Read Dorothy Garlock - [Dolan Brothers] Online
Authors: With Hope
Dorothy Garlock - [Dolan Brothers] (29 page)
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Martin Conroy’s death made the front page of the Conroy paper but, much to the annoyance of Alice Conroy, received only a small notice in the paper in Wichita Falls. She was determined that the services to be held two days later would be a funeral to be remembered and made the decision not to notify Emmajean until after her father was buried.
“She’d make a scene,” she said to her son. “She’d bring that disgusting child and that dirt clod of a man with her. I will not have this occasion ruined by her irresponsible behavior. Imagine the talk!”
Marty, still in shock and unable to grasp the power of his new position in the family, allowed his mother to make the decisions. The service was held in a church overflowing with mourners and gawkers who, with nothing better to do, came to hear the flowery eulogies and the voices of the singers brought in from Wichita Falls.
Alice Conroy, dressed elegantly in black, a thin veil covering her wide-brimmed hat and flowing down over her head and shoulders, acted the role of the grande dame. Regal and unapproachable, she was a picture of quiet dignity. With a dry-eyed Martin Jr. by her side, she led the procession out of the church and to the cemetery, where her husband was laid to rest in the Conroy mausoleum alongside his father and grandfather.
After the burial, county and state dignitaries and a few close friends were invited back to the Conroy family home for a private dinner honoring the deceased. Marty stood by his mother’s side, greeted the guests, and then stood beside the door to bid them good-bye when they left. He was glad to see the last of them.
The family lawyer was waiting in the study to read his father’s will.
Shellenberger and Shellenberger, the oldest law firm in northwest Texas, had set up the Conroy family trust back in the 1860s. Great-grandfather Conroy had been a close friend of Stuart Shellenberger, the founder. Now, Stuart’s great-grandson, Luther Shellenberger, was head of the firm.
Luther, a small man with sharp features, took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. Feeling the importance of the moment, he glanced first at Marty, sitting in a straight-backed chair, then at Mrs. Conroy, standing beside the window. He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“I didn’t see Miss Emmajean at the service. Is she ill?”
“Yes.” Alice Conroy uttered the word sharply while keeping her back to the room.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well . . . let’s get on with it. You know about the trust, so I need only tell you about the part that concerns you. A few months ago Martin came to the office and made some changes in his will.” He paused as Mrs. Conroy came quickly to the center of the room and frowned at him.
“He did what?” she asked in her most superior tone.
“He came to the office—”
“You said that. The trust is still solvent?”
“Of course, it is. The bulk of the yearly trust will go to Marty as the only male heir, with the stipulation that he take care of you for the rest of your life.”
“I expected that. It’s one of the conditions in the trust. What about his personal estate? By all accounts it should be considerable.”
“It is. The house is yours, Mrs. Conroy, for your lifetime. It then goes to Marty. One-third of the estate was bequeathed to you, his widow. The other two-thirds is to be divided between his two children, Martin, Jr. and Emmajean.”
“Emmajean?” For a moment, and only a moment, Alice Conroy’s face registered total loathing. Then the look was wiped from her face. She straightened her back, tilted her head, and looked down her nose at the man even though they were of equal height. “Was the new will drawn recently?”
“As I said, a few months ago.”
“Well, out with it. What other fool thing did Martin do?”
Mr. Shellenberger glanced at Marty. Mrs. Conroy’s attitude made him acutely uncomfortable.
“Mr. Conroy made a condition regarding the trust, which had to be approved by the trustees. I’ve made copies of the codicil and the will, so you may read them for yourself.”
“What is the condition?” Mrs. Conroy refused to take the paper he held out to her.
“Out of the yearly ten-thousand-dollar trust, two thousand five hundred of it will go to take care of Emmajean in a private sanitarium should she have to be . . . ah . . . put there.”
Mrs. Conroy gasped. Her face turned a fiery red. When finally she could speak, her voice was shrill.
“That is ridiculous! Uncalled for. It’s an insult to the family.”
“He explained to the trustees that his daughter was, at times—”
“—High-strung,” Alice interjected. “She is merely high-strung, as some young women are. She is married, has a baby, and lives in Oklahoma.”
“Daddy wanted to be sure that she would be taken care of, should something happen, Mother.”
“What would you know about what Martin wanted?” Alice frowned at her son for daring to speak up. She faced the young lawyer. “He had no right to go behind my back and make these arrangements.”
“He had the right, Mrs. Conroy,” Luther said firmly. “The law and the trustees are on his side. I doubt you could reverse their decision even in the highest court.”
“Who’s in charge of Emmajean’s windfall?”
“Mr. Conroy seemed to think that Marty would carry out his wishes,” Luther said, glad that Mr. Conroy had warned them that his wife might be difficult.
“Marty? He can’t even manage the allowance Martin gave him.”
“I can do it, Mother,” Marty said quickly. “If it should become necessary.”
“Is there anything else, Mr. Shellenberger?” Alice asked frostily.
“No, ma’am. I’ll leave the copies of the will here on the desk.”
“Then excuse me. I have things to attend to.”
As soon as Mrs. Conroy left the room, Mr. Shellenberger arranged two neat stacks of paper on the desk and closed his briefcase.
“I’m sorry she’s upset, but Mr. Conroy talked over these conditions at length with the trustees, and they agreed. It wasn’t my doing.”
“Mother will be all right. Losing Daddy has been a shock to her.”
“Well, I’ll be going unless you have any questions.”
“How will the money set aside for Emmajean be handled?”
“It will remain with the trustees until you find it necessary to draw on it. At that time you will come before the trusteess and make a formal request. It’s all there in the will.”
“If she should not require the use of it, what happens?”
