Her bed was empty; no one was home. There were voices behind him, and he turned to see the door swing fully open. Two young men in hospital garb pushed and pulled a gurney with Eleanor’s frail figure tucked under the sheets from the waist down. She sat propped up on pillows, and with a big smile said, “Hello Sy, welcome back.” He moved to the side to make way for the gurney.

  “These are my new friends,” she said, rather cheerily, as if she’d been drinking again. Simon knew immediately it was the meds. “They had to roll me downstairs for X-rays again. Bill and Oscar.”

  Simon nodded as they hardly noticed him. As they prepared to lift her into her bed, one of the men said, “Please step outside. We’ll just be a minute.” Simon glanced at the ID badge pinned to his white coat. Oscar Kofie.

  He hurried outside and bumped into Loretta Goodwin, who seemed to be waiting for him. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She spoke in a low voice and glanced around. “The doctors made their rounds this morning and they’re concerned about her leg. There’s bleeding that might require a little surgery, nothing too complicated. Just took some more X-rays. The problem is that she doesn’t have a living will, an advance directive, or a medical power of attorney. And, evidently, she has no family. She lists you as her contact person. Is there anyone else?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Okay, can you talk to her and explain that she needs some paperwork, and, like, real soon?”

  “Sure, happy to. When is this surgery?”

  “It’s not scheduled yet and it may not be necessary. They’ll watch her for a couple of days. We, the hospital, just need someone on record as her spokesman.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to her.”

  The empty gurney appeared in the door and Bill and Oscar rolled it away.

  * * *

  With Simon dictating, Tillie prepared a power of attorney and an advance directive, giving Simon full authority over virtually every aspect of Eleanor’s business affairs and health care. He returned to the hospital where he waited half an hour outside the office of the CEO and chief administrator, a Dr. Connor Wilkes. Once inside, he explained what he was doing and asked for her help. He said, “I want to make it clear that she is signing the power of attorney and advance directive with a thorough understanding of it all.”

  “There’s no family?”

  “Afraid not. I’d rather not be doing this,” Simon said gravely. “But there is simply no one else.”

  Dr. Wilkes was reluctant and obviously wary of a lawyer wanting to have important papers signed by a patient who was elderly and drugged. But Simon was convincing and persistent. “Give me an hour to explain it all to my client,” he said.

  The explaining was made all the more difficult by her mental state. She was horrified at what she had done and worried sick over Doris and the folks in the car she had T-boned. Facing a drunk driving charge was inconceivable. “I’m not going to jail, am I?” she asked several times. Simon assured her she was not, though he wasn’t so sure himself. He tried to allay her fears but it was impossible. He was firm yet compassionate, and he truly felt sorry for her.

  He said, “Your bills are not getting paid, Netty. I’ll handle your paperwork until you get back on your feet. I wish there was someone else.”

  She wiped more tears and said, “So do I, Simon, but there’s no one.”

  As for the power of attorney, he explained that it was only temporary and could be dissolved anytime she wanted. He would not write a single check without consulting her, but it was imperative that he have access to her checkbook, bills, and other financial records.

  She was crying when she said, “I won’t be able to drive?”

  “No, Netty, your driving days are over.”

  The advance directive was more complicated. It directed her “health care advisor” to consult with her doctors and so on. If she became completely incapacitated, she was not to be resuscitated. Her life was not to be prolonged by medication, feeding tubes, respirators or other medical devices.

  “Am I going to die?” she asked over and over. He assured her she was going to be fine, for now, and that the directive would be used only in some future medical situation. It included language covering her final arrangements.

  When Dr. Wilkes arrived she brought an entourage, including Dr. Samuel Lilly, the attending physician. The room was filled with frowning people, all watching Simon with great suspicion. He expected as much and turned on the charm, explaining both documents and repeatedly asking Eleanor if she understood what she was being asked to do. Dr. Wilkes engaged her in an extended conversation, which she managed to handle well enough. It was a fairly thorough grilling and she began to tire, as did the entourage.

  When the questions petered out, Simon said to Dr. Wilkes, “We can do this another time if you’d like.”

  No one in the room wanted to repeat the meeting. Eleanor seemed to know what she was doing and ended the inquisition with “No, I don’t want to do this again. I trust Simon and I want to sign the papers.”

  She did, and a secretary notarized her signatures. Simon thanked everyone warmly and promised to send copies for the hospital files. After they were gone, Eleanor said she was fatigued, hungry, and tired, and the nurses took over. Simon said goodbye and promised to return later in the evening.

  In the lobby, he bumped into Officer Pully and they had a tense chat about the situation. He inquired as to how Simon wanted to handle the arrest.

  “Are you kidding? What’s the hurry? She’s not going anywhere.”

  “How long will she be in the hospital?”

  “She just got here. Give her a break.”

  “Well, her victims are making some noise.”

  “Let ’em squawk. There’s no rush. When she’s able to walk we’ll cooperate fully. Just back off, okay?”

  “I’d like to take her statement.”

  Simon bristled even more and said, “You’re not speaking to her, got it? Not a word. Back off or I’ll call the chief.”

  “Hey, I don’t like threats, especially from lawyers.”

