Chapter 3: The Man Who Called Before the Funeral
“Yes,” Vanessa finally said.
“Daniel has visited the house.””
Grant remained standing beside the desk.
“When?””
“Several times. He is a business associate.””
“Was Richard present during those visits?””
“Usually.””
“Usually?””
She turned, exasperated.
“Must every word I say be turned into an interrogation?””
“No,” Grant replied.
“But when a person repeatedly avoids straightforward questions about a transaction involving a deceased client's company, I have to establish the facts.””
Vanessa opened the door.
“Then establish them. I have nothing to hide.””
She walked out.
The door closed behind her with enough force to rattle the glass in its frame.
For several seconds, Grant and I remained silent.
Then he crossed the room and locked it.
“Is she lying?”” I asked.
“I don't know.””
“You looked at her when you mentioned Whitaker Holdings.””
“I was watching how she responded to the information.””
“And?””
Grant removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“And I would be making a serious mistake if I treated my suspicions as facts.””
He returned to the desk and arranged the papers into a neat stack.
“But I would be making an equally serious mistake if I ignored what your father left me.””
I pulled out a chair.
“Tell me what you can.””
Grant sat opposite me.
“The document appears to be an instruction concerning the administration of shares held by your father. It may relate to an existing trust, a transfer restriction, or another corporate arrangement. I need to review the company's records before I can tell you precisely what it means.””
“Could Vanessa have known about it?””
“Possibly.””
“Could she have changed the will because of it?””
“The will predates this document by months. I see no reason to conclude that they are directly connected until I understand the terms.””
I stared at the envelope.
The paper looked ordinary. Cream-colored, slightly thick, with a narrow blue border around the seal. Nothing about it suggested that it could make my stepmother's voice tremble.
“Dad told me she had to hear the will first,” I said.
Grant looked up.
“Those were his exact words?””
“He said, 'She has to believe she has won.''”
Grant went very still.
“Did he explain what he meant by that?””
“No.””
“Did he say anything about a sale of the company?””
I thought of Vanessa's reaction to Whitaker Holdings.
“No.””
Grant leaned back.
“Your father was concerned about the company's future during the final month of his life. He asked me several questions about shareholder rights and the procedures required for a sale. I believed he was planning for the possibility of retirement or a change in management.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because he had not authorized me to discuss those conversations with you. And until this afternoon, I had no reason to believe they were connected to your inheritance.””
I looked at Dad's portrait.
He had been a private man. Even when he was hurting, he preferred silence to sympathy.
When my mother died, he had spent weeks moving through the house as though each room contained an invisible tripwire. I had learned to ask practical questions instead of emotional ones.
Did he want dinner?
Did he need groceries?
Would he be home for Christmas?
Years later, I could still remember the day I found him sitting in the garage with my mother's old gardening gloves in his hands.
He had quickly put them away when I appeared.
“Some things take a little longer to put down,” he had said.
I wondered how many things he had carried without telling me.
Grant interrupted my thoughts.
“There's something else you need to understand, Marcus. Whatever this document turns out to mean, you should not confront Vanessa alone.””
I frowned.
“Why?””
“Because money changes the way people behave, especially when they believe they're about to lose it.””
“You think she would hurt me?””
“I think you should avoid making assumptions in either direction.””
He began putting the documents into a protective folder.
“I also want you to tell me everything you remember about your father's final days. Every conversation, every unusual request, every visitor.””
“I already told you what happened at the hospital.””
“I know. But we need to start from the beginning.””
I hesitated.
Then I told him about the phone calls.
For the last six weeks of Dad's life, I had called nearly every evening. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes Vanessa did.
If he answered, our conversations were short.
If she answered, they were usually shorter.
On one occasion, I had asked to speak with him about a development project he had been planning to show me.
Vanessa had told me he was too exhausted.
The next morning, Dad sent me a message.
We'll discuss it when you're here. Keep your eyes open, son.
I had interpreted it as a reference to the business.
Now I wasn't so sure.
“Do you still have that message?”” Grant asked.
“Yes.””
“Don't delete it. Save a copy somewhere secure.””
He handed me his business card.
“Send me the date and the full conversation when you can.””
I slipped the card into my pocket.
“What happens now?””
“I contact the company's independent accountant, verify the document, and review the relevant corporate records. I'll also speak with the attorney who supervised the execution of the will to confirm the circumstances under which it was signed.””
“And Vanessa?””
“I'll ask her to preserve any records related to the company's proposed sale.””
I stood.
“She's going to know we're looking into her.””
“She already knows.””
That was true.
Vanessa had not asked us why the document was important. She had asked for it to be handed over.
She had not asked whether it was genuine. She had demanded to know whether it could change anything.
And when Grant mentioned Daniel Whitaker, she had stopped looking at me and started looking at the exit.
Grant placed the envelope inside his briefcase.
“I'll keep the original in secure storage while we verify it. You should make no promises to anyone about the estate until you have independent advice.””
I nodded.
As I reached the door, he called after me.
“Marcus?””
I turned.
“Whatever your father intended, we need to establish what he actually signed. That is the only way to protect his wishes.””
For the first time that day, I felt something other than anger.
A thin, uncomfortable thread of hope.
