Neil Dettler rushed out of the room, his face red and the tips of his moustache quivering, suggesting he had not emerged unscathed. He offered Jacquetta her coat. She thanked him with her eyes.
“How about my coat?” He then inquired of a seemingly frozen Rose-Alice. Rudely, Jacquetta thought. But Rose-Alice meekly brought him a taupe garment festooned with flaps, buckles and straps, even helping him into it.
“Are they upset about my bequest?” asked Jacquetta. A reasonable – but unpleasant assumption. “Oh, no, no, no,” said the attorney. “You didn’t get anything from their share – it’s the Jane Pride Home that got stiffed. They’re always like this where money’s concerned. They’ve been whirling around the old lady like buzzards for years. I’m thankful that it’s over.”
Rose-Alice held the door open for them and Dettler granted her a curt, “See you soon.” “Definitely,” returned the au pair.
Dettler swept Jacquetta out before him. She was so accustomed to forceful men, that she began to dislike him.
“I’ve got your books in my car,” he said. “Much easier than waiting through probate. Avalon’s going to make the lives of anyone trying to enter this place a living hell.”
Jacquetta showed him the book she was carrying. “Rose-Alice found this in the trash.”
Dettler gave it a cursory glance. “I can see why. Well, perhaps it still has some value. That’s up to you, not us. Where are you parked? That far? I might as well drive you down there – books are heavy.”
And there were three boxes of them, completely filling Jacquetta’s back seat. Acquiring lumpy new possessions was NOT supposed to be part of my life plan, thought Jacquetta. Where could she donate these books? She doubted the convent would be interested. It might be worthwhile calling the Jane Pride Home to see if they see if they still wanted them. But that could prove more embarrassing. No doubt they would have preferred the six-thousand-dollars.
And Jacquetta wasn’t even going to get that money until probate was completed – which she recalled in her grandparents’ case was almost two years! And she needed to go through these books carefully to see if Miss Rainbeaux had left her message. Although she was much more likely to have left the message in this book – the one that had been destroyed.
Dettler interrupted this reverie, and Jacquetta could tell from the expression on his face that he’d probably spoken before a she’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard him.
“Drink? The Blue Goose is right down the street. Charged to the estate,” he hastily assured her. “Perhaps another time,” she answered as smoothly as she could manage. “I’ve got an appointment.”
She would be having her drink at The Royal Mess. With Honey.
“Excuse me,” Jacquetta said in a strangled voice, slipping past her inquisitioners and into the hall. The house was decorated in a mishmash of competing styles: “depressed Americana” which she attributed to George – and “aspiring billionaire” which she assumed was Avalon’s – or perhaps her designer’s — contribution.
She chose the first door under the stairs but it was not a bathroom. On the contrary, it was so much like a nun’s cell Jacquetta stood in slack-jawed surprise. No windows. A single bed – more like a cot, really, and a white-painted chest of drawers. A bookcase. In place of a cross over the bed, a travel poster for France featuring Monet’s ubiquitous waterlilies. Ordinarily when faced with something like this Jacquetta read the book titles to understand their owner. Too late – Rose-Alice came surging up behind her.
“Sorry,” said Jacquetta. “Bathroom?”
Sunny-natured Rose-Alice seemed not in the least put out. “Right next door,” she offered cheerfully, opening the required door. “Make yourself to home.”
Make yourself ”to” home…what part of the country said that? It wouldn’t be rude to inquire – but there was too much to do what with blushing, bowing, changing places and doors opening and closing. One of the contemplated pleasures of the monastery was an end to interactions like these. Blessed hours of silence! A blessed set occupations – study and prayer – a blessed “knowing for certain where things were.”
This, for example, was obviously Rose-Alice’s bathroom! There was probably a gaudy powder room decorated with a bald eagle motif situated somewhere else for guests – but Rose-Alice had invited her to use this. So presumably it was all right. She, too, must have felt the current that passed between them. So why feel so awkward? Like an invader?
