The Twelfth Child (30 page)

Hoggman, of course, claimed it was no such thing.  He huffed and puffed like a boiler on the verge of exploding, but shied away from belching and eventually pulled back on the manner of questions he was asking. 

 His deposition of Destiny went on for another five days, the same questions over and over again – restructured, rephrased, reworked and twisted around to make them sound different, but always circling back to the issue of where the remaining money was.  I had to admire the way she handled herself – not once did she tell Hoggman to take a royal crap in his hat, which is something I might have said.  Instead, she sat there answering questions she’d already answered five times over, generally smiling like a person who couldn’t think of a better place to be, of course more often than not,  that was because Charles was squeezing his knee close to hers, or hooking his foot around her ankle.

As the days went by, Elliott convinced himself that her smile was a result of having stashed a million dollars in some offshore bank account, and he started to regret that she wasn’t being tried in criminal court.     

W
hen he finished with Destiny, Hoggman hauled Doctor Birnbaum in for interrogation.  At first he tried to phrase the questions in such a way that a positive answer could be construed as negative, but Doctor Birnbaum restated almost every question and thereby eliminated any doubt as to the meaning of his answer.  “Well then,” Hoggman blustered, twisting the doctor’s words, “you’re saying that Fairchild was capitalizing on Miss Lannigan’s helplessness!” 

“I never said that!” the doctor answered.  “I said that Destiny Fairchild was a helpmate to Miss Lannigan.  She acted as her companion, friend and caregiver.”

“Acted!  Ah-ha.  So she was pretending to play the part!”

“No,” Doctor Birnbaum answered, by now starting to get a bit agitated. “She was Miss Lannigan’s primary caregiver, and a very good one at that.”

“Miss Lannigan was quite feeble-minded at that point, wasn’t she?”

“Abigail?  Feeble-minded?”  The doctor laughed aloud.  “Obviously, you didn’t know Abigail Lannigan.  She could keep
you
on your toes.”

“But she was forgetful, had memory lapses, right?”

“No,” the doctor answered shaking his head.  “No more than anyone else.”

“She was taking morphine, wasn’t she?”

“Only for two weeks prior to her death.”

“Wouldn’t that impair her judgment?  Make a rational decision impossible?”

“Possibly.  But, Abigail –”

“Possibly?  When the woman died, she couldn’t sign her own name, how could she possibly make a decision regarding the disbursement of her estate? 
Unless
,” Hoggman stretched the word out as far as it would go, then he shoved his chair back and stood like the statue of liberty, “unless,” he repeated, “someone coerced her!”

“You’re pontificating again,” Charles complained, “stick to the questions.”

“The question as I see it,” Hoggman said, “is – did Destiny Fairchild fabricate this entire story and did she force a dying woman to hand over her life’s savings.”

“Save it for opening argument,” Charles moaned.  “It’s not a valid question.”

For almost three hours Hoggman badgered Doctor Birnbaum with the same questions over and over again – was Abigail Lannigan incapacitated by drugs, was she incapable of making a decision, was she too weak to resist.

“Resist what?” the doctor asked.  “She was well cared for by Destiny, and, knowing Abigail Lannigan as I did, I’m certain that any decision making she had to do was done long before the morphine became a factor.”

Finally the doctor informed Mister Hoggman that his questions were ridiculously redundant and then he stood up and marched out of the room. 

When he finished with Doctor Birnbaum, Hoggman called four different people associated with the Middleboro Savings Bank.  The first was Martin Kroeger, the branch manager, a man so mild-mannered he’d wait five minutes before answering a question so he wouldn’t be perceived as interrupting.  “Isn’t it true that Destiny Fairchild dragged Abigail Lannigan into the bank and forced her to transfer those funds into a joint account?” Hoggman blustered.  He asked most of his questions that way – flip-flopping facts to make it sound as if Destiny
actually did
something underhanded.  If the person he was badgering at that particular moment wasn’t quick-witted, they’d end up nodding yes to an answer the exact opposite of what they’d intended to say.

Martin Kroeger shrugged.  “I can’t rightly say,” he stammered.  “Those accounts were changed over before I came to Middleboro.  If there was wrongdoing I certainly had nothing to do with it.”

