Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 (22 page)

Betsy looked at the deed, found the amount, and whistled softly. “When was the balloon payment due?”

“It hasn't come due yet. The due date is January twelve.” He pointed to a place on the document.

Jill came to the table, wiping her hands on a dish towel, to ask, “What happens if he can't make the payment?”

“He forfeits all he's put into the deal, and the property reverts to New York Motto.”

Jill said, “No wonder Joe was so angry at Margot! She not only kept him from putting up The Mickels Building but stood in the way of his getting a valuable property back.”

“No,” said Penberthy, “Joe didn't know Margot was also New York Motto.”

Betsy said, “He didn't? Are you sure?”

“He never said anything to me about it.”

Jill asked Betsy, “Has Joe said anything to you, anything at all, that might indicate he knows that New York Motto is now yours?”

Betsy stared at her. “You mean Joe owes
me
all this money?”

“You're inheriting the company, aren't you? I'm asking how sure you are he doesn't know about this.”

Penberthy said, “I never told him. Margot and Vicki wouldn't tell him. Betsy is obviously surprised to discover this, so I don't know how Joe would have found out.”

Betsy said, “If Joe knew Margot owned New York Motto, he might very well think she was holding on to her lease just so he'd lose that land.” Betsy smiled wryly. “In fact, it sounds like the kind of squeeze he'd love to put on someone else, doesn't it?”

Penberthy, smiling, nodded.

But Jill persisted, “Surely when he set out to contact New York Motto about buying the land back, he would have found out who the owner was.”

Penberthy said, “On the contrary. New York Motto is incorporated in the State of Wisconsin, so there is no listing of it in Minnesota at all. And in Wisconsin, the only names that appear are Vicki's and the CPA's.” He was still smiling, as if Betsy surely must now see the point of a complex joke.

“What?” she asked, feeling stupid.

“You are in a position of tremendous power over Joe Mickels. You can release this information to the press and if he's stretched thin—which I think he is right now—ruin him financially. Or, under a threat to tell, make him agree to a new contract at very high interest rate. Even add some other terms. Make him agree to rename The Mickels Building The Margot Berglund Building. He may be facing financial ruin if he doesn't agree to whatever terms you dictate.” Penberthy shrugged. “Or you can be kind and renew the contract under its present terms. You can even keep silent and let Vicki decide what to do—which is, after all, what a silent partner does.”

“What do you think Vicki would do?”

“Let him fail to make that final payment, lose everything he's already paid into the deal plus the property, then sell the property to someone else. It's already unusual for New York Motto to hang onto a piece of property this long. Normally, they turn around almost at once and sell at a profit. Joe must have done some fast talking to get her to agree to this.”

“What fast talking? Look at the mess he's in!”

Penberthy said, “But look at it from his position back then. He was all ready to put up that building. There was only this one silly, helpless widow in his way.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow at Joe's ignorance.

Jill added, “And even if he thought it was risky, this deal with New York Motto involves land that was once his. Joe operates under Will Rogers's advice: ‘Buy land, they ain't makin' any more of it.' It probably caused him a lot of pain to lose that lakefront site, and he was feeling very motivated to get it back.”

“I think that's an accurate assessment,” said Penberthy.

Betsy said, “What do you think, Jill? If he knew, this might give him a motive to murder me?”

Jill said, “Oh, yes.”

Penberthy said, “But if he knew, he would have accused Margot of deliberately trying to damage him. Margot never said anything like that. And she would have told me, because I needed to stay one step ahead of whatever he was up to.”

“Still . . .” Jill said.

“Yes,” Betsy said. “And it's important we find out. I want to be the one who tells him.”

Penberthy said, “There is no legal responsibility to tell him anything. If it was me, and I felt he should know, I'd want to tell him long distance. From, say, Hong Kong.”

Betsy snorted. Then she asked, “What's the total value of the company today?”

