Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

Nine

I had at least fifteen other active cases pending, and I needed some quiet time to frame a legal notice about Mike’s will. The constant buzz of voices from the lobby distracted me. The decibel level rose and fell like some angry swarm of bees. My fingers flew over my keyboard as I wrote and discarded a dozen or more attempts. Giving up, I decided to tackle the call to Deputy Diego. Grant had handed me the message slip. It bore little more than the name and number. No help there about why Diego called.

I rooted through my stack of current files until I found the Estate Information sheet I had started earlier. The sticky note attached to the “Unusual Circumstances” block stared at me like an accusation. When I wrote that, I had no idea there was a second will. A second will that brought with it a new set of unusual circumstances and people who benefited. Monroe County had spoken to Buddy. Would they share their thoughts on the second will? Only one way to find out. I pulled a legal pad toward me, picked up the phone, and dialed.

Deputy Diego answered on the third ring. Morning must be the busy time at the cop shop bullpen. When I was there, the place was nearly empty, but the stark walls and high ceilings of room had reflected sound, making it noisy. Now the noise level was more like a football stadium after a hometown touchdown. I resisted the urge to shout.

“This is Hayden Kent, Grant Huffman’s paralegal.” I started wondering if a face-to-face meeting might be a better idea. “I’m returning your call to Grant.” The noise level dropped to a dull buzz so fast my ears hurt. The call must have been on speaker.

“We haven’t received the ME report yet. Hopefully sometime today.”

Was that why he called Grant? The caution in his voice suggested otherwise. I sucked in a deep breath and decided I’d better share first. “We filed the will yesterday.” I paused for a beat. “The clerk gave me the other will. The one filed by Buddy Smith.”

When he asked to call me right back, I thought the conversation was over. Deciding that working on other matters was the best way to break through the fog, I reached for my notes for a new estate-planning client. Before I could open the file, my phone rang. It was a local South Florida 786 area code and a number I didn’t recognize. The voice on the other end belonged to Deputy Diego.

“You are a witness on one of the wills. What time did he sign it?” He began the conversation by jumping right to the point.

“Nine sharp…” I let my voice trail off while I decided if I should add anything. “It may not mean anything. But he wanted this will drafted and signed in a huge rush. He came to us on Thursday. We emailed him a draft that evening, and he signed it the next morning at our office.” I paused. “We suggested he wait until Monday, in case he had any revisions.”

“And he didn’t want to?”

My fist clenched around the pen I held. “He said he didn’t have much time.”

A long silence drew out between us. Experience told me I was supposed to fill it in with more detail. A zillion thoughts raced through my head. Except for speculation, I had nothing concrete to offer.

“Did you ask him what he meant?”

“No. I offered him an appointment on a different day. I thought at the time that he was in a hurry. He said he was diving his treasure site after he left us.”

“Alone?”

“He didn’t say. I thought he meant they were hunting treasure. I know those big boats are expensive, and they have a ton of crew. I figured he was on a timeline. Now, I’m figuring he was alone.” I held back from telling Deputy Diego I had dived the site the day after Mike was found. Except for the doubloons, I hadn’t found anything to report.

We talked for a few minutes about what plans Grant had to open the estate and how we expected to determine which will was effective. I gave him a bit of insight into how the courts would handle that and the kind of hearing that would be required. I also told him we were advertising for the witnesses to the will. As delicately as possible, I asked him if he had any information about who they might be. So far, he told me, they hadn’t uncovered any information, but he confirmed they were looking for the witnesses too.

Just as I thought the interview was drawing to a close, Deputy Diego asked, “How different are the two wills to Mike Terry’s prior will documents?”

The question startled me. Part of me had expected it. Part of me had feared it. This bordered on client privilege. None of Mike’s prior documents were public information. I didn’t want to cut off my own potential information source, but there was no way I could answer. I stumbled through a response that I couldn’t explain, but perhaps Grant could give him more guidance. He seemed resigned that he’d gotten all I could give. That’s when he moved on to the question I had anticipated.

“Do you have any information about the second set of beneficiaries?”

I decided to offer a provocative response. “You spoke with Buddy Smith. He might be the better source.” It was a dangerous ploy and I knew it. Unless he knew how our practice worked, he wouldn’t know how involved I was in the will investigation. Now I was putting him on notice that I too was speaking with people.