“During the two years you were at the bank, did you ever
once
know Abigail Lannigan to come in alone and withdraw money from her own account?”

“Alone?  I really can’t say.  You’d have to ask Donna Watkins or Sally Klein, they worked the teller stations.”

“Did Abigail Lannigan appear to be confused, not in control of herself?”

“Confused?”  Martin Kroeger himself looked confused.  He twisted his mouth to one side, then removed his glasses and set about polishing the lenses, a task which took the better part of five minutes.  Once he’d set them back onto the bridge of his nose, he answered, “I don’t know.”  After that Hoggman dismissed him and went on to the tellers.

He asked Donna Watkins if Destiny Fairchild appeared suspicious, but she answered no.  “Not even,” he raged, “when she wrote one check after another on Miss Lannigan’s account?”

Donna shook her head.  “What was there to be suspicious about?” she asked. “Most of the checks were to the gas company, water company, telephone company, supermarket, ordinary places like that.”

“But,” Hoggman steamed, “you could see Destiny Fairchild was taking advantage of Miss Lannigan, right?”

“Advantage?  Not at all.  Abigail Lannigan seemed to be genuinely fond of that girl; they’d come in laughing and holding to each other like best friends.”

Hoggman snorted and told Donna Watkins he didn’t have any more questions.  He then called on Sally Klein but as it turned out her story was pretty much the same as Donna’s.  By the end of the day the hairs on the back of Mister Hoggman’s neck were stiff as porcupine quills. 

Harvey Brown, a man who’d been the branch manager at Middleboro for fifteen years, but had two years ago moved on to the more prestigious York Federal, was the first to be deposed the next morning.  Perturbed because he’d had to take time away from his job and spend four dollars for downtown parking, he’d stated, “I doubt that I can be of any help,” before even taking a seat. 

Hoggman ignored the comment and jumped right in.  “You were the person responsible for the conversion of Abigail Lannigan’s accounts to joint ownership,” he growled in an accusatory tone.  “Were you aware that Destiny Fairchild planned to swindle her out of everything she owned?”

“What!” Brown snapped.  “You called me down here to ask bullshit questions like that?  I’m a busy man!”

“Sorry,” Hoggman mumbled, sensing he’d stepped across the line.

“I did my job,” Brown said.  “Abigail Lannigan
asked
that Fairchild’s name be added to those accounts.  It was
her
decision, hers and hers alone.”

“But, did she seem confused, under duress at the time?”

“No.  She seemed quite happy – told me it was a relief to have somebody trustworthy taking care of things for her.”

“Did she know that Fairchild was going to use that money herself?”

“How would I know what she knew?”  Brown glanced at his watch impatiently.  “Is this going to take much longer?”

“I’m finished,” Hoggman moaned.  “I’ll be in touch if there are any more questions.”

“I’m a busy man!” Brown repeated.

T
here were two more days of interrogatories.  Hoggman called in several clerks from the supermarket, a man who owned the local dry cleaners, and the attendant who worked in an Exxon station close by.  No one offered anything that was of use to Hoggman, so he moved on to three of Abigail Lannigan’s neighbors – the first two claimed they knew nothing of the relationship, except that from all outward appearances it seemed pleasant enough.  The third was Mary Beth McGurke, a woman willing to say whatever Hoggman wanted to hear, for the pleasure of being in on some gossip.      

“So,” he said, “you actually saw the Fairchild girl removing Miss Lannigan’s possessions from the house?”

“Oh, yes!” Mary Beth said, then she launched into a story detailing hundreds of different things she’d seen Destiny cart off – almost all of them pure fiction.  “A six-foot tall coat rack, a three-tiered tea cart, some dishes, a soufflé pan…” 

A soufflé pan?  I wondered if Mary Beth was losing what scrap of common sense she might have once had.  Why, I never even owned a soufflé pan – besides, anyone who knew Destiny would have realized she’d have no need of such a thing because she only made frozen dinners and chocolate chip cookies.  The only truth about Mary Beth’s statement was the part about the overstuffed chair and, of course, my car.

By the time she ran out of things to lie about, Hoggman was puffed up as a frog and grinning ear to ear.  “Well, I suppose,” he finally said, “I guess that wraps it up for me.”

