Fortified, she gritted her teeth and said, “As of last week, the stocks were worth slightly more than sixteen million. The market goes up and down, you know?”

  Simon scribbled down the number while managing to keep a solemn poker face, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

  She leaned in closer and asked, “That’s a lot, right?”

  “It is.”

  “Is it pretty unusual?”

  “I’d say yes. I rarely get a client with this type of net worth.” Rarely? How about never?

  “And I don’t know what to do with it all?”

  Oh, the questions. And the suggestions.

  “Uh, well, how much of the estate is in Coke stock?”

  “About ten million. About six or so in Wal-Mart.”

  “And the dividends?”

  “Well, as you know, Wal-Mart doesn’t pay squat for dividends, pennies per share. But Coke, well that’s a different story. It’s paid four percent a year forever.”

  “Four percent of ten million annually?”

  “Thereabouts. It’s a bit over four hundred thousand a year. And it just piles up, you know? I don’t know what to do with it. Can you help me, Simon?”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something, but this will not be just a simple will, Ms. Barnett. This will take some time.”

  “Could you please call me Netty? It’s my old nickname, but only a few people use it. If you’re Simon, then I’m Netty.”

  He gave her the sappiest smile yet and said, “Of course,” as they grew closer. “I guess with that type of income you must have substantial cash in the bank.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A pause. “Okay, how much cash?”

  “Almost four million.”

  “And it’s in, well, what type of accounts?”

  “Checking, savings, and certificates of deposit. But the bank’s not here. Harry wouldn’t dare bank with the locals. He was always afraid prying eyes would see our accounts and, well, you know how people love to gossip. So he banked with East Federal in Atlanta, one of the biggest.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “Yes, we lived there for years. Coke’s headquarters, you know?”

  “Of course.” Simon had no idea where Coke was headquartered. He scribbled away as his mind spun in circles. He flipped the pages of his legal pad and started on a blank one. He wrote down the number $10,000, followed by “Retainer.”

  “Just curious, Netty, in your last will, who did you leave your assets to? The stocks and bank accounts?”

  She sighed as if it might be too painful to talk about. “Well, Simon, that’s one reason I’m here. I don’t like my current will. I signed it weeks ago and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep ever since.”

  “Who drafted it?”

  “A lawyer across the street. Wally Thackerman. You know him?”

  “Oh, sure. I know all the lawyers in town.”

  “Do you trust him? Is he a good guy?”

  “Yes, no, sort of, maybe. Wally is nice enough, but I wouldn’t call him a friend. Do I trust him? I’m not sure. Why? Do you trust him?”

  “I did, but now I don’t know. You see, Simon, I wasn’t sure who to put in my will. Who gets the stocks and the money, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So Wally convinced me to leave it all to him, in trust. When I pass, he’ll sell the stock, put the cash in a trust of some sort, I really never understood it, and then he would have the authority to give the money to my favorite charities.”

  “And what are your favorite charities?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “None?”

  “No. You see, Harry didn’t believe in giving money away. He had the attitude that no one gave him money when he was broke and hungry, as a kid, so why should people expect him to give them something? I wouldn’t say he was stingy, but maybe he was. Whatever, we just never got in the habit of giving.”

  “What about after he died and you inherited everything?”

  “Well, there was this one charity I liked, or at least I thought so. Years ago I saw something on cable about the spider monkeys in Uganda and how they were starving to death because of some chemicals the government was spraying. Poor things were just shriveling up and dying by the hundreds. It was heartbreaking, so I sent a thousand dollars to the Spider Monkey Trust, had an address in Boston. They said thanks, sent me a calendar and all, made me a member of one of their boards, then asked me for more money. I sent another check, then another, and they kept asking. Wanted to send an executive out here to meet me and have lunch and so on. Then they sold my name and address to somebody else and before long my mailbox was jam-packed with letters from folks trying to save whales and buffaloes and cheetahs and Canadian wolverines. I sent them nothing. Got so bad I changed my mailing address. Then the FBI busted the Spider Monkey Trust, whole thing was a scam. Got me for eleven thousand. So, no, Simon, I don’t fool with charities.”

  Simon managed to listen while his mind raced around that little weasel Wally Thackerman across the street, putting his name in the will and controlling everything. It was highly unethical and grounds for disbarment, but then who needs a law license when you’re drowning in cash?

  She was prattling on. “Ever since I signed that will I’ve worried about it. Doesn’t seem right for the lawyer to be able to get his hands on everything, right, Simon?”

  “I need to see the will, Netty.”

  She pulled a tissue out of a pocket and was tapping it on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. This is so confusing. I never really felt right, you know, leaving everything to Mr. Thackerman, a man I don’t really know. That was not very smart, was it?”

