Not a Creature Was Stirring (24 page)

“Hell, no. That’s why it made the papers.” Evers grinned. “That’s why I can talk like this and not have to worry about confidentiality. With the Hannafords, there’s no such thing as confidentiality. Before 1980, old Robert H. was the typical rich old man. First he loved them, then he hated them. First he made a will one way, then he made it the other. And since Hannaford Financial was a privately owned company at the time—”

“What happened to it?” Jackman said.

“It went public, also in 1980. But you see how it was. Hannaford’s nuttiness was business news, not just society news. It made its way into the tabloids and the straight papers. Once in a while, it even made it onto local television. That was why it was such a big deal when he decided to settle the situation once and for all.”

Gregor closed his eyes, thinking. “Were you Hannaford’s lawyer at the time?” he asked.

“I wasn’t any kind of lawyer at the time,” Floyd Evers said. “I hadn’t passed the bar exam. I took the Hannafords over after Tom Wanderman died. He was the founder of my firm. He and Hannaford had known each other forever.”

“Why you?” Gregor said.

“I was Wanderman’s assistant. And Robert Hannaford liked me, don’t ask me why.”

Jackman stirred uneasily. “I don’t get this. Nobody benefits from Robert Hannaford’s death? Nobody?”

“Cordelia Day Hannaford has right of survivorship,” Evers said. “She goes on getting the annuities as long as she lives. And the foundations benefit a little. The contents of this house, for instance. Technically, they belong to Yale University, to be sold at auction when both the senior Hannafords are dead. And, of course, there’s the insurance policy.”

“One million dollars,” Jackman said.

“Two, in case of murder. To Cordelia Day Hannaford.” Evers nodded.

Jackman was persistent—or persistently obtuse. “But none of the children benefit. None of them gets anything because their father’s dead.”

“Right.” Evers nodded again.

“I wonder why the girls were cut off so completely.” Gregor had been silent for so long, they’d forgotten he was there. They turned to stare at him. He shrugged at their incomprehension. “It’s not that strange a question. Rich old men tend to get on better with their daughters than their sons. You’d think he’d have gotten on with at least one of them. And Cordelia Day Hannaford must have been already ill in 1980.”

“So?” Jackman said.

“So, Anne Marie Hannaford has given up her life to take care of her mother, a woman Robert Hannaford was supposed to have loved. You’d think he’d make some provision for Anne Marie, at least, in gratitude if nothing else.”

“You’d think he’d make better provision for the boys,” Floyd Evers said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Hannafords, especially old Robert Hannaford, it’s that they’re family proud. Family
nuts
, if you ask me.”

Gregor thought about the portraits in the upstairs hall. “Yes, there is that. I wonder what
happened
in 1980.”

“Why would anything have to have happened?” Jackman said. “Maybe he just got tired of making wills and unmaking them again.”

This time, Floyd Evers actually laughed. “Whoo,” he said. “You don’t know rich old men. Half my clients do nothing but. And the rich old women are worse.”

“They want to hang onto power, that’s the important thing,” Gregor said. “They always want to hang on to power. I’ve known men in my life who’ve given up smoking, who’ve given up heroin, who’ve given up sex. I’ve never known one who voluntarily gave up power.”

“He didn’t give up all the power,” Evers said. “He wasn’t that stupid. When Hannaford Financial went public, some shares were sold, some shares went to Robert, but the biggest block went into another of those living trusts. Hannaford didn’t get money from those. He got the voting rights.”

“And these voting rights also pass to Cordelia Day Hannaford until her death?” Gregor said.

“That they do,” Evers said.

Jackman had been pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, restless and upset. Now he stopped, leaned back, and began to look happier.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “We’ve got to check into Hannaford Financial. Obviously, nobody killed Robert Hannaford for his money. And it would explain Emma, too, that book. She probably knew something. No one got any money, except for Cordelia, and she wasn’t hauling furniture around this room in her condition. But if something’s wrong at Hannaford Financial—now that, that would provide us with a motive.”

“It would provide you with a great motive,” Evers said cheerfully. “They’re sending all those idiots to jail.”