“It will accumulate. At some future date should the trustees think she is capable of handling it, they will turn it over to her. But in case of her death, the conditions in the trust will be void, and you will receive the full yearly payment from the trust. Her inheritance, the one-third of Mr. Conroy’s personal estate, will go in trust for her and will be used for her at your discretion. Again, should Emmajean die, the inheritance will remain in trust for her son with you as administrator. Mr. Conroy didn’t want her husband to have control of the inheritance.”
“Daddy was wise to do that.” Marty extended his hand to the lawyer, then walked him down the hall to the door.
“Come see me. There’ll be papers to sign before I can turn over the bulk of the estate.” Mr. Shellenberger lifted his hat from the rack beside the hall tree and placed it carefully on his head. “Strange, isn’t it, how my great-grandfather and yours got together way back then.”
“Yes. Daddy told me. I’m glad they didn’t kill each other over that barrel of whiskey.”
“So am I.”
Mr. Shellenberger got into his car and drove away. Marty stood on the porch and watched him leave. He wasn’t as shocked as his mother that his daddy had left money to Emmajean. He had not told her what his father had said just before he died, knowing how angry she would be.
Marty dreaded going back into the house and facing his mother. She was furious at what his father had done, going behind her back to the trustees and exposing the shame that Emmajean wasn’t
right.
right.
One thing was sure, Marty thought. His mother would do her best to see that Emmajean didn’t get one cent of the money her daddy left her. The best thing for him to do, he decided now, was just to sit back and see where the chips fell. He wasn’t happy about crazy Emmajean getting the money either, but there were things that could be done about it.
Whistling a tune under his breath, he went back to the study that was his now. All his.
* * *
Henry Ann’s nerves were frazzled to the breaking point. It had been almost a week since Tom had been to the farm. Jay had become so much a part of the Henry family that now he seldom mentioned his daddy. Johnny and Grant told of seeing Mrs. Dolan walking along a fence line heading for the creek. Shortly after they had seen her with Tom; he was taking her back to the house.
Henry Ann sometimes wondered if Tom was sorry that he had kissed her, held her in his arms, and told her that he was crazy in love with her. She searched her memory time and again for every word he had uttered. She had only to close her eyes to feel his kiss on her lips. Thank heavens this was the canning season. Henry Ann welcomed the hard work. It helped to keep her thoughts at bay.
Jars of pickled peaches, chowchow, piccalilli and bread-and-butter pickles lined the shelves in the cellar. Green beans were packed in clean jars. Then six jars at a time were placed on a rack in the copper boiler and given a hot-water bath until sealed. The same process was used to can the tomatoes, okra, and corn that had been cut from the cob. The kitchen was like an oven most of the time, even though they used the kerosene stove on the porch.
On Friday morning Henry Ann picked the last of the beans. The vines had produced exceptionally well thanks to the irrigation system. As she was leaving the garden, Johnny came riding up on his horse. He and Grant were stringing a temporary fence to keep the steers out of a small patch of corn down by the creek. He got off the horse and went to the house. She could tell by the jerky way he walked that he was angry. She followed and met him coming out the door with the rifle.
“What’s going on? What are you doing with the gun?”
“Two more of our steers were butchered. I’m on my way to Mud Creek.”
“How do you know they did it?”
“I’m pretty damn sure it’s Pete and that bunch he runs with. The tracks showed a shod horse was there as well as a car. They’re not getting away with it.”
“Where’s Grant?”
“He’s down there working on the fence.”
“I don’t want you going to Mud Creek, Johnny. Go to the sheriff.”
“He’ll not do anything.”
“Does Grant know what you intend to do?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“If you’re determinded to go to Mud Creek, I’m going with you. Get out the car while I change my dress.”
“Sis . . . I don’t want you mixed up in this.”
“The steers belong to both of us. Isabel, if she’s still there, might claim that she was taking her third. I’m going.”
“I’ll put up my horse.”
Fifteen minutes later Henry Ann, in a clean housedress, her hair tied back with a narrow ribbon, climbed into the car. She glanced at her brother’s set face, hoping his temper would cool by the time they reached the Perrys’. When they passed the Dolan farm, Henry Ann searched for a glimpse of Tom, but he was nowhere in sight. The place looked almost deserted.
Johnny turned down a lane where grass was so high between the ruts that it slapped the underside of the car. Henry Ann had not been to Mud Creek since she was a small child and was shocked by the trash along the roadway and in the yard of the ramshackle, unpainted house they came to.
“Who lives here?”
“Fat Perry and his ma. He’s mean and stupid.”
Chickens scattered with angry squawks as Johnny stopped beside a porch with a sagging roof. He pressed on the horn repeatedly until a grossly fat man came out of the house. He paused on the porch, stuck his hands down the sides of his overalls, and scratched his stomach before he came down the steps to the car.
“Howdy, Johnny.”
“I’m here to give you a warning, Fat. If I find out that you had anything to do with killing and butchering our steers or even eating the meat, you’re going to wake up some night thinking you’ve died and gone to hell. After this shack burns down around you, there’ll be nothing left of you but a big grease spot.”
“Whoa, now. That’s big talk for a redskin who ain’t got no
braves
a backin’ him up.” Fat’s little pig eyes strayed to Henry Ann’s face while he spoke.
braves
a backin’ him up.” Fat’s little pig eyes strayed to Henry Ann’s face while he spoke.
“I don’t need backup to come around here some dark night and burn this place to the ground.”
“Try it, sonny, and Perrys’d be all over ya like flies on a pile of fresh cow shit.” Fat put his foot up on the running board, leaned closer, and looked down at Henry Ann’s legs. “Ain’t ya Ed Henry’s filly outta Dorene?”
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