T
hat night Charles took Destiny to dinner.  She wore a black crepe dress that molded itself to her body as if she’d been born in it, when in truth she’d clipped the tag from the sleeve just moments before slipping it over her head.  The earrings she’d chosen were the color of emeralds and made her eyes appear greener than the make-believe stones.  She’d hesitated in the middle of dressing, thinking that perhaps a person who usually wore jeans would appear foolish in such an outfit, but the hour was late and rushed as she was, she stayed with the dress.  She was sliding her foot into a black silk sandal when the doorbell chimed. 

“Whoa!” Charles said when she opened the door.  “You look great!”

She smiled.

“Really great!  Fabulous, in fact!”

He’d had in mind a little Italian restaurant just minutes from the house, but as it turned out they drove back to the downtown area and ate in TrumbullTowers, a restaurant which looked down on the city – a restaurant that had music and dancing and tables lit with the tiniest of candles.  He’d planned on discussing the things he’d be asking about next week when it was his turn to question Elliott, but instead he wound his fingers through hers and stared like a schoolboy.  After dinner they danced to waltzes, rumbas, fox trots, and even a tango that forced them to laugh at their own clumsiness. They danced until the music stopped, then long after the trumpet player had disappeared down the elevator, they remained in the center of the floor still swaying to the strains of something only they could hear.

On the way home, Charles mentioned that next week, he’d start deposing the plaintiff, but, try as she may, Destiny couldn’t imagine him belching in Elliott’s face. 

I
t’s always been my belief that a no good lying snake will slither out into the open if you give it enough room – apparently that’s what Charles McCallum thought also, because when he started deposing Elliott he sounded so pleasant and polite you could start to wonder whose side he was actually on.  “Are you comfortable?” he’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water?  Soda, maybe?” 

“I understand you were very close with your aunt,” Charles said in a sort of sympathetic way.  “You saw her pretty often, didn’t you?”

“Not real often.  That one,” Elliott pointed to Destiny, “wouldn’t let blood relatives near Aunt Abigail.  She didn’t want to lose control of the old lady’s money.”

“When was the last time you tried to see your aunt?”

“About eight months ago.”

“What happened at that time?”

“That bitch attacked me.  Jumped on me like a she-lion – sent me flying over the living room coffee table and damn near broke my back.”

“Oh, so you were
inside
Abigail Lannigan’s house when this happened?”

“I don’t know anybody who keeps their coffee table outside.”

“Miss Fairchild didn’t prevent you from entering the house?”

“No, but Aunt Abigail was dead by then.”

“On earlier visits, Miss Fairchild prevented you from entering?” 

“Her?  Shit, she couldn’t stop a dog from getting fleas.  No, what she did was poison Aunt Abigail’s mind – turn her against her own blood relative.  I shouldn’t have been begging for handouts, I was entitled to the money.”

At the far end of the table, Destiny, who’d been forewarned not to say a word, kept twitching and twiddling like a nervous tick.  I wanted to whisper in her ear that she ought to relax a bit seeing how Charles McCallum seemed comfortably in control of things, but being dead has a number of disadvantages, not the least of which is the inability to speak your mind.

“In what way did Miss Fairchild poison your aunt’s thoughts?” Charles said.

“Ask her!” Elliott rolled his eyes and waggled a finger at Destiny again.  “All I know is that when I asked Aunt Abigail for a drop of the money that rightfully should’ve been mine, she acted like I was trying to pick her pocket.”

“You asked Miss Lannigan for money?”

“I was forced to – financial reverses and such.”

“At that time, did she give you anything?”

“Not much to speak of.  The old lady dolled out a measly five hundred bucks every now and again.”

“So, you asked for financial assistance on more than one occasion?”

“Yeah.  But I never got more than five hundred bucks.  Five hundred!  I should’ve had it all!  Me!   A direct descendant of William Lannigan’s
first
born.  My aunt didn’t deserve one cent of that money, she was the tail end of the line – female, at that!”

“Why would her being a woman affect the inheritance?”

“Are you kidding?  I’d have every cent of the money if my grandma’s father hadn’t been hung up on having a son inherit the farm.”  

“Then how did Abigail Lannigan get control of the estate?”

“From her twin brother!  Him getting it, I could maybe understand.  But her?”