ask you something else,” he said. “Was my father as you perceived him capable of ending his own life?”
Zell gave an incredulous smile. “You tell me.”
“That would be difficult,” Adam replied. “I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a decade. To borrow a phrase, having Benjamin Blaine as a father was one of the most disheartening aspects of my life.”
Zell stared at him. “As an amateur psychologist,” he said at length, “I think your father was capable of anything he set his mind to. If he thought living a day longer would diminish how people saw him, he might have thrown himself off a cliff.” He paused. “Your father had an elemental force, and palpable strength of will. One thing I’m pretty sure of is that I’d never want to be in his way.”
“You wouldn’t, Doctor. That much I can tell you.”
Quiet, Zell gazed out the window, watching the hotel doorman hail a taxi. “Your father had a very strong idea of himself,” he said at last. “Maybe, as you suggest, he lost his powers of reason. But it’s at least as likely that the last months of his life-Carla Pacelli, the will, his haste to finish a book, even his final moments-had to do with how he accommodated his self-concept to the reality of imminent death.” Zell paused, then concluded simply, “Your father finally met something he couldn’t beat. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t die trying.”
Eight
A bumpy flight later, at twelve fifteen, Adam entered the law office of Ted Seeley on Main Street in Vineyard Haven. Unlike Edgartown, this had always been a place for working people, full-time residents of the island, and taking an office here seemed a shrewd choice for a newly arrived practitioner. But the office itself, on the second floor above a defunct restaurant, suggested a threadbare practice-the reception area was cramped, with cheap furniture and cheaper wood paneling; a fiftyish receptionist perched by a phone that did not ring; a cubbyhole where a younger woman perused a paltry selection of legal documents; and a closed door, slightly warped, behind which Ben’s lawyer was doing something or nothing. Adam tried to imagine seeing the office through his father’s eyes.
The receptionist buzzed Seeley. When he burst through the door with an aura of energy and goodwill, Adam formed a first impression-a slight, thirtyish man with flaxen hair, a too-eager smile, and small, calculating eyes. Adam sensed his calculations were short-term. From Seeley’s offices, the wolf was pawing the door.
Seeley gave him a firm handshake. “Great to meet you, Adam. Can I get you some coffee?”
The fervor of this greeting, Adam thought, was pitched too high: no doubt this man was chary of the missing son who, in the words of his father’s will, “had the courage to hate,” and whose mother Seeley had helped to disinherit. “No, thanks,” Adam said coolly. “Let’s get to it. Do you have the time sheets I requested?”
Seeley’s smile faded. He ushered Adam into his office, shut the door behind him, motioned Adam to a wing chair with faded upholstery, and handed him a pile of documents purporting to show the time spent preparing Benjamin Blaine’s last will. Adam took brief stock of the windowless office, the shelves holding treatises on the staples of a small-town general practice: divorce, real estate, wills and trusts. Then he perused the lists of activities-client meetings, document review, legal research, drafting, execution-Seeley had undertaken to cement Clarice’s ruin. The name Carla Pacelli appeared nowhere.
Looking up, Adam asked, “Is this everything?”
“Absolutely.” Seeley fidgeted in his chair. “You had questions about the will?”
Adam considered his aims in coming here. One was to gauge Seeley’s skills as a lawyer, another to determine the facts behind the will, still another to determine how formidable Seeley might be in opposing his mother’s challenge. None required excessive courtesy. “A few,” he answered. “You took the gifts to Carla Pacelli and Jenny Leigh out of the estate and put them into trusts. Aren’t there questions under Sullivan v. Burkin about whether such a trust is valid? And, if it isn’t, whether this device exposes the gifts to massive estate tax?”
As Adam had intended, Seeley looked surprised. In a different tone, he said, “I took Sullivan into account. I believe the will and trusts can hold up.”
Adam remained expressionless. “Then you’ve tried this before.”
“Not personally, no.”
“Can I ask how many wills you’ve drafted?”
“A few.”
“More than one?”
“I haven’t counted,” Seeley replied, then leaned forward to fix Adam with a look of deep sincerity. “I did my best to carry out your dad’s wishes. Whatever his reason for these bequests, or for choosing me as his lawyer, I was honored to represent him. From all I knew of him, and all that I experienced, Benjamin Blaine was a truly great man.”
“He certainly left a hole,” Adam replied. “Including in my mother’s finances. You’re aware that Matthew Thomson was his lawyer for almost forty years.”
“He told me that.” Seeley’s tone grew firmer. “Obviously, someone helped him draft his prior will, and the postnuptial agreement with your mother.”
“Did he tell you why he’d decided to change lawyers?”
Seeley’s face closed. Cautiously, he said, “I think we’re getting into areas covered by the attorney-client privilege.”
“I’m sure we are,” Adam went on. “Just as I’m sure that as executor, I stand in my father’s place. I’m not only the son of a great man but effectively your client. Given that my father is dead, I’m the Blaine you have to please.”
Seeley placed his palms flat on the desk. “What he said,” he answered stiffly, “and what I told the police, is that he wanted to start fresh. New estate plan, new lawyer. Then he told me what he wanted.”
“The validity of which depends on the postnup. Did you call Matthew Thomson for insight into whether it would hold up?”
Once again, Seeley looked off-balance. Crossing his arms, he said, “I told your father that your mom was certain to challenge the will, and that I wanted Matthew’s advice. He instructed me not to contact anyone and said that it was my job to make this will ironclad. He wasn’t the kind of man you challenge.”
“Did he also mention that he was dying?”
Seeley stared at him. “Of what?”
“Brain cancer.” Adam waved at the time sheets. “According to these, he came to you four months ago with cancer eating his brain. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“About what?”
“Whether this will was my father speaking or the cancer. Or, for that matter, Carla Pacelli.”
Seeley sat straighter. “I only met your father three times, the last when he signed the will and trust documents. But he seemed sharp, determined, and very clear on what he wanted and who he meant to benefit. I didn’t know he was dying, and he sure as hell didn’t seem deranged. So my job as a lawyer was to make his will stand up in court. Period.”
“Was anyone with him at these meetings?”
Seeley fidgeted with his pen. “Do you mean Carla Pacelli?”
Adam shrugged. “Or Jenny Leigh.”
“Neither.”
“Did you ever speak to Carla or Jenny?”
“No.” Seeley seemed to have recovered his poise. “In fact, your father instructed me not to tell any of the beneficiaries that he was leaving them money. First and foremost, that meant Carla Pacelli.”
Surprised, Adam said sharply, “That makes no sense to me. Why would he keep a bequest worth at least ten million dollars secret from his mistress?”
“I don’t know that he did,” Seeley said slowly. “All I can tell you is that he made a joke of it with me. Something about liking it when women loved him for himself.”
What must have happened came to Adam suddenly-if everyone thought the gift to Carla was a surprise, her hand in seeking Ben Blaine’s money would remain hidden. Someone-maybe Carla, maybe his father-had been more clever than Seeley knew. “So much to love,” Adam said. “So many to love him. Did he explain why he was
