Chapter 3 - The Man My Husband Trusted
Arthur Bell had been Thomas's closest friend for thirty-six years.
He was eighty-one now, a retired accountant with two artificial knees, a stubborn refusal to use email, and an extraordinary memory for numbers.
He answered his telephone on the fourth ring.
"Eleanor Kelley."
I smiled despite everything.
"How do you always know it's me?"
"Because nobody else calls my landline before lunch."
"Arthur, I need to ask you something about Thomas."
The silence changed immediately.
"What happened?"
"Margaret Whitcomb came to my house this morning."
I heard a glass hit a table.
"Is Benjamin with her?"
"He was."
"Did you sign anything?"
"No."
"Good."
His voice was suddenly sharp.
"Very good."
I sat down in Thomas's study.
"Arthur, what is the second trust?"
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then I heard him exhale.
"Where did you hear those words?"
"Thomas wrote them in his ledger."
"What else did he write?"
"That I should ask you."
Arthur made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"That stubborn old fool."
"Arthur."
"I'm sorry, Eleanor."
"Don't apologize."
I stared at the photograph of Thomas standing beside the old workshop.
"Just tell me."
Arthur spoke quietly.
"Thomas created a second trust six months before his death."
I pressed the receiver closer.
"Why?"
"Because he discovered Benjamin had been borrowing money against assets he didn't own."
I closed my eyes.
The words were painful.
But they were not entirely surprising.
Benjamin had always been charming.
At seventeen, he could persuade a teacher to extend an assignment deadline.
At twenty-five, he could persuade a bank manager that a failed business was merely temporarily undercapitalized.
At forty-nine, apparently, he could persuade his mother to fund a lifestyle he could not afford.
"What assets?" I asked.
"Business interests."
"Mine?"
"Some were connected to the original family trust."
"How?"
Arthur hesitated.
"Eleanor, this is not something I want to explain over a telephone."
"Then come over."
"My knees aren't what they used to be."
"I'll come to you."
"No."
His voice became urgent.
"Don't leave your house alone until you've spoken to an independent attorney."
I sat very still.
"Why?"
"Because someone has been trying to locate the original trust documents."
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
"Who?"
"Margaret."
I stared at the ledger.
"How long?"
"Since January."
It was October.
Nine months.
Nine months of quiet inquiries while I paid Benjamin's mortgage, Charlotte's tuition, and Genevieve's club dues.
Nine months during which nobody thought I needed to know.
Arthur continued.
"Thomas appointed me successor trustee of the second trust."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because the trust was designed to remain dormant unless a specific condition occurred."
"What condition?"
"An attempt to use your financial support or the family assets to establish an obligation you never authorized."
I looked down at the unsigned document on my desk.
"That happened this morning."
"I suspected it might."
"Arthur, what did Thomas leave in that trust?"
His answer came slowly.
"Not just money."
I waited.
"He left proof."
"Proof of what?"
"Something Margaret did for Benjamin seventeen years ago."
My fingers tightened around the telephone.
"Arthur, Benjamin was thirty-two then."
"I know."
"What did he do?"
Arthur lowered his voice.
"He signed a document that should never have existed."
A knock sounded at my front door.
I looked toward the hallway.
"Someone's here."
"Don't open it yet."
I rose.
Through the frosted glass, I could see a young woman holding a large brown envelope.
"Who is it?"
The woman called through the door.
"Mrs. Kelley?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Serena Walsh."
I froze.
Serena was my late husband's niece.
She had worked as an investigative accountant for a federal contractor before leaving Washington to care for her father.
I hadn't spoken to her in three months.
Arthur said something I barely heard.
Serena continued.
"Arthur asked me to bring you something."
I looked at the receiver.
"Arthur?"
"I called her when I heard Margaret was back in town."
The woman outside raised the envelope.
"And Mrs. Kelley?"
"Yes?"
"You need to see this before your son finds out we have it."
I opened the door.
Serena stepped inside, rain sparkling on her dark hair.
She was thirty-eight, direct, and possessed the kind of calm that came from spending years examining records other people wanted buried.
She placed the envelope on Thomas's desk.
Inside was a copy of a document dated seventeen years earlier.
It bore three signatures.
Thomas Kelley.
Margaret Whitcomb.
Benjamin Kelley.
And beneath them was a fourth signature.
Mine.
I stared at it.
The handwriting looked almost perfect.
May you like
Almost.
But I had never signed that document.