I left the study and walked down the corridor toward the guesthouse entrance. Vanessa's voice carried from the adjoining sitting room.
She was on the phone.
“No, he doesn't know what it says,” she whispered.
I stopped behind the half-open door.
“Grant hasn't explained anything yet. He just keeps looking at the signature.””
A pause.
Then she said, “Because I thought Richard had already dealt with it.””
My heart began beating harder.
I leaned closer.
“I don't care what Daniel promised you. The company cannot be transferred until probate is sorted out.””
Another pause.
Vanessa lowered her voice.
“Then find the copy. Richard said he destroyed it, but if Marcus has the original, there may be another one.””
The floorboard beneath my shoe creaked.
Vanessa stopped speaking.
I stepped away from the door and continued down the hallway, forcing myself not to run.
Behind me, I heard the sitting-room door open.
“Marcus?””
I turned.
Vanessa stood in the doorway, holding her phone against her chest.
Her expression had transformed. The anger was gone, replaced by a soft smile I remembered from my childhood.
It was the smile she used when she wanted me to believe something unpleasant had happened by accident.
“Were you listening to my conversation?”” she asked.
“I was walking to the guesthouse.””
“Then you must have heard something.””
“I heard you mention Dad's document.””
She glanced toward the study.
“What exactly did you hear?””
“That you thought he'd destroyed it.””
Her smile vanished.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she approached me.
“You need to understand something. Your father had complicated business arrangements. Some of them were designed years before you knew anything about the company.””
“Then why does it matter whether I know what he signed?””
“Because you don't understand the consequences.””
“Explain them to me.””
“I cannot explain something I haven't seen.””
“Grant has it.””
“Yes. And until he tells us what it means, we should both stop speculating.””
Her tone was calm again, but she had begun twisting the ring on her finger.
I had seen her do that only twice before: once when Dad announced his diagnosis, and once when a bank called the house about an overdue payment she insisted had already been made.
I took a step toward the front door.
Vanessa reached for my sleeve.
“Marcus, wait.””
I looked at her hand until she withdrew it.
“Don't make this harder than it needs to be,” she said.
“You have your memories. You have your father's personal belongings. You can take time to grieve without turning everything into a fight.””
“What about the house?””
“The house is mine under the will.””
“And the company?””
“Also mine.””
“Then you have nothing to lose by letting Grant investigate.””
Her jaw tightened.
“You think a few papers are going to make you the owner of a company you've never managed?””
“No. I think Dad had a reason for sending those papers to Grant.””
Vanessa's eyes filled with anger.
“Your father was dying, Marcus. He wasn't always thinking clearly.””
The words struck like a slap.
For a moment, all I could see was Dad in his hospital bed, the thin blanket pulled over his legs, his fingers trembling around mine.
I forced myself to keep my voice steady.
“Don't use his illness to explain away something you haven't even seen.””
Vanessa stared at me.
Then she stepped aside.
“Go to the guesthouse. We'll discuss the rest when you're ready to be reasonable.””
I walked out without answering.
The afternoon air smelled of wet grass and the white lilies arranged near the front steps. Somewhere beyond the trees, a lawn mower started and stopped. Life continued with an almost insulting lack of concern for the fact that my father was gone.
I reached the guesthouse, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
My suitcase still sat near the bedroom wall. Dad's old blue blanket was folded over the sofa. On the kitchen counter lay a stack of mail I had collected during his final hospitalization.
I sat down, took out my phone, and opened our last message exchange.
There it was.
Sent three days before his death.
We'll discuss it when you're here. Keep your eyes open, son.
Beneath it was a message I had never noticed before, delivered later that evening.
Whatever happens after I'm gone, don't let anyone rush you into signing anything.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My father knew someone might try to rush me.
Someone had already begun.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
An unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A man's voice came through, low and hurried.
“Marcus Carter?””
“Who is this?””
“My name is Daniel Whitaker. I believe we need to talk about your father's company.””
I gripped the phone.
“How did you get my number?””
“Your father gave it to me months ago. He said that if anything happened to him, I should contact you directly.””
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“What did he tell you?””
Daniel paused.
Then he said, “He told me Vanessa would inherit everything on paper. But he also told me that if you ever received a sealed envelope from him, I should ask you one question.””
“What question?””
“Did Grant open it?””
“Yes.””
I heard him exhale.
“Then we may be running out of time.””
“Time for what?””
“For you to understand why your father was so afraid of the man Vanessa has been meeting behind your back.””
I glanced toward the main house.
Through the guesthouse window, I could see Vanessa standing on the front steps, her phone pressed to her ear.
She was looking directly at me.
Daniel spoke again.
“Marcus, listen carefully. Before you tell Grant anything else, you need to know that the signature on your father's final document may not be the only signature that matters.””
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?””
“It means your father left instructions with more than one person.””
“Who else?””
Daniel hesitated.
Then he gave me a name I recognized from the estate papers—the name of the person who had witnessed the will Vanessa was now using to claim everything.
“Your father's notary,” he said.
“Because three days before Richard died, that man signed a statement saying he had never seen your father sign the document Vanessa has been calling the final will.””
I looked through the window again.
Vanessa was no longer on the steps.
She was walking toward the guesthouse.
May you like
And in her hand was a single sheet of paper.
A paper she seemed determined to make me sign.