It couldn’t be the bullfighting poster that invited her to visit Spain – or even the silver-papered ceiling – that could be Avalon’s contribution. It was the detritus of a hopeful, even romantic young woman, “Love’s Babysoft perfume”, curling wand and hairspray on the sink and a litter of downscale drugstore cosmetics.
It was when Jacquetta sat on the commode that she saw something interesting. A book was stuffed down behind the water pipes. Not hidden, exactly – possibly just held in place. The Romance of Stained Glass and not in good condition either – the entire mid-portion had been ripped away, bleeding glue and binding string. Yes, the book-plate placed it in the “Iridium” library.
That means it’s mine, thought Jacquetta. Surely, she was too close to the convent to be feeling this much of a thrill of ownership. Still, it’s always exciting to receive a book – even if it was something she would never have chosen.
After she washed her hands and exited carrying the book, she was surprised to bump into Rose-Alice. Yet again. This time, the other girl who blushed.
“I guess that’s yours now,” she said. “I got it out of the trash. I suppose they threw it away because it wasn’t perfect.”
Jacquetta soon found out why Rose-Alice hadn’t re-entered the library. There was a full-scale verbal battle in progress – complete with the smashing of glass.
“This will was hand delivered to me this morning by Miss Rainbeaux’s chauffeur,” Neil Dettler announced. “It is a holograph will.”
“But if it didn’t reach you until after Aunt Bea’s death,” said Chester hopefully, “Isn’t it invalid?”
“Certainly not,” said Dettler. “It’s a holograph will entirely in the hand of the testatrix.” “Maybe it’s a forgery,” Ivor’s blond “associate” suggested.
Jacquetta, who had been brewing up a dislike for the man, studied at him with new respect. You had to admit he was a fighter.
“It’s been passed by my Questioned Documents team,” said Dettler, “As a matter of course. Why don’t you let me read it before you start objecting to it?”
“Sorry,” apologized Ivor, “It’s just that if it ISN’T a true will, you don’t HAVE to read it.” He held out his sherry glass for refills and Rose-Alice scuttled forwards with the tantalus.
“It IS a true will!” insisted Dettler. “And I am now going to read it.” He cleared his throat.
“I, Beatrix Cleanth Virginia Rainbeaux, being of sane mind as sound body as befits an abstemious woman of eighty-seven summers- “
“You can skip that part,” said Avalon.
“I can’t skip ANYTHING,” roared Dettler. “The entire will HAS TO BE READ. You, on the other hand, DON’T HAVE TO HEAR IT. I invited you as is only proper but you are welcome to DEPART if you SO WISH.”
Sounds like he’s given up on this crowd’s business, thought Jacquetta. Avalon Cleese, quiet as a mouse, meekly held out her glass for seconds.
“Who are the witnesses?” asked George Cleese.
“There are no witnesses.” Having blown his gasket, Neil relaxed. “Holographic wills need no witnesses.”
“Put us out of our misery,” wailed Chester. “Blindfold, cigars, last meal.”
“Not necessarily in that order. Carry on,” contributed his brother. He and “Blade” tensely held hands.
Dettler carried on.
“Let’s see…where was I…unimpaired mental faculties…here we are. Declare this my last will and testament revoking all others.”
“Leaving all my bits and pieces to The Old Cat’s Home,” said Ivor in a high whine only Jacquetta could hear.
“With no expectation of life continuing past its present form – “
“A little Darwin by way of Swedenborg,” offered Chester.
“To my dear, devoted servant, Hortense McGivern, in gratitude for her years of selfless service – “
“Here goes.” Ivor gripped the arms of his chair. Jacquetta looked around. No faithful servant. Surely, she had been invited?
“I leave the Wedgwood nursery set she so admired.”
“Wedgwood holding steady,” said Chester in a stock market announcer’s voice while Ivor appeared to relax.
“That set’s probably worth two thousand bucks,” said Ivor, seeing the look on Jacquetta’s face. But Dettler was far from finished.