  “And I don’t like pushy cops. Surely you have better things to do than to harass old women in the hospital. Just take it easy and we’ll cooperate.”

  “Damn right you will. I’ll see you in court.”

  “Sir, that’s the last place you want to see me.” Simon walked away with a swagger, like a real badass trial lawyer.

  Chapter 25

  Simon did not want to be in the house after dark, with a strange car in the driveway. He did not want nosy neighbors ringing the doorbell and asking questions. He did not want to look like a lawyer or a person with authority so he wore jeans and a sports coat. And, he did not want to be rushed.

  At 3 P.M. he parked where the old Lincoln once parked and turned off the engine. He had just left Netty’s car in the city lot, waiting to be hauled to the scrap heap. It was a total loss, and he considered her lucky to escape with minor injuries. He took some photos for the file but would never need them.

  The house had no alarm system. She said Harry didn’t believe in them and wouldn’t spend the money. Harry had been dead for ten years and she often talked about him as if he were still around.

  Once inside the den he inhaled a pleasant aroma, probably the remains of a scented candle. Maybe pine. He switched on lights in the den and kitchen and paused to take inventory. The house was spotless, with everything in order. The kitchen counters were uncluttered, with only a toaster and coffeepot, both at least thirty years old. He wiped a finger across a wooden snack bar. Not a trace of dust. The furniture was fairly modern, nothing ancient, nothing new. The television was a bit dated, though, an old Motorola with two remotes. There was an upright piano against one wall. He could not remember Netty ever saying anything about a piano. He stepped into her small study and went straight to her desk, a government surplus throwback from the 1960s with chrome legs and metal panels. As she said, the current mail was in a tray in the right corner.

  Her chair was a wicker straight-back that was fragile and shaky and seemed designed for a woman who weighed less than a hundred pounds. He settled into it, moving slowly to make sure it would not collapse. The desktop was covered in glass and well organized with nothing out of place. A large cup held the usual collection of pens, pencils, paper clips, etc. Netty was very neat and tidy. There was no computer, no iPad, no devices at all. He took a stack of mail and began sifting through it, at first careful not to misplace anything. He did not find a bill for an internet provider. Perhaps it was packaged with her cable, as was his. He knew that the stack did not include all of her monthly bills. Others would arrive later.

  Though his curiosity was piqued, he felt like some creepy voyeur looking at the private affairs of an old woman. He kept telling himself that he had no choice. Someone had to do it.

  He found the rather abrupt letters from Allstate canceling her auto insurance. He found several other past-due notices and unpaid bills. The checkbook was in the bottom drawer, left side, exactly where she said. It was in a blue leather notebook-style binder, with three checks to a page and stubs that dated back two years. He flipped through the stubs and got a clear picture of where she shopped and what she bought, and nothing was unusual or surprising. She did indeed have a credit card, a Visa, which she had been forced to use when she checked out of the lake cabin two months earlier. But she used it sparingly. In another drawer he found the old Visa statements filed in perfect monthly order. Behind them were the monthly statements from the local bank. The latest was for October and showed a balance in her checking account of $3,100. There was no sign of the past-due bill from his office. An hour passed before he realized it.

  In the bottom right drawer was a stack of old magazines—AARP, Southern Living, Medicare Bulletin, Travel & Leisure. Some were ten years old and there was nothing to indicate why they had been kept.

  What Simon wanted to find was a monthly statement from Rumke-Brown, the wealth management firm in Atlanta that handled her stocks. And he wanted bank statements from East Federal, the bank where she allegedly stashed her cash. The fact that he found neither was troubling. Why would she hide them?

  She said her important papers were in a locked safe hidden in the bottom of her closet. He did not ask for the key and she did not offer.

  When he had gone through every drawer it was dark outside. He had been there long enough for the first visit, though he had more questions now than when he arrived.

  The doorbell rang and Simon jumped out of his skin, as if he’d been caught in a burglary. He rushed to the front door, opened it, and smiled at a couple in their sixties.

  “We live next door and saw the car,” the man said.

  “What are you doing here?” the woman demanded.

  “My name is Simon Latch, I’m Eleanor’s attorney. She’s in the hospital.”

  “We know. We heard all about it.”

  Simon looked them over as they examined him. He said, “Relax. I’m helping take care of her business.”

  “How’s she doing?” the man asked.

  “Okay, I guess. She’ll be there for a few days.”

  “We heard she was drunk,” the woman said. “Drinking and driving, but that doesn’t sound like Eleanor.”

  “I can’t comment, sorry.”

  “What’s your name again?” the man asked.

  “And what’s yours?”

  “Frazier, Norris Frazier. And my wife Rose.”

  “Great. Nice to meet you. I’m Simon Latch, attorney. I’ll tell Eleanor that you checked on things.”

  “You do that. Can we visit her in the hospital? We probably won’t though. Last year Rose was in the hospital for a week and not a word from Eleanor. No sir.”

  For a second Simon wasn’t sure of a response. He said, “Not yet, maybe in a couple of days. I’ll let you know. And you’ll probably see my car parked here off and on for some time. Feel free to say hello.” He was closing the door as he spoke.