  Of course not. Downright stupid. But with the client in tears and vulnerable and sitting on a fortune, Simon grew even warmer. “We’ll take care of it, Netty. Trust me. This is easy to fix. Sometimes proper estate planning requires a significant portion of the assets to be placed in trust, and the attorney is often named as the trustee.”

  “Legal gobbledygook.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, but the law can get complicated. Let me take a look at the will and we can go from there.”

  “Okay.”

  Simon was dizzy with rapid thoughts. He closed his legal pad, put the cap on his pen, and said, “Look, tomorrow I have some business in Fairhaven close to where you live. Let’s meet at that new Starbucks on Millmont Street. You know where it is?”

  “I think so, but I really don’t mind coming downtown.”

  “No, I insist. Same time, two P.M. tomorrow. And I’ll look over your will.”

  “I guess.”

  “And here’s something sensitive, Netty, something I can tell only you. Matilda out there is not the most discreet person I’ve ever hired. We’ve had issues over her ability to keep secrets, and this is just the type of gossip that she might repeat to the wrong person.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Right. I’ll have to terminate her soon enough. A lawyer cannot have a blabbermouth in the office. In the meantime, though, not another word to her. If you need me, just call my cell phone.” He slid across a business card.

  “Oh dear.” She was feigning surprise but also enjoying the intrigue.

  “It’ll be okay, trust me. I can prepare the will myself and she’ll never see it. It’s best that way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Trust me. Two P.M. tomorrow at Starbucks.”

  He followed her down the hall to reception, chatting the whole way about the weather. Netty glared at Matilda as she walked by but said nothing. Simon opened the front door and stepped outside with her. As she wandered off and got in her car, the old Lincoln, he stared at the law office across Main Street.

  Law Offices of Walter J. Thackerman. What a slimeball.

  Back inside, Matilda said, “Nice little lady. You have the questionnaire? I’ll do the will right now.”

  Simon stopped and looked out the front window as if there was trouble. “Might have a problem. She could be crazy, really off her rocker. I think she’s being treated, gotta be careful. And she’s not sure what to do with her house so she wants to think about it for a few days. Could be a real pain.”

  “I thought she was rather lovely.”

  “We’ll see. Do I have any other appointments this afternoon?”

  “Yes, the Pendergrasts. Their bankruptcy is causing problems.”

  “Great.”

  Chapter 2

  The rest of the day was shot. He couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting for an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Pendergrast as they squabbled over who was to blame for their financial problems. Simon’s speciality was bankruptcies and they were often more trouble than divorces, which he loathed. He called the Pendergrasts and canceled with one of the many standard lawyer fibs used to duck and weave: he said he was suddenly needed in federal court. But he really wasn’t needed anywhere. The most pressing file on his desk involved the purchase and sale of an ice-cream shop down the street, a $20,000 deal for which he might earn a fee of a thousand bucks or so.

  Suddenly, every file seemed so trivial. An elderly client with $16 million in stocks and more in cash had just left his office with a current will that left her fortune to a rat-faced little lawyer across the street. Simon could think of nothing else. As soon as Matilda said goodbye promptly at five, he left ten minutes later and drove to a watering hole in a motel bar out near the interstate. It was favored by lawyers and judges who didn’t want to be seen drinking too much in town, though there were some who drank openly and excessively. Luckily, none of them were there, and Simon nursed a beer in a dark corner and tried to sort out his thoughts.

  First things first. He had to see the will to verify that his dear Netty was telling the truth. It was still hard to believe that a lawyer, any lawyer, would be brazen enough to insert himself in a will and have unfettered access to an entire fortune. But the fact that he, the Honorable Simon Latch, was thinking of doing something very similar to that made him realize it was indeed possible. Upon Netty’s death, there would certainly be a massive legal brawl with lawsuits flying, but the only named trustee, at the moment one Wally Thackerman, would be in the driver’s seat.

  Of course the fortune wouldn’t be $20 million. Last time he checked, the state and federal estate taxes were 40 percent, almost all of which could be avoided with the marital trust. However, since Netty had no husband, her estate would be on the chopping block and fair game for the tax collectors. Eight million in taxes up in smoke. He actually grimaced at the thought of paying so much to the government.

  But $12 million was still more than he would earn working for thirty years at the corner of Main and Maple. Then he remembered something he’d read in a newspaper. Congress had been tinkering with the tax rates before its December recess. He couldn’t recall the details and usually did a half-ass job of staying informed, because his clients never worried about gift and estate taxes.

  He called a buddy from law school who practiced in a prestigious tax firm in D.C., an hour away. After the usual chatter, he got around to business. Dirk, his friend, laughed and said, “Come on, Simon. You haven’t heard the big news?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Congress adjourned without repealing the amendment.”

