Okay, let’s focus,” Hollis chided. “We’re pulling in all these pieces about a man’s life. But what does it have to do with Brian’s hunch that Frances is up to no good?” She rubbed her forehead. “Miller, see what you can find out about their vacation last year in Hawaii.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Here. Brian provided a copy of their reservation. It’s a real long shot that anyone will remember them—”

“Actually, I know someone who heads the Hawaiian hotel trade association. They might be able to give me a contact with the hotel staff.” Miller pulled out a highlighter and underlined the hotel name and date.

Hollis smiled. “That’s good. I’m going to see if I can speak with the attorney who drew up the trust. He might have insights that he’d be willing to share.”

“And I’ll keep digging,” Richard said.

The next morning, Hollis’ first call was to Brian Wallace. She was relieved when he agreed to sign a client form appointing her co-executor, although at half her hourly rate. Still, George was right to insist she sign him. Now she’d have access to Triple D’s resources and the clout of the firm’s name when she contacted the trust attorney for the Wallaces—her next call.

The firm offices of Sloane & Stivers weren’t far from Hollis’ own. When she reached Anthony Stivers over the phone, she could tell that he wasn’t wild about speaking with her.

She thought she heard papers shuffling as he spoke. “I’m not sure what I could tell you about the trust. The contents speak for themselves. It’s clear the family didn’t want to continue with my services.”

Hollis understood his reluctance to brief someone he perceived as stealing his client.

“Yes, I could tell it was a well-written trust, but I represent his son, who is the executor. My questions are not about the trust itself. I won’t take a lot of your time.”

Shuffle. Shuffle.

“I have an opening at two o’clock this afternoon. Will that work for you?” he said.

Hollis smiled to herself. “That will work just fine. See you then.”

She marked her calendar and then tried again to reach Shelby. No answer. She left another message on her cellphone.

Hollis took out Jeffrey’s trust and took detailed notes on a separate pad. It was a boilerplate revocable trust with Frances having use of all the assets until her death, at which time the remainder would pass to Brian. Both Frances and Jeffrey had separate
pour-over wills,
which specified that assets not included or known at the time of the original trust would become assets of the trust upon the party’s death. It also allowed specific bequests to be made outside of the formal trust. Hollis knew that clients used it primarily for personal items they wanted to go to specific beneficiaries. The trust was very straightforward. She flipped through the pages of the wills.

Jeffrey had bequeathed all his separate and personal possessions to Brian. The remainder of his estate, if Frances did not survive him, would go to Brian while he was alive, then to the Public Library Foundation.

She read on. Frances’ will paralleled Jeffrey’s, except that all her personal items went to a sister in Oregon.

For a brief moment, Hollis thought of her own possessions. Did she have anything of value to leave behind to someone who would care? Just as quickly she put the thought aside. She hadn’t spoken to her family since before the trial. Her sister had emailed her after it was over to say that the family was embarrassed by her involvement but relieved that Hollis wasn’t implicated. 

She squared her shoulders. No one in her family had responded to her letter indicating she had passed the bar.

Anthony Stivers didn’t have a corner office, but he had a real fireplace and an expansive sixteenth-floor view of the San Raphael Bridge. More importantly, he validated parking. All these advantages gained him high marks from Hollis. His firm was located in a recently renovated early 1900s bank building. The original structure had only five floors. A UC Berkeley architectural student had won a national contest for the best reuse design, allowing the building to retain its historic interest while gaining eleven new floors. The original façade treatment was carefully integrated, giving the landmark a new life.

Stivers’ appearance matched the building. He wore a crisp white shirt, gold cuff links, button-down navy sweater vest, navy bow tie, and gray slacks. He looked very early 20
th
century. Hollis couldn’t help but glance at his desk, expecting to see the kind of green eye shade worn by professionals in the early 20
th
century to protect them from the glare of the newly invented light bulb.

“Water? Juice?” His wiry Ichabod Crane frame moved stiffly, and gestures were almost robotic.

Hollis declined.

“Very well.” He came from around his desk and sat in the adjacent chair. “What can I tell you about the Wallace trust?”

Hollis had her opening. “Does the client meeting stand out in your mind at all? Do you remember Jeffrey and Frances Wallace?”

“When you called, I remembered them only slightly. Since then I reviewed their file and re-read their trust documents.” He picked up a pair of glasses, put them snugly up against the bridge of his nose and opened up a green legal file. “I remember them well. It’s hard to believe Jeffrey is dead. Do they know who did it? He didn’t really want a trust—too expensive for his tastes. Like most people, he thought a will would be sufficient. Fortunately, he left all decisions on finances up to his wife, who was very financially savvy. Jeffrey Wallace, except for his favorite charity and one side matter, left everything to Frances and Brian. After that he didn’t want to get involved.”