The Twelfth Child Page 14

  I wasn’t aware of those bonds when Scott Bartell settled up Will’s estate and if I hadn’t gone back to sorting through the boxes a few months later they might have been shipped off to the Salvation Army along with the rest of Will and Becky’s belongings. The bonds were in the very last carton, folded inside Papa’s worn out bible. United States Savings Bonds – ten of them, each one good for one-hundred-thousand dollars.

  Right off I knew Will was the one who bought those bonds and I had to believe it was with the money he’d got for the farm. He claimed the United States Government was the only place a person could be sure their money was safe and if you thought otherwise he’d argue you blue in the face. Get him started and he’d go on and on about how he and Papa barely scraped through that first year of the great depression, when the Chestnut Ridge Savings Bank closed their doors and left a bunch of farmers standing in the street, wondering how they’d get the money to pay their bills. “Papa was one of those farmers,” Will would say and then he’d tell how they counted up pennies and made do with the nothing more than the food they grew. “That was the year Papa did not give one red cent to the MethodistChurch,” Will would say to emphasize his point, for everyone knew Papa thought not tithing was as much a sin as thieving or lying.

  The day I found the bonds, I counted them at least a half-dozen times. I just couldn’t believe that anyone would pay so much money for a place that destroyed whole families. One-million dollars! It was a figure so big it got stuck in my throat if I tried to say it aloud but all I could think about was how Will and Becky had never gotten to take much pleasure from all those years of hard work. I cried for a long while, then I took the bonds out of Papa’s bible and hid them away for safekeeping.

  After that, I pretty much willed the bonds out of my head. A wiser person would have considered their worth, but given the bitter way I’d left Papa and the farm they weighed heavy on my conscience, like an ill-gotten gain. Anyway, once Destiny started watching over my finances, I didn’t have occasion to think about them. For a person who was such a spendthrift with her own money, she was surprisingly careful with mine and would count up every penny. At the end of the month she’d open the checkbook and show how she’d paid the gas and electric, the insurance, the groceries, and such. “Now, this check for five hundred dollars cash,” she’d explain, “that was what we used for household spending money.”

  “Destiny,” I told her, “You don’t have to account for what you spend,” but she did anyway. I don’t know if anybody else would have anticipated that her signing those checks could bring the poor child such heartache, but I can tell you, I surely didn’t.

  I suppose there’s no right time to die; when a young person’s life is cut short it’s considered a tragic injustice and yet it’s almost as pitiful when old folks outlive their friends and relatives and are lowered into the ground with nobody to mourn their passing. I was luckier than most, I had Destiny. When somebody who was real special to you is broken-hearted because you’ve died, it makes you feel like your life counted for something after all. I would never have wished Destiny one minute of sadness, not as sweet as she’d been to me, but her caring so much did my heart good. After the funeral, she’d walk around my house and sniff at clothes I used to wear, pick up a book that I’d been reading, or cry at the sight of something I’d left out of place – the same kind of things I’d do after Mama died. Why, I can still remember how I got attached to Mama’s old apron and wore it ‘till it fell apart – it was like having a piece of Mama to hold onto a bit longer.

  When I got bedridden, I asked Destiny to fetch me a white tablet and I wrote out what my intentions were. I’d seen television shows where people had scratched out their last will and testament on a stretch of sand or piece of rock, so this, I thought, should do just fine. It was only one page, but shaky as my hand had become it took every ounce of strength I could muster to complete it. When it was all done, I said, “Destiny, this here piece of paper states that you are to have all my worldly belongings after I die.” I folded the paper in half and stretched out my hand to her, but she acted like she hadn’t heard a word I’d said. “Destiny,” I repeated, “didn’t you hear?”

