convict you, and convicting you would upset the will.”
For once, Max lost his cool. His face reddened. “Well you son of a bitch.”
Steve shrugged. “Funny. That’s what Sheila said.”
31
It was a third-floor walkup in a grungy brownstone east of Allen. No one seemed to be home. Steve Winslow had been pounding on the door to no response. He was just turning to go when the lock clicked back and the door opened, revealing a gaunt man with disheveled gray hair and bloodshot, sleepy eyes. “Mr. Baxter?” Steve inquired. “Yeah?”
“Steve Winslow. I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney.”
For the first time, there was a gleam of interest in those tired eyes.
“Oh. Come in. Come in.”
Theodore Baxter stepped back and ushered Steve into a small, ill-furnished living room.
Baxter pointed to the couch. “Please sit down.”
Steve sat. Baxter moved some papers off an old easy chair and sat too.
“Excuse me,” he said. “But I was asleep. I work nights.”
“I know. Castle Hotel. Night clerk.”
“I see you do your homework.”
“I try.”
Baxter shook his head. “Terrible business, this thing with Sheila. I can’t imagine her doing such a thing.”
“I can’t either.”
“You think she’s innocent?”
“Yes I do.”
“And so do I. But, of course, it’s not what we think, it’s what a jury will think. So how can I help you?”
“I hoped you could clear up a few points for me.”
“Certainly. Would you care for some coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Would you mind if I made some? I find it hard to function when I get up without coffee.”
“Go right ahead.”
Baxter got up, ducked into his kitchen alcove and put a pot of water on the stove.
Steve waited patiently while Baxter clattered around in the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers.
“Sure you won’t have some?” Baxter called. “It’s only instant, but it’s not that bad.”
“No thanks. I’ve had my daily quota.”
Baxter emerged from the kitchen, holding a cracked coffee mug. He sat down and took a sip. A bit of color seemed to return to his cheeks. He looked up at Steve.
“I presume that Max has told you all about me?”
“I believe he mentioned you, yes.”
“I’m sure he did,” Baxter said. He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can make you see it from my point of view. My dear brother Max is a pompous, self-righteous, patronizing, moralistic snob.”
“I don’t find that hard to see.”
Baxter took another sip. “My father was the same way. Even more so, if that’s possible. At any rate, he was the stingiest man in the world. Except when it came to my sister. Alice, Sheila’s mother. He lavished all his love and affection on her. And money. Max and I got nothing. Well, Max was younger, and he didn’t find the situation quite so galling. He was quite a stick-in-the-mud even then. But I was the poor son of a rich man, and I couldn’t stand it. I was desperate to get away and get some money of my own so that I could break out of the situation.
“Well, you know what happened. I met some men who had a scheme to make some money, big money. It was a crooked scheme. I was arrested. I served two years in prison. When I got out, my father and my sister were dead, and Max was in control.
“So now I’m a night clerk in a second-rate hotel, and Max is God Almighty.”
Baxter paused and took another sip of coffee. “I know this isn’t what you came here to ask me, but when someone’s been talking with Max I like to have equal time.”
“I can understand that.”
“So, what did you want to know?”
“To begin with, what time was it when you and Phillip left Max’s apartment?”
“Eleven twenty-five.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. We had to get to Port Authority to catch the eleven forty-five to Boston. We just made it.”
“How did you get there?”
“By cab.”
“Did you see Phillip off on the bus?”
“No, I hopped out at Forty-second Street and took the subway downtown. But Phillip called me from Boston that night. He said he’d just made it.”
“Phillip’s there now?”
“Yes. Harvard Law School. School is the one thing Max is willing to shell out for.”
“Okay. Tell me about your father.”
Baxter looked up in surprise. “What about my father?”
“Any chance his death wasn’t an accident?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Any chance he was murdered?”
“Murdered.”
“Yes.”
Baxter shook his head. “Not a chance in the world. He had cancer. His doctors gave him six months. He actually lasted nine.”
“Uh huh. What about Sheila’s father?”
“What about him?”
“Any chance he’s still alive?”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
Baxter thought that over. “You mean is Sheila illegitimate?”
“That’s one possibility. Another is that her parents were married, and then they divorced or separated. Her mother found it easier just to let Sheila think her father was dead.”
“Why is it important?”
“If Sheila’s father is living, he might be in a position to contest your father’s will and upset Sheila’s trust.”
“How? I’m Phillip’s father and a blood relative and I have no control over Phillip’s trust.”
Steve nodded. “Yes, but your case is different. You were specifically disinherited in the will. The will makes no provision at all for Sheila’s father. Thus her trust may be open to attack. If the trust is upset, the will’s upset, because the trust is a provision of the will.”
Baxter thought that over. “I see. Well, the answer is, I don’t know. I never met Sheila’s father. None of us ever did. Alice was in California at the time. She wrote us that she was married. To a Samuel Benton. Then she wrote that her husband had been killed in a plane crash. When she came back East, Sheila was three.”
Steve got up. “Okay. Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know.”
Baxter followed him to the door.
“Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know exactly what you’re driving at, but it seems as if somehow you suspect Max of