“-The kitchen table and chairs, my Lazy Boy recliner, my Pontiac limousine and $10,000 cash.”
Chester sat up. “Hello!” He exclaimed. “McGivern up one car!”
“-I hereby revoke my previous will in which I left my limousine to my chauffeur, Herbert Slaws, since he did not stay sober as he promised.”
That’s a good one, thought Jacquetta. Get the chauffeur to deliver the will that disinherits him! Did Miss Rainbeaux have a touch of the sociopath in her own makeup? This was enough to make anyone enter a monastery.
“The carriage house and land that was to have been his will thereby be counted with the house as a whole.”
“He’s got 30 days to depart,” said Avalon triumphantly. “And good riddance.” Jacquetta glanced around. No Herbert, either.
“The house, its land and all personalty not otherwise designated becomes the sole property of my dear niece, Avalon Rainbeaux Powell Cleese.” Sigh of relief from both Cleeses.
“I understand she will probably sell it all and I only ask she insist on obtaining a decent price for everything instead of holding some fly-by-night yard sale with herself as auctioneer.”
Dettler continued, unimpressed and possibly not even noticing Avalon’s head-snap. Ivor made a hissing noise.
“To my dear nephew, Ivor Rainbeaux Powell, I leave the Powell Printing Works and half my portfolio of stocks and bonds, to be divided with his brother, Chester. If they cannot agree on how to divide said stocks and bonds my executor, Neil Dettler, has full authority to sell said stocks and bonds and divide them fairly to the penny. And why should they agree for the first time in their lives simply because I am dead? To my nephew, Chester Rainbeaux Powell I also leave my share in the newspapers Glasstown Express, Freetown Garland and Post Village Citizen. I admonish him that now is the time to stop his libido from dictating his employment policy as all lawsuits will from now on have to be settled with his own assets.”
A low whistle from George Cleese snapped Chester’s head in that direction. He was angrier at his brother in law than at his aunt. Doubtless, he had heard it from her many times before.
“Since the Board of Directors of the Jane Pride Home has seen fit to fly in the face of my seasoned advice, I hereby revoke the codicil leaving them my six-thousand-dollar certificate of deposit at the Glasstown Bank and leave that instead to Miss Jacquetta Strike of Post Village whose business card I enclose. I would also like her to have my considerable library on stained glass since she is the only person I can think of who will actually appreciate it. I thank her for her interesting conversation and ask her to bear it in mind in the coming weeks.
I direct the cash in my two checking accounts and four savings accounts be used to pay taxes and executors’ fees. Anything left over will become the property of Avalon Cleese.
I entrust Mr. Neil Dettler with the job as my executor, noting that although my nephew Ivor is also an attorney anyone who employs him will be an accessory to his inevitable disbarment. Signed this day – “
Ivor turned bright red but the rest of the room heaved a sigh of relief. There was no representative from the Jane Pride Home to glare daggers at Jacquetta and the rest of the family didn’t appear to grudge her a share coming out of someone’s else’s pocket.
“That wasn’t so bad,” said Chester to Ivor. “No changes, really. Don’t take it so hard, you know the way she talked. Look what she said about me.”
Worriedly Jacquetta saw George Cleese making his determined way in Jacquetta’s direction.
Jacquetta drove her aging Datsun past the Cleese house at a quarter to two, and kept driving. There were no other Datsuns on this street of Mercedes, Audis and BMW’s. She drove back and forth for a few minutes before she nerved herself to park. A short walk in the lightly misting rain would refresh her, it would do her good.
The nuns had been charming when they heard “a friend” had died. “Take as much time as you need,” said Sister Agatha, she who was in charge of “Formation” – a word frequently altered by Honey into “Deformation” or “Reformation.” Jacquetta’s mother, who had never believed in this monastery business: “Don’t you have to be a virgin?” was considerably harder to quiet.
“She was obviously just a crazy old lady,” she told her daughter crisply, “They’ll set that will aside. Don’t waste your time.”
