The Will Read online

“How long do I have to make the connection?”

  “Till Monday.”

  “Sheldon . . .”

  “Don’t push me, Henry. Monday, and you can take the last flight out. But listen, don’t get me wrong here. No matter what you find, I want your valuable butt back in the office next week. We got real problems back here. If Technology Enterprises’ problems get into the papers, they’ll lose three million in the market during lunch.”

  “Thanks, Sheldon.”

  “No tie-in between Crandall and the crazy guy, your ass is on the plane Monday night. That’s the deal.”

  “Understood,” Henry said with a grim smile. He had bought a fragment of time, but Sheldon’s paybacks had a way of making a person wish he’d lost the argument in the first place.

  He was about to hang up when Parker added, “Say, kid, I was just thinking.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Odd, isn’t it? I mean about your father drafting the original will. It’s a weird coincidence. What you wouldn’t give to ask the old man now what was going on back then, huh?”

  Henry paused. The thought had crossed his own mind more than once. “Yeah, no kidding. See you later, Sheldon.”

  Parker was right, Henry thought as he hung up the phone. It was strange, thinking about his father in the middle of all this craziness. The man was the straightest arrow in the world, the kind of man who never broke the speed limit. It was unsettling to think that he was somehow mixed up in an enigma like the Crandall will. And why the secrecy? Ty had insisted that the will be sealed and opened only in the presence of the family. Henry hoped that in the end there was nothing more involved than a disgruntled father and an angry son.

  Henry flipped shut his cell phone and looked at his watch. It was nearly two. He hoped the rest of the day would be better than the morning; after the circus with Boyd he had gone to Roger’s. Crandall had grilled him on what had happened with Boyd, and when Henry got to the part about taking Boyd to the Crandall store, Roger had hit the roof. Henry had told him flatly that Boyd had the right to go where he wanted, and he wasn’t about to physically restrain the man. But Roger had refused to be placated. In the end, Henry had left, as much to get away from the chaos of Roger’s outburst as to start his search into the Crandall estate.

  At around two-fifteen Henry parked in front of the Cottonwood Valley Bank, anxious to check on Ty Crandall’s bank records. If he was going to clear the mud a little, that was as good a place as any to start. He got out and walked toward the little bank, leaving his jacket behind. Summer had appeared from out of nowhere in the plains, and heat was crackling up off the sidewalks. But the worst was yet to come; by August the sun would be sucking water straight from the air, leaving a dusty film on the streets and the windshields of the cars and trucks.

  The bank itself was a throwback to an earlier era: old, bordering on decrepit, and filled with heavy furniture that seemed to absorb the little light there was in the room. A few dilapidated ceiling fans whirred slowly overhead, and the handful of undersized light fixtures did little to scatter the gloom. Behind the reception area were three desks with women working at them, a large vault, and two modest, enclosed offices at the far end.

  “Can I help you?” a voice asked. Henry turned toward the sound and saw a trim, middle-aged woman with heavy makeup seated behind one of the desks.

  “Thanks,” he answered. He gave her his card and said, “If the manager’s around, I have some business to discuss with him.”

  “Mr. Walters isn’t in at the moment,” the woman answered. She had a smoker’s voice, sexy, equal parts silk and leather. “Can I do something for you?”

  “I’m the executor of the Ty Crandall estate. There are some details to work through.” He held up a folder. “Just routine, power of attorney, things like that.”

  The woman looked Henry up and down, taking in his dark pants, matching shirt, and silk tie. “I can pass them along. Is there anything else?”

  “There is, actually. But it’s probably better handled with Mr. Walters. Will he be gone long?”

  “He’s in Kansas City until late tomorrow afternoon.”

  That was a blow; it had been hard enough to get the limited time he had from Sheldon. Waiting another day to even start digging through Ty’s affairs was out of the question. “I’m his assistant,” the woman said. “Maybe I can help.”