“Yes, but that’s only his point of view. I am asking for yours.” The response surprised me. I expected him to caution me, say something about staying out of a police investigation. Anything other than to semi-acknowledge that he knew I had been asking questions.

“I don’t know much,” I answered honestly. “Dana, of course, but you knew that. Other than her, I’ve never met the rest. Devon and I went to the same school, but I was in grade school when he was in high school. All the girls in my class were in love with him, mostly because of his swim team success.” Newspaper photos of Devon in his Speedo flashed in my memory. No doubt about it. He was cute and smart. “In those days, his name was Devon Patterson.” Something about his sharp intake of breath told me he didn’t know that. I didn’t know when Devon Patterson became Devon Rutherford. If there was a story there, I hadn’t heard it. I made a note to find out.

“Deputy Diego, may I ask you why I’m hearing that this investigation has ramped up?”

His response was slick and fast.

“Standard procedure. The man’s last weeks were very…interesting. He turns up with two wills in the space of a day and he’s found dead two days later.” 

A ruffling sound came through the phone earpiece, like the cop was thumbing through pages of a notebook. Just how much of an investigation had he done at this early date?

“Hopefully the ME will be able to narrow the time of death. No one reported him missing, but his girlfriend says the last time she saw him was Friday morning when he left the house.”

I latched on to that bit of information and shook it like a terrier. “Why didn’t she report him missing? He was gone for more than two days.” I knew forty-eight hours was the minimum for an adult missing person in Florida without exceptional circumstances. He was too young to qualify for a Silver Alert.

“Nothing sinister. The search and salvage vessel is quite comfortable. He often spent nights on board. Thank you for your time.”

He was gone before I could point out that the treasure site was well within the cell phone service area. How likely was it that Mike would have spent time at sea and not called anyone?

Ten

The conversation with Deputy Diego left me unsettled. I realized I had given far more information than I had received. At least I knew the ME report was almost final. I made a note about that. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked for the preliminary report. Was it something in there that sparked the sudden activity in Mike’s investigation?

Dissatisfied and feeling used, I moved the estate-planning file aside and turned my attention to the legal notice again. I wished I could shut up both my thoughts and the crowd in the lobby. If I was going to get anything done today, I had to get off the ground floor. I stood to move to the conference room on the second floor. The rumble of Grant’s deep voice cut through the chatter. I tiptoed across my office and cracked my door to listen.

He announced Mike’s death to the assembled reporters. Explained that our law firm, Huffman Koons, had no information about the worker’s comp claim or any insurance claim. Then he told them all to go home and promised an update if one occurred. I overheard Ruth collect an earful of complaints about wasting their time. I rolled my eyes. Two seconds and a quick Google search and they’d have discovered we specialized in probate, not litigation.

A blessed wave of silence rolled over me. I leaned against my door to shut it and headed back to my desk. This time the legal notice wrote itself. I printed it and scanned a copy to the local newspapers asking for an immediate publication. As the email receipts pinged in my inbox, I let my mind roam over Kristin’s motive again. Grant said she wanted revenge, but against whom? The divorce was so long ago. Who was she really trying to hurt?

I clicked over to a Miami newspaper site and searched for a story about Mike’s death. Nothing. A little article tucked at the bottom of the Keys section of the
Miami Metropolis
talked about Mike. The writer referred to his death as a suicide. I shook my head as I hit print. Suicide. What were they thinking? No one opted to die by drowning.

Thoughts of revenge, suicide, my conversation with Deputy Diego, and my impending dinner with Dana percolated as I worked my way through the stack of files on my desk. By four o’clock, I’d had it. My inability to concentrate led to errors in nearly every document I prepared. No way was I giving any of these to Grant. He’d swoop down on my errors like a hawk. Unless I wanted tomorrow to be a complete do-over of today, going home for a nice long bath would be my best option.

I took a bit of time to straighten my desk and prioritize my to-do list for tomorrow. Then I realized I hadn’t created a docket for Mike’s estate yet. Letting out a deep sigh, I dashed off a quick text to Dana to tell her I would be at her house at seven. I rebooted my computer and pulled up a probate index form to record all the information I had based on the will. The task took only a few minutes. Figuring out how to list the beneficiaries took the longest.

