Free Return of the Wolf Man by Jeff Rovin Page A

opened, Dr. Cooke.”
    “I see,” she said. “I assume Aunt Joan was okay with that?”
    Pratt turned and faced her. She seemed so vulnerable and trusting. He wished that he were somewhere else. “The truth is, I didn’t tell her.”
    Caroline was no longer smiling. “Excuse me?”
    “I couldn’t,” Pratt said, “and I hope you’ll try to understand. Ms. Raymond had a fixation with that part of the castle. The only time she ever raised her voice or shut the door on a subject was when the basement was brought up. Whether I was recommending that she let an exterminator down there or someone to check the integrity of the foundation or insulate the damn place she dismissed the idea before I was able to finish. If I’d said anything about the probate laws she would have insisted that the CTA has no right to go down there.”
    “And who says they do?” she asked angrily.
    “The State of Florida,” Pratt assured her. “I went to the county court the day after she drew up her will and tried to get her an exemption. I went again the day your aunt passed away.” He reached into the pocket of his wind-breaker and withdrew an envelope. He held it toward Caroline. “New administration—same answer. They turned me down.”
    Caroline did not take the envelope. “You lied to her.”
    “No—”
    “You told her everything would be okay, when you knew otherwise. What do you call that?”
    “Kindness,” he said. “I could never have lied to Ms. Raymond.”
    “That’s a lawyer’s distinction,” Caroline snapped. “It’s bullshit.”
    “I’m sorry,” Pratt said. “If the taxable assets of an estate exceed a certain amount, the federal government wants its share. I tried to beat this and I couldn’t. So I tried to protect her as best I could in the only way I knew how.”
    “She wasn’t a child,” said Caroline. “She could have handled the truth.”
    “I don’t think so,” Pratt replied. “When it came to that room she couldn’t have handled anything. I didn’t see any point in upsetting her.”
    “You said you tried everything,” Caroline said. “What about a compromise? We’ll make an estimate. I’d be willing to settle on a reasonable figure, even if we get screwed.”
    “I offered to have the matter arbitrated, Dr. Cooke. Unfortunately, when you do that they think you’re trying to hide something. And given the history of this place, I didn’t want to get the CTA and other bureaus involved. Don’t forget, there are still mysteries and unsolved crimes on the books. The state police, the F.B.I.—either of them could have forced us to open the room if they thought Ms. Raymond was concealing evidence.”
    “Oh, please,” Caroline said. “My aunt the killer.”
    “No,” Pratt said. “But like I said, not everybody thought she made up all the events in her fiction. I didn’t want to do anything that would fan old fears or start new ones—not while she was alive. The bottom line is, there’s no way I can keep the tax office from checking the place top to bottom.”
    “I don’t believe that,” Caroline said. “There’s always a way to get what you want.”
    “Not with Uncle Sam. I looked for records, floor plans, anything to show the CTA what was down there. On my own time, mind you, not Ms. Raymond’s. But even your great-aunt didn’t know where those documents were. I could have filed forms and spent Ms. Raymond’s money and delayed things maybe six months, maybe even a year. Searched for blueprints. But eventually they’d have gotten in. And knowing Mr. Porterhouse, because of the delay he’d have gone looking for small print in some tax law somewhere which would have entitled the government to monies, interest, and penalties going back to 1884 when the place was built. That could have cost the estate everything. Even if the basement is just empty space, the square footage adds to the value of the estate.”
    “The value!” Caroline scoffed. “My mother told me that