  That was hopeful. “I’m going to need to have a look at Mr. Crandall’s accounts, his business with the bank.” Henry smiled. “Would that be something you can arrange?”

  “You mean his checking accounts, things like that?”

  “Anything pertaining to his assets and liabilities. I really need to see his entire banking picture.”

  “On the basis of?”

  “I can’t disburse assets I don’t know exist.”

  She looked at him a moment and said, “Well, let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  The woman returned after several minutes with three enormous folders, each stuffed with papers. She walked with a languid, swinging motion, obviously well practiced. As she approached, Henry looked at her left hand: no wedding ring. Divorced, he thought, probably more than once. Watching her, he thought briefly of Elaine back in Chicago, and suddenly missed her very much.

  “Well, that’s about everything,” she said, “at least that I’m aware of. You’re welcome to it, although it needs to stay in the bank.” She nodded toward her desk. “You can take mine,” she said. “I’m busy in Mr. Walters’ office anyway.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to stay clear of things.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If you need anything, let me know. I’m Ellen. Ellen Gaudet.”

  Henry dug in, spending the afternoon with the folders. The records were separated into sections: loans, active accounts, and financial statements. There was a massive amount of trivial information in the papers, and he combed through it all, looking for anything to connect Crandall to Boyd. The records covered only the past few years, too recent to learn anything about Crandall’s early years in business. All the same, it was useful to get the actual numbers on everything, and he noted the totals in his laptop. Crandall’s estate was cash-heavy, which wasn’t a surprise; a lot of small-town high rollers never got much financial advice. Crandall had done well, but he would have been far richer if he had invested more outside Council Grove. There was nearly a million and a half dollars in cash, CDs, and low-interest bonds. The value of the real estate was difficult to gauge—current farming prospects cast a shadow on that part of the estate, and some property values in the area had actually declined over the past few years. But the granary and farm equipment businesses were solid. Together, they had cleared about three hundred thousand dollars the previous year. The oil wells were down to a dribble, however. Henry was surprised that the lot of them had brought in only around thirty-five thousand dollars the previous year. He worked through the records without a break until Ellen returned, interrupting his concentration. “We’ll be closing soon,” she said quietly.

  Henry looked at his watch in surprise. “Sorry, I lost track of time. It’s a bad habit.”

  “No problem,” she answered. “Did you find what you need?”

  “Not really. It’s a start, though.” Henry gathered the papers but stopped momentarily.

  “Listen,” he said, “I need to make you aware of something regarding the Crandall situation.”

  “All right.”

  There was no use trying to hide what would soon enough be all over town. “Let’s say that everything didn’t work out exactly as expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A pretty big slice of the estate wasn’t left to a family member.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s another person involved. I’m not breaking any confidences to tell you this. I have to do it for practical reasons. It isn’t inconceivable this person could show up at the bank.”

  “And do what?”


  Henry paused. God knows, he thought. Preach a sermon. Take off his clothes. Maybe both. “Well,” he said, “he might want money. But I couldn’t really predict. He’s not particularly . . . sociable.” Ellen raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, but said nothing. “I just don’t want you to be taken by surprise. He could be unpredictable, even hostile. I’m not saying he would be. I just don’t know.”

  “I see. So who is this person?”

  “Have you ever heard the name Raymond Boyd?”

  What followed was one of those moments that makes a lawyer glad he has chosen his profession. Ellen’s face formed an expression minutely too casual, as if it were being pushed through another, more immediate emotion. Ellen Gaudet, no matter what her next words were, knew exactly who Raymond Boyd was.

  “No,” she answered calmly, “I don’t believe I’ve met anyone by that name.”

  Henry processed her answer instantly and invisibly. “It’s more likely you know him by a different name, if I can call it a name,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “I’m talking about the Birdman.”

  “The guy out in Custer’s Elm? What about him?”

  “Tyler Crandall left the bulk of his estate to him.”