But Jacquetta’s mother had not been in charge of Jacquetta’s “formation” since Jacquetta was twelve years old. Jacquetta did what she wanted to now, and her mother would just have to lump it.
The door to the modernist castle was opened by a girl who could have been Jacquetta’s double. Long dark hair, fresh skin, no makeup, standing about five seven in her stocking feet. But when she smiled, revealing the bad teeth of an impoverished childhood the illusion vanished.
“Welcome,” said the girl. “I’m Rose-Alice, the au pair. The rest of them are in the library.”
The library was a room at the back of the house with more glass than books. A gas fire played merrily. The wealthy – whom Jacquetta considered were always late on principle, had been punctual on this occasion. Probably even early. A out-of-place balding man with unflatteringly long wispy hair that caressed his collar hurried forward. Jacquetta wondered about his crumpled 70’s corduroy suit.
“Miss Strike? I’m Attorney Dettler. We’ve saved you a seat here. Now we can begin.”A maid handed her a glass of sherry which was gratefully accepted. The seat was a modest straight chair at the back, Jacquetta was pleased to see. So, probably not the entire estate. She sat, dropped her bag to the floor and scanned the other guests.
George Cleese she recognized immediately from his campaign ads. Honey called him “a greasy politician” but he looked better in this soft light than in the harsh glare of a TV studio. Almost human, one would say. Something about his sad face and the proud features of the woman beside him told Jacquetta whose house this really was.
She was good looking in a shellacked sort of way, the kind of person you’d be afraid to touch for fear of messing her effect. She had a puff of silver-gilt hair, very red lips, a lot of heavy gold jewelry and wore a mohair sweater and pink ski pants that showed off her large bosom and narrow hips. She returned Jacquetta’s look with no friendliness whatever.
“How do you do,” whispered the man seated to her left, “I’m Ivor Powell, and this is my associate Blade Bogwell.”
Jacquetta was first distracted by the impossibly handsome and blond “associate”. Was anybody actually born with the name “Blade?”. Ivor had the slicked back hair and heavy glasses of a nascent T.S. Eliot. He was who, exactly?
Jacquetta summoned up as best she could the obit she had read but it was mum on Blades and Ivors. Hopeless to attempt to tell these players without a program. She shuffled her sherry glass into her left hand so she could shake the hand he offered her.
“Jacquetta Strike,” she told him.
“I know,” he underlined, “The mysterious new heir. Did you hear they think it was suicide?”
“Suicide!” Jacquetta said so loudly eyes turned to stare. She flushed deeply. “I heard heart attack.”
“Wasn’t,” said Ivor. “They opened her up.”
“Well, suicide is out of the question,” hissed Jacquetta. She was amazed by her own certainty. She’d just met the woman! Was she flattering herself that Beatrix would never have missed that lunch? But thinking back on that decided face, those self-satisfied gestures – suicide? Never!
Ivor was probably one of the grand nephews and he had a brother…wasn’t that right? Chester. Could only be that fellow over there with the obvious toupee. He winked at Jacquetta as if her blush was for him alone. Fancied himself a lady-killer!
“My aunt made a will every other day,” hissed Ivor. “It was a hobby of hers, like mah-jongg.”“All right,” said Dettler, seating himself in the center of the group, “Let’s get down to business.” As he unsnapped his attaché case the others leaned forwards, like cats watching an opening can of tuna.
Jacquetta was summoned from the shower by a phone call.
“May I speak to Miss Strike please?” inquired a formal voice, so she replied with equal formality, “This is she”, in spite of her total nudity and the soap in her eyes.
“Miss Strike, this is Neil Dettler of Dawson & Dettler the Glasstown attorneys. I have the honor of being executor of the late Miss Beatrix Rainbeaux’s will. I may say that it mentions you. Could you possibly attend a reading of the will at the home of Mrs. George Cleese, 27 Dane Forge, in that town at two pm?”
“I am? Are you sure?” Jacquetta asked stupidly. Should she mention she’d met the departed less than twenty-four hours ago?