Gregor wasn’t feeling so cheerful. He was thinking about a pair of silver candlesticks and about the dead-white face of an emaciated young man who was much too frightened for any explanation that made sense.

The more he thought about those things, the more incomprehensible they seemed to get.

Half an hour later—after Floyd Evers had gone up to Cordelia’s room and Anne Marie had gone over her story five times, by rote—the young patrolman who had met Gregor and Jackman on the stairs emerged from the second floor hall, triumphant. In his hands was a piece of blue notepaper, the kind supplied for every writing table in every bedroom of the house. It was crumpled and torn, but not illegible.

“
Dear Bennis,
” it said. “
You’ll know what I mean when I say I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to put a stop to this one way or the other. Now. Love, Emma.”

The original suicide note.

Found in the wastebasket in Bobby Hannaford’s room.

Along with four $100 bills.

Jackman stared at the money and said, “It wasn’t a hoax. There was a briefcase full of money.”

“We always knew there was one at Tibor’s,” Gregor pointed out. “Now we know there was one where Hannaford said it would be. In his study Christmas Eve night. Something tells me, if we look around now, all we’re going to find is the briefcase.”

“What?”

Gregor had been fingering the bills. He handed them to Jackman. “Find out if there’s a service dump here. Someplace they put trash from gardening and lawn work. Houses of this size usually have them, placed pretty far from the house itself. If there is something like that, our briefcase will be at the bottom of it.”

“But not our money.”

“Of course not,” Gregor said.

B
Y THE TIME CORDELIA’S
doctor arrived, the police were gone, Bobby and Chris had received the most brutal account possible of Emma’s death, and Anne Marie Hannaford was beginning to think she was having a nervous breakdown. She always did think so, in situations like this, when Mother had been very bad and then started to get better when she should have gotten worse. Anne Marie wanted to believe the world was an inevitable place. If she did certain things—kept Mother quiet, gave Mother all her medicines, transmitted an unwavering message of Disneyland hope—Mother would be well. If she did other things—got Mother excited, let Mother stay awake too long, admitted for one moment that there was anything wrong at Engine House—Mother would be sick. With Mother’s disease, things were not so simple. Cordelia had reacted the way Anne Marie expected her to at Daddy’s death. The shock had been profound, devastating. Anne Marie had thought it was all over. The woman was going to implode, collapse in on herself like a building with a ruined foundation. The death of Emma should have finished her off. Instead, she was getting better. Anne Marie had picked it up right away. This time, when she called the doctor, she was adamant. Yes, it was snowing, but the streets were passable and would be for hours yet. He could damn well get his ass up to Engine House.

Now she sat in a chair in the hall outside her mother’s door and listened to Bobby and Christopher arguing in the foyer, their voices sharper than usual against the interminable carols. She was very tired. Since Christmas Eve, her fear had been absolute—that Mother would die before she had a chance to get ready for it, that Mother would die before she managed to get a grip on herself, that Mother would die. God only knew she ought to be used to the idea. Mother had been dying for years. Maybe that was the problem. Mother had been dying for years, but not in any danger of being dead, until that attack in November that had brought them all running home for Christmas. Anne Marie had to admit it. That was the first time she had really believed it was going to happen.

Somewhere inside Mother’s room, a chair scraped against hardwood. The doctor was getting up, getting ready to leave. Anne Marie stood up herself, trying to force an expression on her face, the one the doctor was expecting to see. She didn’t do a very good job of it. She hadn’t known Emma very well, that was the problem. With all the worry about money, with all the strain of keeping the house going when Daddy was still alive and likely to go crazy at least once a day; Anne Marie hadn’t had the emotional energy to care about a sister she had never really known and very rarely saw. Bobby was the same way. She had seen it in his face when she told him. Christopher’s reaction had come as a complete surprise. Such a complete surprise, in fact, that Anne Marie had almost thought he must be faking.

