Free The Twelfth Child by Bette Lee Crosby Page B

aunt’s house, even though she has her own place right across the street. My aunt’s house is number fourteen, hers is seventeen.  Seventeen Oakwood Drive, that’s it.”
    “Do you know her social security number?”
    “Of course not,” Elliott replied. “I hardly know the woman. She’s certainly not the type person I would associate with!”
    “Why?” the detective asked, “Has she been in trouble before?”
    Elliott shrugged. “That’s something I can’t say with absolute certainty, but given her larcenous nature, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised.”
    “I take it she’s still at this address. Do you know how long she’s resided there?”
    “Not long.”
    “Less than a year?”
    “Longer.”
    “Two years? Three?”
    “Four or five, maybe six. But, as soon as she moved in, she started grubbing money from dear sweet Aunt Abigail.” 
    “How exactly did she do that?” 
    Elliott started telling how Destiny would pop in most every day, but he made it sound as if she was up to no good; not once did he mention how she came there to help with my housework or take me to the grocery store or the doctor. “She started helping herself to my aunt’s assets little by little,” he said, “then, before anybody realizes what’s happened, she’s got her name on the checking account and she’s driving around town in Aunt Abigail’s car. Now, virtually all the valuables are missing from the house!”
    Detective Nichols listened to the story Elliott was concocting. Every so often he’d jot another note on that yellow pad, as if he had heard some significant fact, but I could tell by the way his eyes were narrowed, the detective had his doubts about the truth of it all. I suppose that’s when I took such a liking to Tom Nichols. He had a way about him that made me think; now, here’s a man who can sort out truth from falsehood.     
    “Do you know where Destiny Fairchild came from? The state? City?”
    “I couldn’t even venture a guess,” Elliott answered. “For all anybody knows, she’s an escaped convict on the run!”
    I noticed how Detective Nichols had started penciling in a bunch of interlocked boxes along the margin of the yellow pad. It seemed the more Elliott talked, the less the detective was inclined to write down.
    “Can you give me a physical description of the woman? Height? Weight? The color of her hair? Eyes?”
     
    O ne week after Will’s funeral, Elliott telephoned me. “Being the only other Lannigan heir,” he said, “I was wondering when there is going to be a reading of my great uncle’s will.”
    Of course, I was missing Will something fierce and feeling pretty blue to begin with, but the sound of that man’s voice edged me into a downright foul mood. “Stop pestering me,” I told him. 
    “Well, Aunt Abigail, there’s a sizeable estate involved here, and my grandmother told me that Lannigan property is always passed along to the eldest male. As you know, I’m the one and only remaining male in the Lannigan family.”
    “You’re no Lannigan! Shit, you’re a Baptist! Papa would roll over in his grave if Will ever left one nickel of his money to a Baptist !”
    “But,” Elliott stammered, “you said…”
    “I lied!” I slammed the received down so hard it probably made his ears ring.
    At that point I thought I might be rid of that nuisance, but no, two weeks later I get a call from this lawyer who claims to be representing Mister Elliott Emerson.
    “Oh, really?” I said. “And just what does that have to do with me?”
    “My client has grave concerns,” Mister Binkerman said, that was the lawyer’s name, August J. Binkerman. “Grave concerns, regarding the distribution of assets belonging to your late brother, one William Matthew Lannigan.”
    “Anything that belonged to my brother is none of Mister Emerson’s concern.”
    “Mister Emerson feels differently. He believes that William Lannigan left a will which has not yet been submitted to the