The Twelfth Child (19 page)

“Excuse me,” he called out, “Do you know when Miss Fairchild will be home?”

“No telling,” Mary Beth answered, “That one keeps strange hours.” 

“Oh?” he said and turned to listen.

I can’t say for certain that Mary Beth disliked Destiny, but she liked to gossip more than she liked anything or anybody, so it didn’t take much to get her started.  She walked over to the detective and started talking real low, like a person confiding something of the greatest secrecy.  “She supposedly works at a restaurant downtown, but, no one knows for sure if that’s what she
really
does.  Back awhile she moved in with old Missus Lannigan and didn’t bother about going to work.  I ask you, would a
real
job let a person show up for work just whenever they feel like it?”

“Lived with Missus Lannigan?  How long?” 

“No telling.  But even before that, I saw her hauling pieces of furniture over into her own house.  Big things.  A lamp, a table, a huge overstuffed chair!  Cartons – way more than I could keep track of!  Many a time I wondered if Abigail Anne knew the girl was doing such a thing.”

“Did you ever ask about it?”

“Heavens, no.  I’m not one to pry into other people’s business!”

“Hmm.”  Detective Nichols took a pad from his pocket and started to make notes.  “Missus Lannigan, did she have any other friends?”

“Not a soul!  I think that girl ran them all off.  Abigail used to be friendly with me, not real close, mind you, but close enough that she’d stop and pass the time of day every now and again.  After she got hooked up with
that one,
” Mary Beth waggled a finger toward Destiny’s house, “then, Abigail didn’t bother with other folks.”

Well, if that don’t beat all, I thought.  Mary Beth McGurke knew exactly why I stopped bothering with her – for the same reason everyone else on the block avoided her – she’d get hold of a person’s ear and chew on it ‘till they were about ready to scream.  Of course, Detective Nichols didn’t know that so he started writing down those awful things she was saying.

“By that one, you mean Destiny Fairchild?” he asked.

“I certainly do!  Mark my words, she’s some sort of gypsy.  Pops up out of nowhere and moves in without a single stick of furniture,
cinder blocks
for a table – then all of a sudden she’s living it up with poor Abigail’s things!”

“Things?  What things?”

“Whatever she could lay her hands on!  Why, she even snatched hold of Abigail Anne’s car and left the poor woman with no way to get around!”

“When was that?”

“Three or four years ago.  Maybe more.”

“So this has been going on for some time?”

“Yes indeed.  Abigail used to drive all over the place, but after Destiny Fairchild took the car, Abigail couldn’t go anywhere.  She’d have to beg that girl for a ride to the market.  Don’t take my word; ask down at The Bountiful Basket, they’ll tell you!”

“The one on High Street?”

“Uh-huh.  I’ve heard tell that Abigail would walk up to the checkout with not a dime in her pocket and have to ask that Fairchild girl for a dab of money to pay for her groceries.  Now, I ask, is that any way to live?”

Controlled money?
Detective Nichols wrote on the pad.  “This car of Missus Lannigan’s,” he said, “is Miss Fairchild still driving it?”

“No indeed.  I guess that Buick was too tame for her; as soon as she got hold of Abigail’s money, she bought herself a brand new
Thunderbird!
  Bright red!”

I watched Detective Nichols jot down
car?
  

“How about relatives?” he asked.  “Did Missus Lannigan have any relatives?”

“Her brother, but he died.  And a nephew or something.  I can’t say what his name was, a nice looking young man.  He used to visit every so often.”

“This nephew, he been around recently?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I suppose it was a while after Will passed on – Will was Abigail’s brother, you know, the one who died.  He died not long before the Fairchild girl moved into the neighborhood and started carting away poor Abigail’s possessions.  Uh-huh,” she said scrunching up her face like she’d given the matter careful consideration, “that’s when the nephew quit coming around.”

By now, Mary Beth was on a roll.  Once she had someone to listen to her stories there was no stopping her.

“It’s a crime,” she told Detective Nichols, “A crime how some folks will take advantage of the elderly.  There ought to be a law!”

“There is, Missus . . .?”

“McGurke.  Mary Beth McGurke.”

“Well, Missus McGurke, you’ve been very helpful.”  With that he closed his notebook and turned to leave.

