He looks middle aged, somewhat loose jowled, his skin beginning to crepe. Overly large sun-glasses cover his eyes so I can’t see their color, judge his integrity. I believe the old saying,’ the eyes are the center of the soul and mostly find it to be a truism. No bulging belly, no over-exercised ABS , make his narrow pin-striped gray suit just right for the Boss’ center window. A large, but not overly stuffed, black brief case rests on his lap. His name is the only mark I have against him, Peter P. Parker. He turns into a mental pumpkin eater. I blink away that absurdity and get down to business.
Mr. Parker is the bank trustee for the estate of Alicia Brooke, a great aunt of mine who I barely knew. Only yesterday I learned I am to be the recipient of half a million dollars if I do as she asks. Momentarily, I think ‘Sure, name it old lady,’ and eagerly wait for Mr. Parker to tell me what I must do. He unlocks his brief case, removes a stack of stapled papers and puts them on my desk facing himself. He clears his throat and warns me to be carful. We talk briefly about my relative while I stew in a pot of boiling anxiety.
‘Mr. Brooke, You are an attorney yourself in a prestigious law firm and will know instantly that your aunt’s request is illegal, may possibly put you in the penitentiary for the balance of your life. An attorney, surely a shyster, made out the trust papers in Barbados. They may not be legal here at all. Look at this page first.’
‘William Brooke, my grandnephew, I regret I have not seen you in many years, but as my sister Grace’s only child, you are my only heir.’ Paragraphs of legal jargon that I know, I slide over. My eyes bulge when I read in bold black print, ‘You are to kill Frank Armastice, in any manner you wish by November 10, 2010. Enclosed are the details of his description, circumstances, location, family but you will not find my reason. That you may never know. From this day of reading, you have two weeks to carry out my wish. If you do not, you will be disinherited.
Good luck and easy living. Aunt Grace.
The folder is left with me to ponder and bear on my drooping shoulders. Mr. Parker has done what he came to do and will be bound by his oath not to reveal this strange bequest to anyone. My secretary is given instructions to say I am away from the office today, take messages only and leave them on her desk when she leaves at 5:30. The entire afternoon I spend making notes about Mr. Armastace. He does not have a web page. There is no mention of a wife, a child.
Sweat has ruined my shirt. I recall years ago going duck hunting. A covey of them flew over and I aimed, actually killed a beautiful teal. My eyes ran out of tears. Just recalling that moment has upset me. I put it to bed in my cobwebbed memory box.
Half a million dollars! Adding it to what I have accumulated in 30 years of practicing law, I could retire, totally retire. The idea has promise. Maybe Mr. Armastace is a killer himself and deserves to die. Maybe he murdered his wife or even my Aunt Grace.
As soon as my secretary leaves, I gather my papers, put them in the trunk of my car, all except Mr. Armastace’s address. It’s too late to drive there now. I am beat. It will work out better if I waste Friday and drive there Saturday morning.
At night I dream of murders. It is a gruesome dream of blood and dangling feet. An exploding head makes me fall out of bed. There is no more rest and I wait for dawn hours away.
Questions grow questions. Where would I get a gun and learn how to use it in less than two weeks? How could I stab someone in his heart when I am not a doctor and don’t know how to miss ribs. Poison? Maybe an untraceable one is on line. ‘OK, Idiot, if you find the perfect untraceable poison, how would you get it into Mr. Armastace? I could, maybe could, invite him to the White Cliffs of Dover and push him over into the sea. Wake up. Call the office that I’ll be in about one. That should give me time to find his house in Langford just a ½ hour from my place. The drive does not use the turnpike. Langford is a small town I didn’t know existed until now. Asking where the Armastace house in can lead to my being identified if I kill him. The few farm houses have mail boxes on posts close to the street. Some are quite artistic, hand carved. I drive slowly looking for my victim. When I see #104, my heart begins to pound and I want to keep going, but instead drive as close to the front door as I can get without knocking over a grape trellis.
On the side of the house is a large wooden dog house needing paint. I pray nobody sees me and pull under an old elm tree, walk towards the dog house.The name carefully painted above it says, ‘Mr. Armastace. Sleep well, Buddy.’ No dog barks. Inside I can see the sad, terribly sad, rotting remains of a chained dog. It’s brown fur telling me it had been a large collie, a devoted pet of the house owner who may have been my Aunt Grace. She must have hoped I’d come there before her friend died. I wish I had. It is better for me this way. Killing the dog would have been no easier than killing a man.
I drive home, knowing I won’t be any richer, but happy I did not have to make a choice. Who knows what it might have been?
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