“You'll have to contact Vicki and ask for an accounting. I know it's been making money, but I don't think Margot was letting equity build up, she was using the money for some project or other, something charitable, I think. Here's Vicki's address.” Penberthy gave her a business card.

“Thanks.” Betsy asked, “When is this probate matter going to be wrapped up?”

“If you can get the information on New York Motto to me before the new year, I'd say we can finalize this by mid-January. Which is why I think we should now turn our attention to the matter for which you summoned me: your will.”

He glanced up at her. She was gaping at him. “Really?”

“Really what?”

“Mid—January? That's about three weeks from now.”

“I thought you'd be pleased.”

“I am pleased. I'm also surprised. The way there's always one more thing to do, I thought it would be months before we got it all resolved.”

“No, things have progressed very smoothly. No other heirs have stepped forward to make a claim, all the assets are found and will soon be accounted for, and there's no reason we can't make a final court appearance within that time.”

Betsy sat back. “Wonderful,” she murmured. And then she smiled.

Penberthy got out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes. “You said you want to divide your estate between Mr. Godwin and Ms. Cross,” he said, writing. “Any charities?”

“Oh . . .” Betsy hesitated. Her head was spinning, and she was suddenly tired. “I—I can't think. Let's just get something on paper for now. We can revise it later, can't we? If I live.” She meant that as a joke, but it came out through gritted teeth.

Through a slip in Penberthy's composure he gave her a look of such compassion she nearly threw herself on his shoulder to relieve her feelings in tears. But he was an even cooler head than Jill, and the look vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. Betsy, already leaning forward, feigned an interest in what he was writing on the notepad.

“For something as simple as what you describe,” he said, “especially since it's very likely an interim will, you can just write it out in your own words.”

“And then you'll turn it into legal language?”

“There's no need to do that. Holographic wills are perfectly legal. That means handwritten, not just signed. Written entirely by hand. You don't even need witnesses to a holographic will.”

Betsy made a doubtful face.

“There is a case where a tractor rolled over on a farmer out in his field, and he wrote ‘All to Mother' in his own blood on the tractor's fender, and it was admitted to probate. But be clear; don't attempt fancy language. A will is not subject to interpretation; it means exactly what it says.” He tore off the top sheet of his legal pad, turned the pad around, and pushed it toward her. He handed her his heavy gold pen and said, “Use your full legal name.”

I, Elizabeth Frances Devonshire,
wrote Betsy—“I took my maiden name back after each divorce,” she said—
hereby make this my last will.

“Have you ever made a will before?” he asked.

She started to say no, then remembered. “You know, I
did
make a will, back when Hal and I got married. We each made one. You know the kind, where you leave everything you die possessed of—that sounds like you're leaving a flock of demons, doesn't it?—to your spouse.” She put a hand over her mouth and stared at Penberthy.

“What?” he asked.

“I never revoked that will.”

“So?”

“So
that's
what's going on here! Don't you get it? I never revoked that will! So if I die without making a new one, Hal gets everything
—everything!
That's why he's trying to kill me! Oh, my God, I've got to call Malloy this second!”

She ran into the kitchen, but before she could pick up the receiver, Penberthy called, “Wait! It doesn't work that way!”

She looked at him, hand on the phone. “What doesn't work that way?”

“The will you made probably said something like, ‘to my beloved spouse, Harold What's—his—name—”

“Norman. Harold Norman.”

“ ‘To my spouse, Harold Norman, I leave all of which I die possessed,' right?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Well, he's not your spouse anymore. That will isn't valid.”

Betsy let go the receiver. “Oh. Well, I didn't know that.”

Jill said quietly, “I bet Hal doesn't know it, either.”

Betsy stared at her. “You're right! Of course! What a jerk, trying to kill me to get something he couldn't get even if I died naturally!” She picked up the receiver, looked on the refrigerator for a business card with a badge, and dialed the number inked on it. “Mike,” she said when he answered, “We've got it. When Hal and I first married, we made out those mutual wills leaving everything to one another. And I never revoked that will. Now, my attorney just told me that will became void when we divorced—which I didn't know. And probably Hal doesn't know it, either. I'll bet you ten dollars he thinks that if I die, he gets my inheritance.” She paused long enough for him to ask a question. “Last I heard, three million.”