  Was it Frazier Norris or Norris Frazier? He would have to report it to Netty and he couldn’t even remember the name. Rose was the wife. His head was spinning with questions and possibilities and his heart was still racing from the interruption. He needed to get out of the house. Avoiding her fragile chair, he sat on a leather stool near her desk, closed his eyes, and took ten deep breaths. An ugly reality was falling slowly around him as he sunk into a dark gloom.

  There was no money, no fortune, no pot of gold filled with shares of stock in Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart, no pile of cash in an Atlanta bank. He was a sucker, the victim of a nutty old woman with a devious mind, a lonely soul who had duped him and probably others into believing she was rich. Rich? He looked around her small study and saw nothing to indicate Eleanor Barnett had the slightest bit of real wealth. Sure, everything was paid for, and given his current state of affairs that was a dream, but she was no richer than many elderly widows whose husbands had been frugal. In the nine months he had known her, he had not seen her spend one dime on anything that wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t even pay her bills. She had stiffed him for a dozen lunches. She wore the same clothes over and over. She never traveled, never talked about doing so.

  And now she was banged up in the hospital facing lawsuits and a nasty drunk driving charge. Why in hell was he in the middle of this mess?

  Greed.

  At least he could admit it.

  * * *

  Dinner was a tuna melt in the rear of Ethel’s Diner, four doors down from his office. There was a small aluminum tree by the front cash register. “Jingle Bells” played softly in the background. It would be his first Christmas away from home, away from the kids, which saddened him greatly.

  Uglier thoughts, though, were more pressing. It was time to confront Eleanor and demand all of her financial records. And once he had them, and once he knew for sure that her last will and testament was a scam, he would immediately take steps to get rid of her as a client. She was facing enormous legal troubles, all of her own making, and he was not about to get roped in as her lawyer. She wouldn’t even pay his first bill for $3,650. If he didn’t cut the cord and do so immediately, he could be on the hook for her DUI, normally a $5,000 fee, and the lawsuits from her car wreck. There was no way to calculate those fees, not to mention the damages, when the lawsuits started flying.

  He managed to chuckle at the irony of himself, a bankruptcy lawyer, being forced to file a bankruptcy for Eleanor Barnett, a wacky old gal who’d probably gone through life lying about her assets. The humor didn’t last. He paid for his dinner and stepped onto the sidewalk. Across the street, carolers serenaded a small crowd in front of the Episcopal church. For a moment, he missed home.

  Dessert was a bourbon and ginger ale, the first of the evening, and he needed it because of the unpleasant task at hand. On a small table in the corner of his office, he spread out Netty’s monthly bills, current and past due, and opened the bulky notebook that held her checks. He unclipped the three rings and removed the stubs. He flipped to the back to see how many checks were available. There were plenty. In the back binder there was a folder that was almost undetectable. Inside it, carefully tucked away, was a small, thin notebook, eight inches by five. He removed it, opened it, and looked at the first lined page. In the center was the year: 2015. At the bottom, in small, neat cursive was the name: Eleanor Barnett. He turned the page. In blue ink, she wrote:

  April 4, per BB: Coca-cola at $41, 238,000 shares, total $9,758,000

  WMart at $51, 127,000 shares, total $6,400,000

  Per Albert, East Federal Atlanta, cash acct: $362,000

  East Fed money mkt acct: $890,000

  East Fed jumbo cd: $744,000

  East Fed T-bills acct: $501,000

  Third Fed 2016 cd: $522,000

  East Fed 2017 cd: $1,330,000

  Simon stared at the numbers without breathing for a long time, then he tried to tally them mentally. He was afraid to move, but eventually turned the page to July 6. The numbers varied slightly. Evidently, Netty preferred to round things off to the nearest ten grand.

  Then to October 7. It was obvious that BB and Albert called her during the first week after each quarter with the updates. He assumed BB was Buddy Brown. He had no idea who Albert was but he worked for East Federal.

  He sipped his drink and felt his entire body relax as a mountain of pressure drifted from his shoulders. The bourbon had wound its way to his brain and calmed things considerably.

  The notebook made perfect sense. Eleanor was obsessed with secrecy and perpetually afraid that someone would discover her stocks and cash. So, she kept no evidence of them. Rumke-Brown and East Federal did not send her monthly statements because she didn’t want them. They did, though, call with the quarterly summaries. Eleanor was a smart woman who kept tabs on her money.

  The last entry was December 6, almost three weeks earlier. At the bottom of the page she noted: Coke up 4% for year; WMart up 2.5%. CD rates still too low.

  Simon could almost see her taking careful notes during the quarterly calls, then sliding the notebook back into its hiding place. It had only twenty-five sheets of onionskin paper, a slightly beige color. He wondered where she hid the notebooks from previous years.

  Santa had just arrived and Simon felt a measure of vindication. He hadn’t been such a fool after all. His dear Netty was loaded to the max and he would be in charge of her estate one day. He poured out his drink, brushed his teeth, gargled with mouthwash, left his office, and drove to the hospital.

  She was watching television in the dark when he eased into the room, tapping on the door. “Netty, it’s me. Are you awake?”