  “My God.” Henry watched her face carefully; her surprise, at least, seemed genuine. She may have known Boyd, but she hadn’t anticipated Crandall making him the richest man in Cheney County.

  “That is . . . a shock,” she said.

  “It’s a mess, frankly,” Henry said. “All of Ty Crandall’s accounts are to be frozen as of today. No withdrawals from any of them, without my permission as executor. The money will go into escrow. I should be able to get some papers to you tomorrow.”

  “What about the accounts of other family members?” Ellen asked.

  “This doesn’t affect them. But any joint accounts—anything with Ty’s name and anyone else’s—they’re frozen, too. No money can be transferred between them.” That’ll keep Roger’s nose clean, at least, Henry thought.

  “Whatever you say,” Ellen muttered. The ripple of recognition that had been present at the mention of Boyd’s name had now disappeared, leaving a remote, detached expression. Objectively, Henry was impressed: the fact that she could submerge her reactions so quickly indicated an almost professional level of self-control.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said. “Obviously, there’s no telling what Mr. Boyd might do under these circumstances.”

  “No,” she said softly, “no telling at all.”

  Henry smiled, radiating professional courtesy. “If you need me, here’s the number of my cell phone. I’ll have it with me at all times.” He paused. “And naturally, if Mr. Boyd chooses to . . .”

  “Of course,” Ellen said. “I’ll call you immediately.”

  “Thanks. Listen, would you mind if I came back first thing tomorrow morning? I haven’t quite finished.”

  Ellen’s face was blank. “Fine,” she answered, turning to walk back into the manager’s office.

  Henry looked after her, wondering. She had certainly known Boyd, against all odds. But the important thing was that she was cooperating fully. He would take any break he could get, no matter how small. With a helpful Ellen Gaudet on the inside of the bank, maybe all he needed was time.

  Roger Crandall could remember the exact moment he decided that he would be like his father. He was squatting on the steps of the Cheney County courthouse on a hot August afternoon, squinting through the sun at the heavy wooden doors before him. It wasn’t any cooler inside, and he waited for his father out on the concrete. Sometimes he would climb up on the big cannon in the courtyard. He was thirteen years old, and his father had left him to rummage for himself while he took care of some pressing business inside. Roger was used to waiting for his father, even at such a young age. He waited for him at water commission meetings. He tagged along behind him while Ty stopped in the street every block or two to talk to people. He waited while his father went into the rental houses, and he sometimes heard him yelling inside. That day in August while Roger waited, Marty Roe, a farmer who was trying to develop some land on the outskirts of town, suddenly exploded out of the courthouse above him with an expression on his face somewhere between confusion and disgust. Roe practically ran over young Roger, who was crouched down around the man’s knees. Roe jarred to a stop mere inches in front of the boy, his face a surprised scowl. Roger stared silently up at him, Roe’s head backlit by the fierce summer sun.

  Roe stared down at Roger a moment, then he growled, “Your father’s done it again, you little runt,” and, narrowly missing him, rapidly shoved off the steps and out into the street, leaving a hot vapor trail behind.

  Roger didn’t know what it was his father was doing, but it was obvious that he did it whenever he wanted, and it didn’t matter that it made other people mad or that they wished with all their might that he didn’t do it. He just did it. That was all his young mind needed to know; he longed for that freedom of action, for the power of unrestricted decision. Daddy had it: Roger would be like Daddy. Now that power that he had waited for so many years to possess was in danger of being taken away from him, and at the very moment it had come into his grasp. It was unthinkable.

  Roger strode across his yard toward his car and swung himself into the big Eldorado. He slammed the door shut, being careful not to spill his drink. He sniffed cautiously; the car smelled of his father. He raced the engine and rammed it into reverse. Using the gears as a brake, he slipped the transmission into drive while he was still rolling backward. Tires spinning in a cloud of gravel, the car shot forward.

