Free The Twelfth Child by Bette Lee Crosby Page A

finally sold. I still remember the day Will signed those papers; it was five o’clock in the afternoon when he telephoned and he sounded like he’d been nipping at the whiskey.
    “Abigail Anne, you’re not gonna believe what I got for the farm,” he said.
    I told him that if it was me, I wouldn’t give fifty cents for the entire place.
    “Times have changed,” he said. “These folks are investing in the land and it’s not because of farming. They’re gonna build houses— hundreds of nice little three-bedroom houses right here on the Lannigan farm.”
    “Hundreds?” The way I remembered it, there wasn’t more than one-hundred and twenty houses in the entire valley.
     “Yes, indeed; two hundred and forty to be exact. They’ll divide the bottomland into individual lots and put in cement streets that run clear out to Ridge Road.” Will hesitated for a second, then said, “Becky and I have already discussed this and, Abigail Anne, we both feel you’re entitled to half of that money; you’re as much a Lannigan as I am and that land was Lannigan land.”
    “Hogwash!” was what I answered. “You worked that farm, Will. Papa left it to you and justifiably so. A person doesn’t get born into owning something. You work for it, long hard hours of work, that’s how you get to own it.”
    Well, our conversation went back and forth for heaven-knows-how-long, but in the end I flat out told Will that I didn’t need the money and I wasn’t taking any. At any rate, it was the end of the discussion. I never did ask how much Will got for the farm or what he did with the money. 
     
    W ill died fourteen months after he came to live with me. As much as I tried, I just couldn’t help him get past loosing Becky. The doctors claimed it was the emphysema; but, I still believe it was a broken heart. 
    Elliott was, of course, first in line at the funeral parlor. He had a black band around his arm and a hang-dog look on his face. Maybe nobody else knew the truth, but I sure did; that big phony didn’t care about Will anymore than I did Adolph Hitler. But, there he was, trying his best to look grief-stricken. The preacher had barely finished the ‘ from ashes we came and to ashes we shall return’ part of his sermon when Elliott whispered to me, “Do you have a date set for the reading of the will?” 
    If I was a few years younger I might have lambasted him square in the nose, but in deference to my brother, I held my temper and in a very ladylike manner whispered back, “Go to Hell!”  
     
    D etective Nichols opened his desk drawer and removed a yellow pad. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll need your name, address and phone number.”
    “Elliott Emerson. Fourteen-twelve Pine Street. Hazleton, Virginia.”
    “Hazleton? Way down in Hazleton? What are you doing in Middleboro?”
    Elliott fidgeted a bit, like people are prone to do when they’re telling a big fat whopper, “Well,” he said, “this is where the crime was committed.”
    “Hmm…” Detective Nichols looked eyeball to eyeball at Elliott and leaned forward; I could tell he’d started to catch the stink of a skunk. “Interesting,” he said. “Most folks would just go to their local police station—how’d you know a complaint had to be filed in the township where the crime occurred?”
    Elliott coughed several times and cleared his throat as if a pork chop was stuck in his windpipe. “I suppose,” he finally mumbled, “I read up on this sort of stuff.”
    “Hmm…” The detective made a check mark in the margin of his notepad. “Now, let’s go through this again. Is it your allegation that this neighbor, Destiny Fairchild, has stolen your aunt’s money along with other personal property—right?”
    “It’s not an allegation, it’s a fact!”
    “That’s yet to be determined. I’ll need more information. What’s her address?”
    “My aunt?”
    “The neighbor, Destiny Fairchild.”
    “I’m pretty sure she’s moved herself into my