Merry, Merry Ghost

Harrison was gruff. “Mitch disappeared and never contacted Tom or Susan. He wasn’t even here for his father’s funeral. You do what you wish about your share, but my share is mine.”

Peg spoke to Farrell, her voice shaky. “Keith should be Susan’s heir. I want my portion to be used for him. If you say there will be less if I give it to him, then I’ll take the money and put it in the bank and I’ll spend every penny for Keith.” She whirled and hurried to the hall door. She ignored her mother’s call. The door slammed behind her.

Harrison picked up the folder. “It will be helpful to have a breakdown on the estate’s assets as soon as possible. Perhaps next week?”

Farrell was impassive. “My intention is to provide each of you with a definitive description of the holdings when our office reopens after the holidays.”

Harrison, now a man of substance, was magnanimous. “I don’t want to impinge upon your holiday. However, I’m in the midst of some financial negotiations and the figures will be useful to me.”

Tucker leaned forward. “The accounts are all…”

As Peg predicted, the vultures had gathered, eager to tear away their succulent piece of flesh.

They had no right.

Where was Susan’s holographic will?

I zoomed into Wade’s private office. A memo pad on his desk listed several appointments. A stack of opened mail rested in his in-box. It took only a moment to flip through letters from other law firms and from businesses. There was no stiff square envelope addressed in Susan’s distinctive handwriting and with her return address. I burrowed through the wastebasket and found no trace.

I whirled to the fireplace. Flames danced and the warmth eddied out. If the will had been burned, it was lost forever in the feathery ashes. I reached out, touched the shiny, clean poker. There was no indication the poker had been used this morning.

Why would Wade Farrell care who inherited? Was there some evidence of malfeasance that could better be hidden in an estate divided among five beneficiaries? To the contrary, wouldn’t it be easier to hide theft or misuse of funds in an estate left to a child with him as the lawyer in charge?

In any event, I found nothing to indicate the will had ever reached him.

In the outer office, Wade’s secretary faced her computer, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. She was a woman who attracted notice, deep-set eyes, long nose, full lips, firm chin. There was a toughness in her expression that suggested a focus on self. I admired the dangling silver earrings that highlighted the embroidered flower pattern on her silk jacket. Especially artful were the occasional small birds in faint pastel shades palely visible among the flowers. She gazed toward the window, her oval face confident and pleased, her lips curved in a slight smile.

I scanned her desk. Her nameplate read Kim Weaver. Several folders were stacked on one side. The center portion of the desk was clear. I zoomed close to the in-and out-box. A half dozen letters and several manila envelopes, ready for mailing, were in the out-box. The in-box was empty. In Farrell’s office, letters and envelopes, neatly slit and ready for his attention, awaited him. Obviously the Monday mail had been received and dealt with.

I’d dropped Susan’s stamped and sealed square envelope in the main post office slot late Saturday night. It should have been delivered today.

I smiled at my reflection in the plate-glass door of the post office. When I’d cheerfully written Officer M. Loy reporting for duty on Chief Cobb’s office blackboard, I’d had no idea how quickly she would appear on the scene. The Adelaide police uniform was quite fetching, French blue cap with a black bill, long-sleeved French blue shirt, French blue trousers with a navy stripe down each leg. French blue was a very nice color for redheads. The Adelaide police patches looked fresh and new (as surely they should) on each shoulder. The metal name tag and badge over the left breast pocket read Officer M. Loy. The black leather shoes were shined to a glossy sheen. I shivered and immediately welcomed the warmth of a wool-lined nylon black raid jacket inscribed Police.

I skirted the long line of patrons, clutching boxes from tiny to immense. I walked to the door with a bell and punched it. In a moment, a plump, cheerful woman opened the door. “You got a—oh, hello, Officer. What can I do for you?”

In less than three minutes I had the name and current location of the postman who had delivered mail to Wade Farrell’s office this morning.

The slender mailman shifted the heavy leather pouch from his shoulder to the floor of the office building. He squinted in thought, faded blue eyes vaguely resentful. “You got to remember I deliver several thousand pieces of mail every day, especially”—he sighed heavily—“during Christmas. You got any idea how much mail we handle in December?”

I beamed my most admiring smile. “Mr. Crandall, I know it’s a chance in a thousand, but you look like a man who notices details. In fact, I imagine you have an unerring instinct for noting anything unusual. Our hope is that you might remember a delivery you made this morning to the law office of Wade Farrell. The particular item, Mr. Crandall, was unusual in its size, a square envelope from an expensive creamy thick stock, unlike most Christmas card envelopes. Moreover, the address was written in a distinctive script.” I had a clear memory of Susan Flynn’s handwriting, looping capitals and leftward slanted lowercase letters. “The W in Wade was quite large and the rest of his name leaned to the left, the letters very thin, almost skeletal. The engraved return address was Susan Pritchard Flynn, 19 Chickasaw Ridge.”

“Oh, that envelope. Sure.” His recognition was obvious and immediate. “If you’d told me right off that you meant a letter from Mrs. Flynn, I could have told you. I noticed the envelope especially. Pretty handwriting she has.”

Of course, he would have no way of knowing of Susan’s death. The announcement would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Susan passed away last night.”

“I knew she was real sick, but I’m sorry to hear that. She was a mighty fine woman. I used to deliver in her neighborhood, and every Christmas she gave me a ham.” He frowned darkly. “You think any of these fancy businesses I deliver to now give me anything? They don’t care if I get their mail to ’em when it’s a hundred and eight degrees or when the ice is so slick the sidewalk’s worse than a skating rink.”

“You delivered an envelope from Mrs. Flynn to Mr. Farrell this morning?”