  He wondered for a second how far the word had gotten out as he drove into town from the Crandall homestead, and realized that by now everyone surely knew. Humiliation burned red on his face. He took a drink, finishing the glass. He knew he had made enemies. He hadn’t given a damn about that—he was a Crandall, and that came with the territory. But enemies when you didn’t have power—that was something different. He imagined the people he had bullied all sitting around at the Trailside Diner, drinking coffee and laughing at jokes they wouldn’t have dared tell two days earlier. Cursing, he turned right on Pawnee and gunned the engine. His first stop would be the Feed and Farm Supply.

  Crandall blew into the store full of bluster and volume. He wasn’t consciously choosing his methods—he was too angry for that, and the three drinks hadn’t helped. It was as if there was a big hand in his back, and it pushed too hard for him to resist. He knew the hand well—this wasn’t the first time he had wanted to slow down, to think things through. Sometimes he had seen the victims of his tirades and actually felt a tinge of regret. He had sometimes wished that he could handle things in a different way. But the hand was too big. It pushed him along, making him speak louder and faster than he wanted to. It made him angry, and if nothing else, the anger made him feel powerful. That feeling was a magic elixir, a drug too powerful to resist.

  The words “Get out here, Payne” spat out of his mouth before the door had shut behind him. With the sound of Crandall’s voice, Billy Payne looked over the shelves from the back of the store and felt the old, familiar fear come over him.

  “Payne!” Roger shouted. “You taking the day off, or what?” Billy hustled around the corner and rapidly approached Roger.

  “Right here, Mr. Crandall,” he answered. His mind was racing. Maybe it had all been too strange after all. Maybe Crandall was here to tell him that the whole Birdman thing was some kind of bizarre joke. Maybe his life was going to continue being so deadly monotonous it would be boring if it didn’t scared the crap out of him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he ventured, “I was checking stock at the back.”

  “I gotta talk to you,” Crandall growled. “I gotta talk to everybody. Any customers in the store?”

  Payne looked around. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then get everybody up here by the cash registers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Billy trotted to the storero
om and rounded up the two employees there. There were three others, and they had already come to the front of the store, drawn by Crandall’s voice.

  Crandall scanned their faces, reading them. No one was smirking, at least. But he was no fool. He knew they had been laughing at him. He could feel it. He could smell it. He hated it. “Lock the front door, Billy,” he said in a dry voice. “We’re gonna be closed for a little while.” Billy hurried to the door, locked it, and turned over the sign. He turned back to face Crandall, taking his place in the lineup.

  Roger stood silently before the store employees, trying to calm himself and think. He needed to make this count. He needed to get control. He tasted scotch in the back of his mouth and blinked at the line of employees, steadying himself. The big hand pushed and pushed, and he narrowed his eyes. “Some of you probably seen a little circus in here yesterday,” he began. It was all right; the words weren’t slurring too badly. He would make it through this. “You seen that bird freak in here actin’ like he owned this place. I’m sure it was real damn funny.” He checked himself; he regretted the last statement—it sounded weak, defensive. But the big hand was in his back now, pushing.

  “I’m here to tell you that whatever you think you saw, you can forget it. It never happened. Nothing is going to change around here. The bird freak ain’t your boss, and he don’t own this store.” Crandall scanned the faces of the workers again; they looked confused, but he could also see fear. That was good.

  “This here ain’t nothin’ but some legal screwup that’s gonna get fixed right quick. This store’s been Crandall since it opened, and it always will be. My daddy built it, and it’s mine now. So if the goddam president of the United States or anybody else comes in here and tells you anything different, he’s a liar and you’re to throw him out on his bony ass. You got that?”

  Only a few heads nodded up and down, and he threatened them, gravitating to that weapon effortlessly, through years of practice. “Let me put it to you this way. There ain’t been a case decided against my family in the history of Cheney County law, and that ain’t gonna change now. So one way or another, I’m gonna end up with this store. But what you do in the meantime is gonna affect you for the rest of your lives. If I hear that any one of you cooperates with the bird freak, I’ll crush you like a fly. That clear enough?”