“For a hundred grand a year—he was serious about that, too?”
“Trustees are entitled to a fee, Jack. Some banks would charge much more.”
I’m enjoying this conversation, as surreal as it is.
“Why can’t his wife be the trustee?”
“Oh, she could,” Charlie Chickle replies. “Ellen is a real spitfire. But Mac doesn’t want her hassled day and night about selling the stock. He says you, on the other hand, shouldn’t mind. He says your opinion of Race Maggad is almost as low as his.”
“And I have been chosen because… ?”
“Because it will infuriate Mr. Maggad. I’m given to understand that he loathes you.”
“Intensely,” I say.
“Mac has no children, as you know. That means Ellen will be the ultimate beneficiary of the trust, when and if the stock is sold. What’s so funny?”
“I’m trying to imagine the circumstances under which the old man would want me to sell his shares to young Master Race.”
“As a matter of fact, the circumstances are quite specific. I could tell you what they are”—Chickle checks his wristwatch—”but that’s for another day, when we’re farther along.”
“Charlie, tell me what you think of all this.”
The lawyer rubs a pudgy knuckle across his chin. “Mr. Polk knows my opinion of his little scheme and he’s chosen to march ahead. Oh, it’s perfectly legal, Jack, if that’s your concern. And I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been amusing, drawing up these papers. Probate work isn’t usually a laugh riot. Neither is your job, I imagine, writing obituaries all day long.”
Chickle intends no insult, but I feel my neck flush. “You’ve got a real nice touch,” he adds. “You’ve given a few of my favorite clients a lovely send-off. I’m sure you’ll do the same for Mac.”
“He may outlive all of us.”
“Ha. I doubt it,” Chickle says mirthlessly. He rises and I do the same. “It was a pleasure, Jack. Call me when you make up your mind.”
“There’s one other matter.”
He frowns apologetically. “Is it super important? Because I’m really short on time—”
“It’s life or death, Charlie. I’m working on a story about Janet Thrush’s brother.”
The lawyer’s face crinkles around the eyes. “What kinda story?”
“Not a happy one. We’re looking into the circumstances of his drowning in the Bahamas.”
“But your paper said it was an accident.”
“Right. And we never, ever make mistakes. Sit down, Charlie.” And, by God, he does. “Somebody broke into Janet’s house this weekend, somebody who thought she had something of Jimmy’s. Now she’s missing and—”
“No she’s not.”
My turn to sit down. “What?”
“She called this morning, Jack. Said some guy she’d been seeing got bombed and busted up her place. She’s staying with friends down in Lauderdale or Boca somewhere. Said whatever I do, don’t send the inheritance check to her house while she’s gone, in case the asshole is still hangin’ around.” The lawyer chuckles. “I’ve only told that young woman about a hundred times that her brother’s money won’t be available for months.”
“Did you speak to Janet yourself?”
“One of my secretaries did.”
“And they know her voice?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Charlie, how many clients do you have—a couple hundred? And your secretaries know each and every voice.”
“No, son,” he says, “but I’ve got no reason to suspect it was anyone but Ms. Thrush who phoned my office.” The pause is an invitation for me to spit out my theory. I won’t.
“Did she leave a phone number?”
“As a matter of fact, no. She told Mary she’ll call back,” Chickle says. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you think you know—”
“I can’t.” The words catch in my throat like a hairball.
And before he sends me on my way, Charlie Chickle says, “Don’t let your imagination run off with you, Jack. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem.”
Emma wants to go to lunch and she insists on driving. She takes me to a darkly lit Italian joint, where we choose a booth in the back. She looks exhausted and says she, too, didn’t sleep all night. Twenty-seven years old—I’m trying not to obsess about that. It’s inconsiderate to project one’s loony death phobias onto others; I’ll have my plate full with Señor Kerouac soon enough.