Mary Beth, being Mary Beth, followed him all the way out to his car chattering on and on about how she’d be happy to answer lots more questions.  Much as I wanted to smack her lying face, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.

I
kept watch over Detective Nichols as he drove off, and when he parked in front of the Bountiful Basket, it wasn’t all that much of a surprise.  Had he held off and gone the following day, it would have been a Tuesday – Millicent works the register on Tuesday and she’d have been able to tell how it really was – but because it was Monday, he ended up talking to Harold.  On the best of days, Harold had a hard time remembering how many dimes in a dollar, and he wasn’t one to admit to a poor memory so whatever somebody said, he’d agree with.

“Did you know Abigail Lannigan?” Detective Nichols asked.

“Missus Lannigan?  Sure.”

“What about Destiny Fairchild?”

“Hmm?”

“She was the young woman who used to accompany Missus Lannigan, you remember her?”

“Remember?  Of course, I remember.”  Harold held up a honeydew melon and waved it toward the other register.  “Hey, Monica, how much are these melons?”

“Dollar-forty-nine,” she answered.

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

“Whose relationship?”

“Missus Lannigan and Destiny Fairchild.”

“Oh, them.  Well, they used to do their shopping together; but it ain’t my way to carry gossip about folk’s personal business.  Why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll say if it’s true or not.  Okay?”

“I’d rather not influence your opinions.  How about if I just ask a few questions and you can answer to the best of your recollection?”

“Listen here, Sheriff Nichols, there’s nothing wrong with my recollections.”

“Detective.”

“Detective?  What kind of question is that?”

“It’s not a question; I’m Detective Nichols, not Sheriff.”

“Okay.  But you’d better get to those questions; I go to lunch at twelve-thirty.”

“When Missus Lannigan and Miss Fairchild came through the checkout, who paid for the groceries?”

“Say again?”

“Did Missus Lannigan have any money of her own?”

“We don’t
give
food away.”

“But did the money come from Missus Lannigan’s purse or did she have to get it from Miss Fairchild?”

“Umm . . . hold up a minute.”  Harold dashed over to Monica and whispered something in her ear.  Monica nodded and said something that the detective could not hear.  When Harold returned, he said, “It was the young one.  She wrote the checks, but both their names were on the account.”

 I could tell Detective Nichols had more questions, but it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get any meaningful answers here, so he moved on to Monica.  “You recall Missus Lannigan and Miss Fairchild?” he asked.

“Sort of,” she answered as she plucked a bunch of carrots from the conveyor belt.

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

“Not much.  The young one seemed to be in charge, but she was nice enough to the old lady.  I never heard nothing worth repeating.”

“Thanks,” Detective Nichols said and left.  So far it was looking like Mary Beth’s story was holding up.

T
hat evening Detective Nichols returned to Destiny’s house.  I don’t know if he took notice of Mary Beth peeking through the slat in her blinds, but I sure did.  He rang the doorbell and Destiny answered right away.

“Destiny Fairchild?” he asked.  You could see by the surprise on his face that he hadn’t expected someone so sweet and delicate looking.

“Yes sir,” Destiny answered and smiled.  Once a person got past that wide open smile of hers, those green eyes were the next thing you’d be sure to notice.  I was a bit sorry that Tom Nichols wasn’t a single man, but I knew for sure he wasn’t because on his desk there was a picture of a pretty woman and two little blond-haired girls.  A man like Tom Nichols would have been real good for Destiny.  

“Were you the caretaker for Abigail Lannigan before her demise?” he asked.

Destiny’s smile faded.  “Uh-huh.”

“Her nephew has expressed concern about some loose ends regarding her estate, mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Okay,” Destiny answered and led him into the living room.  “But, I have to tell you, Elliott’s not actually her nephew.  Miss Abigail always said he was so far removed that he couldn’t be considered real kin.”

“Oh, so you know Elliott Emerson?”  Detective Nichols appeared to be doing nothing more than having an innocent conversation, but the whole time they spoke his gaze was darting around the room and making note of the things he’d seen on Elliott’s list.  “My, that’s an interesting piece,” he finally said and walked over to the sewing cabinet that had at one time belonged to Livonia Lannigan.  “Antique?”

“I believe so,” Destiny answered.  “It’s a sewing cabinet that Miss Abigail gave me.”  She pulled open the door.  “See, these little spindles, that’s where the thread goes.  Miss Abigail treasured this cabinet, because it belonged to her mother.”