  “You’re not dying!” she said, and went right on shaking a duster at the window blinds. Anybody else might have thought she was just being impertinent, but I could see how she was swiping at the tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

  “Well, okay then,” I answered. “But, just in case I’ll leave this paper in the top drawer of my nightstand.” I had planned to explain about the bonds at that time, but feeling as she did, I thought I’d just wait a while. Of course, I thought I had a lot more time to get around to such things.

  With Destiny knowing that she was entitled to everything I owned, you’d think that once the funeral was over, she would have cleaned up my affairs and got rid of the house, but she didn’t. She just kept right on paying the bills and coming over once a week to clean, same as if I was still alive. I’d watch her polishing up that old Buick like she was getting ready to take me out for a Sunday drive and the whole while she’d be brushing back her tears. I was thinking, get rid of the old wreck if it’s gonna make you cry. At first it made me feel good to see someone so saddened by my passing, but at this point I had gotten beyond thoughts of myself and was wishing Destiny would get back to being the carefree person she’d always been.

  Almost three months passed before Destiny started getting out, and even then she’d head right back to places we’d gone together. On the first Saturday of June she went back to Le Grand Salon and had her toenails painted fire engine red, after that she swung by Macy’s and took to trying on outrageous hats. If there’s such a thing as poking a wish through the gates of Heaven and having it land on a person, I could swear it happened at that precise moment. Destiny suddenly slapped a bright yellow straw hat on top of her head and started laughing out loud, same as she did when we were there together. Then, to my amazement, she up and bought the hat! After that she went on a spending spree, bought herself a polka dot bathing suit, a pair of red lizard skin sandals and a genuine gold watch. That was pretty much the start of her getting back to being herself. Whenever she got to feeling lonesome, out she’d go, shopping. She’d spend an entire day rummaging through first one store, then another. She’d come home with fancy dresses, matching shoes, dangle earrings, anything that happened to catch her eye; one time it was a set of crystal lamps and a blue velvet sofa for her living room. I had to laugh at Destiny ‘cause she’d buy things for the pure pleasure of buying them. She was like spun cotton candy, you couldn’t help but love the sweetness of her, but she wasn’t the least bit practical. By August, she’d really gotten into the swing of things and that’s when she traded in my old Buick for a shiny new Thunderbird Ford. It made me wish I’d done such things while I was still alive.

  Even though she’d bought all kinds of new furniture and fixed her own house nice as a person might wish for, Destiny still came over to clean and take care of my place. Her being there was how this whole business with Elliott started up. It was just about six months after the funeral when he stopped by; no doubt to tell me some hard luck story about how he needed another handout. When Destiny answered the door, he didn’t look any too pleased and said sharply, “Don’t tell me dear old Abby isn’t at home!”

  Destiny gasped and just stood there with her mouth hanging wide open.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Elliott said. “Or did my lovely old auntie tell you to shoo me off next time I came around?”

  “Oh no. No indeed,” Destiny mumbled apologetically. “Please, come in.”

  Elliott tromped into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. “Got anything cold to drink? Some chips maybe? Or pretzels?”

  Destiny’s face was as white and hard set as a plaster mask, but she hurried into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ginger ale. “Sorry,” she said, “the cupboard is pretty bare, no chips or pretzels.”

  “Figures.” Elliot
t took a large gulp of soda.

  “I would have gotten in touch,” Destiny stuttered, “but, your aunt didn’t have your address or phone number in her book.”

  “That hurts,” he said in a smart-alecky way.

  “Poor Abigail was quite sick for a while.” Destiny spoke with little stops and starts to her words, like someone with something to say but no will for saying it. “There was nothing that could be done. It was pancreatic cancer. The doctor –”

  “Auntie’s dead?” Elliott looked like he couldn’t believe his own ears. “Dead?”

  “I know it’s terrible to find out this way –”

  “Terrible?” He started laughing, it was a hearty guffaw that rolled up from his stomach and echoed across the room. “Listen up, Florence Nightingale, this is the news I’ve been waiting to hear. That old witch has been the only thing standing between me and what is rightfully mine!”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say! Why, Abigail Lannigan was as generous a soul as I’ve ever known.”