I touched the intercom on my phone. Grant answered immediately.

“How do you want me to show the will benes for Mike’s estate list?” I knew he would automatically interpret “bene” as beneficiary.

“What did Diego have to say?”

With a start, I realized I hadn’t opened my door since Grant cleared the crowd. I gave him a quick outline, neglecting to mention my dissatisfaction. While I was speaking, I remembered I hadn’t mentioned the drugs to the deputy. Nor had Diego said anything about them to me. The fact that I had held back something, even accidently, restored my good humor. It gave me the feeling I had something to trade later for more information.

Drawing the conversation back to the beneficiary list, I said, “The will Mike signed in our office left everything to his son. In trust, with a bank as trustee. No problem there. It’s the second will.”

In response to Grant’s questions, I reminded him that Mike had crossed out the bequest to his son and added both Jake Patterson and Jake’s stepson, Devon Rutherford. I checked the copy on my desk. “Jake and Devon receive the bar, The Petard. For the first five years, Mike’s son’s trust gets a quarter of the profits. It’s the opposite for the salvage permit. Same five-year timeline for the payout split, but Mike’s son ultimately gets the rest.”

I squinted to read something scrawled along the margin. At first I thought it had been crossed out too, but now I realized the line was from the copier, not a pen. “Wait. This is different. We’ll have to double-check the original in the courthouse, but if I’m reading this right, Devon gets a one-quarter interest in the salvage permit for life.”

“Are you sure about that?” Grant’s voice had an edge. “Devon gets a quarter interest outright?”

I underlined the margin note and highlighted it, nodding as I did so. Then I remembered I was on the phone. “Yes, I’m sure. You can see that the streak is in a straight line for the length of the paper. It just darkens over the writing. The rest are specific bequests.”

“I’m looking at the copy now. I see what you’re talking about. Interesting. So add that information with a note that it’s another will, timing to be determined. Don’t forget to add that the mother of Mike’s child and Dana each receive one hundred thousand dollars.”

The snarky note next to Dana’s name that said she already got her share and the bequest was a consolation prize rankled me. I had to figure out a way to ask Dana what happened between them.

“Go through the papers he gave us tomorrow. We need to find out about the insurance policy for his ex-wife. If I’m reading this correctly, it was promised in the Marital Settlement Agreement. Check the MSA to see if there’s any other information.”

“Okay. The rest goes to his son in trust. At least that’s the same as our will. I’m going to finish this up and leave.”

“Did you decide what to say to Dana?”

I bit my lip. “No. You’re right. I’m just going to be there for her. Not mention anything else.”

Each and every article of the hand-annotated will, except the bequest to his son, directly conflicted with my notes from the meeting. The changes didn’t make any sense, and I wondered what Deputy Diego would do with the information. If he ever got it. That would take a subpoena at worst, or a confidentiality agreement at best. I’d never heard of the police signing one of those. Warrants and subpoenas were their weapon of choice.

By the time I put the will away, the clock told me I was too late to make it home and change before dinner. I thanked the foresight gods that I’d put a bottle of chardonnay in the office fridge that morning. I hated to arrive at Dana’s empty-handed.

The Subaru tweeted its usual greeting as I stepped into the parking lot and hit the unlock button. I didn’t see the note until I slipped behind the wheel. The paper was stuffed under the passenger side windshield wiper. I looked sharply around the lot. My car and Grant’s red Jag were the only two left. I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped Grant’s speed dial number. While the phone rang, I walked around the car and plucked the note out. Grant answered at the same time I opened the folded paper.

“‘He did it to himself,’” I read aloud. “‘Wait ’til you hear the details.’” The note was unsigned.

“Hayden? What are you talking about?” I’d forgotten the phone in my hand until Grant’s voice drew me back.

His windows faced the back parking lot. Unfortunately, the windows in question were also behind him as he sat at his desk. “Did you see anyone around my car today?” I winced at the tremor in my voice. Something about the writing seemed familiar. I couldn’t place it.

The sheer curtain pulled aside and Grant’s eyes met mine through the closed window. “No. What’s wrong?”

I waved the white piece of paper in his direction and said, “That’s what the note says. I found it under the wiper.”