“You were good friends with Abigail Lannigan?”

“Oh, yes.  Very.  She was a special lady.”

“She give you a lot of presents?”

“Way more than she ought to, but that’s how she was.  Generous to a fault.  Plenty of times I told her I didn’t feel right about taking such expensive gifts, but she’d claim her feelings would be hurt if I didn’t accept it.”

“I know what you mean,” Detective Nichols said and smiled like he was agreeing right along with Destiny.  “I had an aunt like that, just give, give, give, never knew when to stop.  What other presents did Abigail Lannigan give you?”

“Last Christmas she gave me twenty-five-thousand-dollars
and
she paid for my trip to Palm Beach, Florida.”

“Man!  That is really generous!  Did she have had a lot of money?”

“Some.  Mostly inherited from her brother.”

“Oh, wealthy family?”

“I don’t think so.  Miss Abigail said her brother got a lot of money when he sold the family farm.”

“What happened to her estate after she died?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” he repeated quizzically.  “There was nothing to the estate?”

“No, I mean I haven’t done anything with it.  Oh yeah, pay bills and stuff like that, the same things I did when she was alive.”

“Pay bills?  Do you still have access to Miss Lannigan’s money?”

“Yes.  I can write checks, same as always.”

“The accounts are in your name?”

 “Uh-huh.”

“What about her house?”

“I take care of that too.  A lot of times I go there and spend the evening, just walking around, touching things, you know, remembering how it used to be.”  Destiny smiled as if she saw something the detective did not.  “You know,” she said, “a person’s spirit stays in a place long after they’re gone.”

“Wait a minute,” Detective Nichols said, looking more than a bit puzzled, “are you saying you keep that house up so that you can go there and visit with her spirit?”

Destiny nodded.

“Did she leave you the house?”

“I suppose.  When she was real bad sick, Miss Abigail told me she wanted me to have all of her worldly possessions.   She said she didn’t have any real family and I was the closest thing to a daughter she’d ever known.”

“What about Elliott Emerson?”

“She didn’t like him one little bit.  He claimed to be a Baptist like his great granddaddy and Miss Abigail said anyone who didn’t know that her papa was a staunch Methodist, was sure as the devil no Lannigan.”

“I guess she specified that you were to inherit everything in her will?”

Much as I hate to say it, I could see where this was going and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop dear little Destiny from telling the truth, even though the truth would be held up as a lie.  Lord help her, I thought, for it was surely up to Him because all I could do was listen.

“It happened so fast, her getting sick like that.  There we were in Florida having the time of our lives, drinking champagne and painting our toenails, then next thing I knew the doctor was telling us that Miss Abigail had pancreatic cancer and was dying. She didn’t have time to make up a real will, you know, one prepared by a lawyer, so she wrote her intentions on a piece of paper.”

“A piece of paper?”

“Yes.”  A tear was sliding down the side of Destiny’s cheek.  “At the time I was so upset at the thought of her leaving me, that I wouldn’t even look at it.  ‘I don’t want to hear about you dying,’ was what I told her.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing much.  She told me that her dying was a God honest fact and whether or not I listened to what she had to say; it was still going to happen.  Miss Abigail put that paper in the nightstand drawer, and said whenever I was ready to face the truth; I’d know where to find it.”

“Was it witnessed or notarized, anything like that?”

“Poor Abigail was flat on her back by then, besides I didn’t need any notary stamp to make me believe what she wrote.  If she wanted it to be, that was good enough for me.”

“You suppose I could take a look at that paper?  It might help clear things up.”

“Sure,” Destiny said and took Detective Nichols right over to my house.

I
wish Destiny would have looked at what I wrote that day.  She would have seen that my handwriting had become illegible.  She could have brought someone in to witness what I’d said so it would later be believed.  Being dead is easy enough to deal with, but dying was a painful process that racked my bones and addled my mind.  That day, lifting my arm to write felt like trying to move a mountain, not a single word came easy and time after time the pen slid from my fingers and scratched its way across the paper.  I was a weary old woman looking through tired eyes and I saw only what was in my heart; although I believed those words told how Destiny should have everything I owned, the writing was nothing more than chicken scratch.