  “Generous? Doling out a few hundred bucks every so often? Shit, I had to grovel just to get that!”

  “She never made anyone grovel! She gave you every cent you asked for.”

  “Ask? Why should I have to ask? That old bag had no right to the money! I’m the male Lannigan heir. Me! Elliott Emerson! By all rights, I should have inherited that miserable farm, and every cent that came out of it. If my mother’s stubborn-headed grandpa hadn’t screwed her over, I would have had it sooner! Dear old Auntie –”

  Before he had time to finish the thought, Destiny lifted her hand and whacked him in the face. “Get out of here,” she shouted. “Out! And, don’t ever come back!”

  “Fine! Just fork over the name of the lawyer handling the estate probate and I’m out of here!”

  Destiny pushed hard against Elliott’s chest. “Out!” she repeated. “I’d sooner die than see you get one cent of Abigail’s money!”

  “You?” Elliott sneered. “You, Little Miss White Trash, have nothing to say about it! Your days of free-loading are over!”

  Destiny punched Elliott in the chest with such force that he lost his balance, tumbled backward and landed on the coffee table with a crashing thud. “You pig!” she shouted and turned away.

  As soon as he got to his feet, Elliott snatched hold of Destiny’s ponytail and yanked her head back. “Just wait,” he snarled, “I’ll get you for this! Get you good!” He turned and stomped out the front door, slamming it so hard that the vibration caused a lamp to topple from the end table.

  When you’re looking at things from the other side, you can see the truth of what is in a person’s heart and when Destiny started bawling like a baby I knew it had nothing to do with money or material possessions. I also knew that the poor girl was in for a rough ride, because I’d seen the meanness in Elliott’s face.

  Two days later, was when Elliott marched himself into the Middleboro Police Department and said he wanted to report a crime. Tom Nichols was the detective on duty that day, which is something I have come to be thankful for. One glance at Detective Nichols and a person would right off think, now here’s a man who has the look of fairness about him.

  I could tell by the expression on Elliott’s face that he thought this fellow was going to be a pushover. Of course, Elliott was always misjudging a person, which was part of his problem – that and being so greedy. “I suspect this woman, Destiny Fairchild, has done away with my beloved aunt,” Elliott told the detective. “Abigail Anne Lannigan, she’s my great aunt on the maternal side.” He lowered his head in a most sorrowful way.

  “Done away with?”

  “Yes indeed. This woman is a neighbor, but she’s taken over my aunt’s house. She claims my aunt just up and died, but before anyone could ask about what happened, my aunt was planted in the ground!”

  “How old was this aunt?”

  “Old. Eighty, ninety. Maybe one hundred.”

  “Hmm.” Detective Nichols pitched his eyebrows down like he might have doubted the truth of what was being said. “Your aunt was well along in years. What makes you think her death wasn’t from natural causes?”

  “I think she caught this Fairchild woman stealing from her – she’d been doing it for ages! My aunt probably got wise to the scheme and ended up dead. All that money should go to blood relatives.”

  “Are there other relatives?”

  “No, just me. But I was close, real close, to my aunt.”

  “When was the last time you saw your aunt alive?”

  “Let’s see now,” Elliott had practiced exactly what he was going to say but he had not anticipated this particular question so he stumbled over his thoughts for a minute, then said, “I believe it was two years ago last November.”

  “You haven’t seen this aunt for two years?”

  “Um, I could be wrong about the date.”

  “Less than two years, maybe?”

  “Possibly more.”

  “So, you haven’t seen this real close aunt for two years?” Detective Nichols waited for a moment but when it appeared that an answer wasn’t forthcoming, he asked, “During that time did you speak to your aunt on the telephone?”

  “I can’t say that I recall a specific conversation.”

  “When does this neighbor claim your aunt passed away?”