“Certainly I’m sure,” said the lawyer, sounding nettled. “I don’t read things that aren’t there.”
Oooooh! This meant whatever she’d written he hadn’t known about in advance, making the whole thing a lot more likely. How Honey would adore this! Jacquetta could hardly wait to tell her.
“Just let me make a note of it,” she said, water dripping over the calendar. “Do you mean today?” Wasn’t that unseemly haste? “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Then I’ll expect you,” said the lawyer, ringing off.
Jacquetta dried herself thoughtfully. Did the old lady leave her the price of a lunch, or the entire estate? Jacquetta suspected it was probably something pertaining to their discussion. Had she feared her approaching death? The person she’d described to Jacquetta on the train would hardly scruple to remove an adversary!
She fired up the blow drier and met her own eyes in the mirror, saying goodbye to her long hair, as she always did these days. She had had it since childhood. Well, childhood was long gone. She cast an unwilling glance toward the phone. Her first call shouldn’t be to Honey at The Royal Mess but to the convent.
How difficult it was to lead an honest, much less honorable life! Knowing a funeral was a perfect reason to delay entry for a few days, she had no intention of telling the nuns that she’d only just met the decedent. She might try to con herself that it simply complicated things, but she knew that wasn’t the real reason.
The real reason was, she obviously wasn’t as finished with this worldly life as she’d led them to believe. Really, it was getting to the point where she’d have to start taking notes for her next confession. The list was growing and growing.
What an impostor she was! All the better to sniff out another impostor. How clever the late Miss Rainbeaux had been!
Jacquetta woke with a hangover. Oh well, she thought, it’s probably for the last time. Wine in the convent sometimes –maybe twice a year – but champagne definitely not.
Honey, who routinely drank as though she had a wooden leg, put her head around the door. She had not only drunk Jacquetta under the table but she had touched up her hair – newly blonded, it puffed out around her carefully made up face like a bridal veil.
“Here’s coffee,” she offered, “Unless you want more sleep.”
Jacquetta sat right up. “No, no,” she said. “I need to wake up now if I plan to get to that lunch. Coffee, please.”
Honey’s other hand held the morning paper and aspirin.
“What did I ever do to deserve such a fabulous roommate?” Jacquetta wailed.
“We were made for each other,” said Honey. “I’m not even going to try to replace you, so feel free to leave the convent at any time. You know, if it turns out they’re into secret beatings and mind control.”
“Flagellation is passé,” said Jacquetta. Mind control however… always popular. Monasteries or magazines, same thing everywhere. “But aren’t you and Barney getting married?” Honey shuddered. “He needs to shape up first.”
Coffee in bed with the morning paper…even with a headache it was worth it. Last time, Jacquetta reminded herself. Breakfast in bed really was the ultimate luxury. She started with the town news, always more compelling than the national. And there it was, GLASSTOWN FOUNDER DEAD AT 87.
“Cause of death unknown but heart attack suspected. Miss Rainbeaux’s father Martin came to New Jersey in 1907 to found a factory that soon became world famous for stained glass and objets d’art. Windows from the factory are installed as far away as the American Embassy in Rome and the Cathedral of the Precious Blood in Montreal. Museums…blah blah blah.”
Jacquetta’s eyes bugged but the photograph was quite unmistakable – Miss Rainbeaux taken recently – exactly the woman she had met on the train – and Miss Rainbeaux in youth, dressed for her début. Those eyebrows alone would have scared the men away.
No lunch for me, she thought. What a coincidence! Sister Agatha would say there’s no such thing as “coincidence” and she found herself inclined to agree. You didn’t tell a total stranger you feared a sociopath and then suddenly wind up dead by happenstance. Jacquetta’s eyes flew past “survived by” and down to the announcement of “visitation” which she recognized as another word for “wake.” She produced a pair of nail scissors and cut out the article with care. It looked like the good sisters would just have to wait for their latest postulant. Jacquetta had something important to do first.
Alysse Aallyn 