When Shadows Fall. J.T. Ellison
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of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.
Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”
“I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.
Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”
“Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”
“What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”
“Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”
“Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.
“It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.
Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”
Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”
Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”
“Enlighten us.”
“Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what they call it. Very big in Japan.”
Benedict’s earlier words hit Sam then. Left this life on his own terms. “But Mr. Savage was—”
Xander put a hand on her knee and stopped her. “A suicide. And he retained you last week to draw up a will, and named Dr. Owens as executrix. May I ask, who is the beneficiary? Does he have an heir?”
Another gummy grin from the ghoul.
“There are several people named in the will, but he’s left the bulk of the estate to a Mr. Henry Matcliff.” He was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Matcliff is proving difficult to locate. We wanted to alert you to the situation, and locate the primary beneficiary before contacting the rest of the heirs. We were hoping you would know where he is.”
This was getting ridiculous, and Sam wasn’t in the mood. The letter this morning had upset her terribly, and now this? No. She wasn’t going to let this go on a moment longer.
“I’d never heard of Mr. Savage until this morning. And I have no idea who this Matcliff character is. I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict, but I respectfully decline the offer of handling Mr. Savage’s estate. I trust your practice will do right by him.” She stood, and Benedict stood also in reflex, a look of shock on his face.
“But Dr. Owens, you’re the only one Mr. Savage trusted to handle things for him.”
“I said no, and I meant it. It’s late. I believe it’s time for you to go.”
“But—”
Xander stood and took three steps toward the front door. Benedict gathered up his things and followed. Once in the foyer, he said, “There’s more. You need to know he’s asked for you to do an autopsy on his body.”
Sam felt another chill down her back despite the pashmina. “What?”
“I’m afraid he was very specific. He clearly thought all of this through. He wanted you to be involved, Dr. Owens. He’s begging for your help...from the grave.”
She shook her head. “Stop trying to manipulate me. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
Benedict nodded grimly. “I understand you don’t want the responsibility, and there will be forms you’ll need to sign, declining the executor role. I will have them drawn up and sent to you. If you’re absolutely sure, that is.”
“I’m sure. You can send them to my office. And next time, Mr. Benedict, please be sure to call first. I could have saved you a long trip today.”
He hesitated, hands shaking silently, then shrugged and said, “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do, Dr. Owens, though I hope, once the shock has passed, you’ll reconsider. Perhaps we can speak again in the morning.”
“Perhaps not.”
Undeterred, Benedict said, “In the meantime, there is one last detail. Mr. Savage wanted you to have this.”
He dug in his pocket and dropped a small silver key into her hand. “He said you’d know what to do with it.”
Sam tried to hand it back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be involved at all.”
Benedict ignored her, tipped a finger to his forehead in a goodbye salute then walked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner onto P Street.
* * *
Xander closed the door and watched Sam, clearly upset, stalk into the dining room and begin clearing the cups away. He didn’t like this, not one bit. For a stranger to seek her out was one thing, but to get her involved in a legal predicament, to write letters claiming she was in danger because he was contacting her and now this, leaving her holding the bag with his estate inside? If Timothy Savage weren’t already dead, Xander would have killed him himself.
He thought back to Savage’s letter. He said he’d compiled a list of people who could have murdered him. Who were these people? And why, if it was clearly a suicide, did Savage try to rope Sam into his world with the claim of murder?
There was something rotten in Denmark. Without a doubt.
The crash of broken china came from the kitchen. He hurried in to see Sam with a finger in her mouth, cursing under her breath.
“You okay?”
She shook her head. “Broke a cup and sliced my finger. It’s nothing, just an ouchy.”
She went pale as she said the words, and he knew it was a phrase she’d used with her kids. They slipped out, these motherly incantations, when she was highly upset, or drunk. This was the former—any pleasant tipsiness from the wine at dinner was long gone after the lawyer’s disconcerting visit.
“Let me see.” He went to her, pulled her into his arms. She was right; it was just a scratch, no worse than a paper cut. The bleeding had all but stopped. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the wound. “Better?”
Her shoulders began to shake. He thought there might be tears, but she was laughing quietly. She was back, pulled from the edge by his touch. She nodded.
“I’m fine. If you’d offered to kiss my boo-boo, I would have smacked your bum.”
“I might have enjoyed that. Seriously, are you okay?”
She kissed him, quick and hard, then pulled away and shut off the lights.