  “As far as I can tell, it was about six months ago. Destiny Fairchild is an extremely belligerent woman and when I tried to inquire as to the circumstances of my aunt’s passing, she physically assaulted me. I tell you, Detective, she’s hiding something. Why, she’s taken over my aunt’s house, stolen her car, writes checks on her bank account – a while back the woman actually had me cashing checks for five hundred dollars, obviously, that was money she was stealing from my aunt’s account. I cashed the checks, of course, but I thought the money was for poor Aunt Abigail.”

  That was when Elliott whipped out the typewritten list of things he claimed Destiny had stolen from my house. The detective read down the list item by item and every so often he’d stop to ask about something. “A cherry wood chest,” he’d say, “you’re sure it’s missing?”

  Every time Elliott answered that he was certain it was, then he’d launch into some lengthy tale of how treasured that particular thing was and how meaningful it would be to have it back. Several times he took a quick sidestep from the item in question and bounced back to whatever money might be in my bank accounts. I watched the way Detective Nichols was scrutinizing Elliott’s face as he listened to the answers. It’s a funny thing about lies, they stand out on a person’s face like hives; anybody with a sharp eye can spot them.

  After Detective Nichols finished reading the list, he jotted a comment in the margin of his pad. It read: Complainant’s concern is missing goods/money. Homicide doubtful. He then turned the page and made note of where he could get in touch with Elliott. “I suppose that about wraps it up,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Is Destiny Fairchild gonna be arrested?” Elliott said fighting back a smirk.

  “We don’t just arrest people,” Tom Nichols answered. “First we investigate to find out whether or not a crime has actually been committed.”

  Right away Elliott started swearing up and down that it was not only a crime, but a crime of the very worst kind. “Swindling the elderly, what’s worse than that?” He looked the detective square in the eye and said this with the most earnest face imaginable.

  Detective Nichols nodded and said, “You’re right. Taking advantage of the elderly is a terrible crime and one that is dealt with severely, but until we conduct our investigation we don’t know that any crime has been committed.” He pushed the chair back from his desk and stood in a way that signified the conversation was over.

  Up until that point, I could have sworn Tom Nichols saw right through Elliott’s lies. I thought the detective would stuff those notes into the back of some file drawer and forget all about them the minute Elliott walked out the door, but unfortunately th
at’s not how it happened.

  The following Monday, the detective showed up on Destiny’s doorstep unannounced. He stood there for a few moments, looking around like he was taking the measure of things, then he rang the bell. Nobody answered because by that time Destiny had gone back to work at the restaurant and she was working the day shift. He waited on the front steps for a few minutes, then walked around back of the house, which is where he spotted Mary Beth McGurke, a woman who could talk the ear off a deaf dog.

  “Excuse me,” he called out, “Do you know when Miss Fairchild will be home?”

  “No telling,” Mary Beth answered, “That one keeps strange hours.”

  “Oh?” he said and turned to listen.

  I can’t say for certain that Mary Beth disliked Destiny, but she liked to gossip more than she liked anything or anybody, so it didn’t take much to get her started. She walked over to the detective and started talking real low, like a person confiding something of the greatest secrecy. “She supposedly works at a restaurant downtown, but, no one knows for sure if that’s what she really does. Back awhile she moved in with old Missus Lannigan and didn’t bother about going to work. I ask you, would a real job let a person show up for work just whenever they feel like it?”

  “Lived with Missus Lannigan? How long?”

  “No telling. But even before that, I saw her hauling pieces of furniture over into her own house. Big things. A lamp, a table, a huge overstuffed chair! Cartons – way more than I could keep track of! Many a time I wondered if Abigail Anne knew the girl was doing such a thing.”

  “Did you ever ask about it?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m not one to pry into other people’s business!”

  “Hmm.” Detective Nichols took a pad from his pocket and started to make notes. “Missus Lannigan, did she have any other friends?”