The screeching sound of metal on metal broke the silence as Grant forced open the window to the small balcony and stepped out. He held his cell phone to his ear and reached his free hand, thumb and index finger forming pincers, in my direction. I reached up on tiptoe and handed him the note. He handled it only by the edges.

I berated myself for not thinking of fingerprints before I picked it up.

He scanned the paper. A jerk of his head in the direction of his office indicated I should follow him. I waved a hand in the direction of my pencil skirt. No way could I hike it high enough to climb over the balcony without exposing more of London and France than any lady should in public. He tipped his head back and laughed.

“Not happening, huh?”

“Not in this get-up, though you know I’d follow you almost anywhere.” My cell bleeped once, indicating a new text. I glanced at the screen. Dana. Torn between wanting to talk to Grant about the note and not wanting to let Dana down, I waffled briefly. Grant pulled a baggie out of his desk and slid the note flat inside. Then he unlocked his lower desk drawer and opened a small lockbox he kept in there to hold items entrusted to him by clients until he had time to open the safe in his office closet. I watched through the open window as he slipped the note in, relocked the box and then his desk.

“Go. One of the crackpots in the office today probably left it. We’ll check with the police tomorrow.”

“How did they pick my car out?”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe whoever did this figured the employees parked in the back. It’s not unusual.” He reached through the window and ran a finger down the side of my cheek. My face heated at his touch. “Go, have dinner with Dana. Don’t worry about this.” He cocked his thumb at his desk drawer.

I walked back to my car, wishing I could forget the note as easily as Grant wanted. That made one more thing I didn’t dare share with Dana.

My heart sank when I pulled up to Dana’s and spied two police cars parked on the street in front of her house. I yanked my cell phone from my handbag and looked to see if I’d missed a call or a text. Nothing.

I bolted from the car, cursing myself for selecting spike-heeled sandals this morning. My ankle twisted painfully under me as I raced up the steps to Dana’s house. Like many in the Keys these days, it was a stilt house, and a set of open-backed stairs curved up the outside to a deck. As I stepped on the deck, the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors framed Dana sitting on her couch, her head in her hands. Two sheriff’s deputies stood alongside the couch, the female deputy holding a cup of tea in her hand. I paused, uncertain whether to rush in or wait for an invitation. The impact-resistant glass muffled the sound of my approach.

The male deputy turned and bent over to say something to Dana. Her sad eyes met mine through the glass. She started to stand and collapsed back into her seat. Mascara ran in dark rivulets from her eyes to her chin. The slider rumbled as the female cop pushed it open.

“Are you her daughter?” The kindness in her eyes calmed me. Whatever she was here for, it wasn’t intentionally to upset Dana.

“No, I’m a friend.” But she is like a mother to me, I thought. I hobbled over to the couch as fast as my sore ankle allowed and sat next to Dana. She turned her head toward me and buried her face in my shoulder. I did the only thing I could think of; I stroked her hair and patted her back. The sobs that burst from her frightened me.

The female deputy handed me the cup of tea. I glanced at it and back at her. What was I supposed to do with tea?

“What happened?” I asked. I managed to swivel the hand with the teacup to the coffee table while I continued the patting motion with the other. The tea nearly spilled. I glanced down long enough to push aside the small shadowbox with the coins I’d noticed last time. “Why are you here?” I asked the cop.

The deputy arched a delicate eyebrow at me. “The death certificate is being issued, probable suicide. We wanted to tell her in person.”

My thoughts flew back to the note. Someone knew this. Who? And why hadn’t Diego known? He’d never even hinted at a cause. Maybe he hadn’t known yet. He said he expected the report, not that he had it. The fault was mine for not asking for a preliminary report. I stifled my questions, knowing I needed more knowledge to find the answers. “Dana,” I whispered in her ear. “He was suffering.” That was a stretch. I didn’t know if he suffered or not, but why else would he kill himself? “Isn’t it better to know?”

“Damn him,” she bellowed. “Damn him. I gave him everything. How could he do this to me?” She plucked at my sleeve. “That sounded awful. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” Her face grew redder. “Tell them. Mike never should have kept after the treasure. I told him that. He didn’t want to die. He was my son. He would never, ever kill himself. Why couldn’t I get him to listen to me?” She drew in a gurgled breath. “He would never kill himself. Make them see that. It’s impossible.” She covered her face with her hands. “It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”