The chair scraped again—back into position, probably. Then there was the sound of metal things being tossed against each other, followed by a sharp snap. A moment later, the door opened. Anne Marie looked up to find Dr. Borra’s sour young face glaring at her over the velvet collar of a Chesterfield coat. Dr. Borra’s face was always sour. Years ago, on the day he’d been taken into the Rittenhouse Square practice where he was now a full partner, he’d been apprised of the “special circumstances” under which that practice served the Hannafords. He still didn’t like them. To Dr. Borra, neither $400 million nor family connections going back to six generations gave anybody a right to house calls.

Anne Marie smoothed her skirt, stared at the floor, and said, “Well?”

“Well what?” Dr. Borra said.

Anne Marie looked up angrily. “Well, how is she, for one thing,” she said. “You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes. You must have found out something.”

“Found out what?” Dr. Borra said. “Miss Hannaford, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this—an infinity of times, as far as I can see—but people don’t die of adult onset lateral multiple sclerosis. Not these days. They get weak. They become prone to opportunistic infections. They don’t die of—”

“You should have been here a few days ago,” Anne Marie said. “She certainly looked like she was going to die
of
it.”

“Shock.” Dr. Borra shrugged. “I told you when you called on Christmas Eve. She should have come in to the hospital.”

“She doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”

“I know what she doesn’t want, Miss Hannaford. I’m merely telling you what she should have. All I can do is make suggestions. If the patient won’t take them, I can’t force her.”

“Meaning if I want to indulge her, you can’t force me.”

“Well, Miss Hannaford, she’s hardly competent, is she? I could go to any medical review board in the country and make a good case for total mental breakdown.”

“That’s because you don’t live with her,” Anne Marie said. “Believe me, she’s perfectly competent. She just has a little trouble expressing herself.”

Dr. Borra shrugged, again. Anne Marie looked away, down the hall, to where the yellow plastic strips of the police seals gleamed falsely under the dim hallway lights. The police seals annoyed her unreasonably. There they sat, a great big boulder in the middle of an already rocky road, one more obstacle to be gotten around on her way to—what? Anne Marie didn’t know what she was on her way to, anymore. She was just furious at Emma, for causing all this trouble.

“Tell me,” she said, “have you got any idea, now that you’ve seen her, how long she’s going to be able to last? Should I expect her to die tomorrow? Should I expect her to live to 1995?”

“Yes,” Dr. Borra said.

“Don’t be juvenile. This isn’t an anxious relative question. My father is dead, in case you don’t remember—”

“It would be hard to forget. It made the front page of
The Inquirer.”

“It also made
The Wall Street Journal,”
Anne Marie said. “That’s not the point. There’s a large estate involved here, a lot of complicated legal questions. Mother and I spent an hour and a half with the lawyer today. Today, Dr. Borra, with my sister dead in a room down the hall and God knows what else going on around here. You’ve got to understand—”

“I do understand. You’re the one who doesn’t. I can’t make the kind of predictions you’re asking for. Your mother has an unsteady heart—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t like the way it sounds, that’s what it means. I’m not saying I’ve found any evidence of heart disease. I haven’t. I’m just hearing some irregularity. It could mean everything and nothing.”

“Wonderful,” Anne Marie said.

“If you want my instinct, I’d say she was good for another three months. At least.”

“Oh.”

“On the other hand—”

“Don’t spoil it,” Anne Marie said. She turned away from him and started down the hall toward the landing, listening to be sure he followed her. He did. “I’ll let you out now,” she told him. “I suppose you’re busy with something. But I wish you’d remember—”

“That I’m supposed to come any time you call? If I did that, I wouldn’t get anything else done.”

“That’s the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard. We don’t call you every hour. We don’t call you every day. We don’t even call you every week. Mother wouldn’t have it.”

“Nevertheless, you always call at the most inconvenient possible time.”

They were out on the landing now, going down the stairs to the foyer. Anne Marie stared at the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor and saw it start to swim before her eyes. She was boiling.

“Do you believe in euthanasia?” she asked him.

Dr. Borra said, “What?”

“Euthanasia,” Anne Marie repeated. “There are so many people these days, young doctors mostly, from what I read in
Time,
who think old people who have lost their faculties are simply being irrational when they want to go on living. Who think—”