She hung up and turned a harshly satisfied face to the pair in the dining nook. “There, that solves that! He'll go arrest that bastard, and I can get back to living in peace!”

B
etsy was sleeping the sleep of the just when a bumblebee flew into her dream, disordering it by trying to send a message to her in Morse code. It droned zzdah, zzdah, zit-zit-zit, zzdah, zdaaaaaaaah, and then she was awake and someone was ringing her doorbell very urgently.

She flung the blankets back, and Sophie thumped onto the floor. She grabbed for her striped flannel robe and heard Jill out in the living room grumbling, “I'm coming, I'm coming!”

Betsy followed, but Jill gestured at her to move so the visitor wouldn't see her when Jill opened the door. Betsy was shocked to notice that Jill had a gun in her hand. As Jill reached for the button that released the downstairs door, Betsy hustled sideways and heard the apartment door open.

There was a thumping of hasty feet on the stairs. “Patricia!” Jill exclaimed. “What are you—?”

“You've got to get out, quick!” Patricia Fairland said. “You're on fire!”

Betsy looked around swiftly. There were no flames, and she couldn't smell smoke. She hurried to the door. “What fire? Where is it?” she asked, standing on bare tiptoes to peer over Jill's shoulder.

Patricia was nearly to their threshold. “It's around back!” She gestured widely. “I was driving by, and I saw flames reflected off the snow. Come on, come on, you've got to hurry!” Patricia looked distraught, her hair was mussed, and her swing coat was gathered strangely around her, as if she had put it on over her head, or been hugging herself inside it.

Jill reached for the door of the microscopic hall closet and Betsy backed out of her way. Jill grabbed her heavy police jacket and began shoving her feet into her boots as she pushed the gun into a pocket. “Get something on your feet!” she ordered Betsy.

But Betsy ran instead to the window at the back of the dining nook. She couldn't see straight down, but there was a bright flicker on the icy coating of the parking lot and the banks of snow that surrounded it. The flicker appeared to be coming from somewhere near the back door to the building. “Oh my God, she's right, I can see it, we're on fire!”

She turned toward the kitchen, but Jill was already on the phone, her voice urgent as she told the emergency operator about the fire.

“Come on, come on!” called Patricia from out in the hall.

“Sophie!” exclaimed Betsy, and dashed for the bedroom. The cat was standing just inside the doorway, tail up in greeting, but not wanting to join the fuss until she knew what it was about. Betsy scooped her up.

“Rowww!” objected the cat. Then Betsy's fear infected her, and she began a serious struggle to get away.

Sophie was not declawed, so Betsy ran to the bed and grabbed a pillow by the closed end of its case and shook hard. The pillow fell out, tumbling across the bed. Betsy dropped the case, grabbed it by its open end, and put the struggling animal in by pulling the pillowcase over her cat-laden arm.

Jill called, “Betsy! Let's go!”

Betsy shoved her feet into her corduroy slippers and ran into the living room, the heavy pillowcase thumping her leg. “Have you warned the others?”

“Oh, gosh!” Jill ran out, but Betsy paused long enough to yank her purse off the hook inside the closet door.

Out in the hall, Patricia was standing at the top of the stairs. “Hurry, oh hurry!” she begged, and started down.

But Jill ran across to thump with a fist on the door to one of the other two apartments. “Out, out, out!” she yelled. “Fire! Fire!”

Betsy ran to bang on the other apartment door. “Fire! Fire!” she shouted. “Get out! Get out! Fire!”

It seemed to take a long time to get a response, though it was likely only seconds. The door was yanked open, and an old man wearing only pajama bottoms stared at Betsy, his white hair standing up all around his head. “Where is it?” he asked, looking past her into the hall. “I don't see anything.”