  Simon wasn’t sure what that meant so he kept quiet. Dirk liked to talk anyway. “Those clowns dropped the ball big-time. The estate tax deal fell through, no compromise, no tax. Zero, zilch, nada. For the next twelve months there will be no federal estate taxes, and, since most states follow the Feds, now is the perfect time to die. So tell your geezer clients to get their shit in order and get ready to pull the plug. Have a big Christmas this year, then it’s adios. Their kids and grandkids will love them for it.”

  “Right! I saw that. What a screw-up.”

  “Par for the course these days.”

  As the conversation drifted dangerously close to politics, Simon switched gears and asked about another law school classmate who was battling cancer. Since both were busy lawyers, they managed to wrap up the conversation with promises to get together soon.

  Back to $20 million! Simon got another beer and thought about the conversation for a long time. Later, he would go online and do some research, try to find out why Congress allowed the estate tax provisions to slip away. As if one might be able to understand anything Congress did.

  Chapter 3

  Simon and his wife, Paula, had not filed for divorce because they could not afford one. Both desperately wanted out, but since they were barely afloat financially with one household they could not imagine trying to maintain two. Both wounded and scarred, they were tired of fighting and had settled into a somewhat sustainable coexistence that allowed them to pass the days in muted suffering as their three kids grew up. Fortunately, the two older ones were teenagers who were struggling through the usual strains of puberty and adolescence but not yet causing serious problems. They seldom left their bedrooms and never allowed themselves to be caught offline. A device was always in hand. The youngest, Janie, was nine years old and still a sweet kid.

  To avoid conflict and keep the tension away from the children, Simon usually slept at the office. He had remodeled a small suite upstairs, knocked out a couple of walls, and configured a small pad where he survived with a tiny bathroom and narrow bed. When talking only to himself he called it The Closet. It wasn’t nice but at least it was away from Paula.

  She was out this Tuesday night, the monthly book club gathering where wine seemed to be more important than literature. It gave him the green light to cook his favorite Italian sausage meatballs with pasta and hang out with Janie in the kitchen. They talked about school and soccer and life in general. She caught him off guard by asking, “Where do you go at night?”

  “Well, I often work late and just sleep at the office.”

  “That’s weird. Why don’t you just come home? It’s not that far away.”

  “I don’t want to wake up everybody. Mom’s a light sleeper and needs her rest.”

  “Buck thinks you and Mom are getting a divorce.”

  Buck had always been a nosy brat and too mature for his years. Simon managed a smile while realizing that it was the first time the word “divorce” had been uttered by one of the children, or at least to his knowledge.

  He said, “No, we’re not getting a divorce, Janie. Mom and I are both working too hard and don’t have a lot of time for each other, but that’s not unusual these days. Everything will be okay. Tell Buck to stop talking like that.”

  Divorce had been on the table for at least three years but they had been careful around the kids. Buck was sixteen and missed nothing. Danny was fourteen and going through puberty with his head in the clouds. Janie was a little girl who loved both parents. The thought of leaving her was painful.

  “It seems weird that you would sleep at the office when your bedroom is here in the house with us.” She watched him as she said this, as if she knew the truth.

  “Everything is okay, Janie, I promise. The pasta is ready, so go get your brothers.”

  The only time Buck and Danny left their rooms was to eat. Both had insatiable appetites, along with awful table manners. Paula had given up on the rules. Danny ate with earbuds and an iPad with some dreadful acid rock band screeching away, barely audible but loud enough to be annoying. Buck had earbuds and a cell phone. Simon asked them to unplug things and talk about their school days. They looked at him as if he were a trespasser and flagrantly disobeyed. At that point, Simon could slap the table, raise his voice, make a scene, start a fight he could not win, and create even more bad blood. Paula would hear about it and weigh in on behalf of her children. It was easier to ignore their behavior, another act of cowardice that had become routine around the Latch household.

  So Simon chatted nonstop with Janie as the boys ate like pigs. The sooner they finished, the sooner they could escape to the safety of their rooms. They left their plates on the table, more rules violations, but Simon just ignored them again. After dinner, when the kitchen was spotless and the house was quiet, Simon kissed Janie on the forehead and said he had to get back to work. She wanted to say something but didn’t. He locked the doors, made sure the house was secure, and left a few minutes before ten. Paula would be home soon, and the less he saw of her the better.

  * * *

  In earlier years he had parked his car, a leased Audi that needed to be swapped for a later model, in front of his office on Main Street when he worked early and late, a bit of free advertising intended to impress others with his formidable work ethic. These days, though, he hid it in an alley around back at night to quash rumors that he had moved out and was living at the office. He suspected those rumors were already making the rounds, because a couple of Paula’s friends had big mouths and didn’t like Simon anyway. He was almost certain that the book club girls spent more time sipping wine and bitching about their husbands than discussing the hottest bestseller.

  He parked in the alley and, instead of taking the rear stairs up to his pad, he walked three blocks to the basement of an old bank building. Chub’s Pub had been a part of his life for many years. He had been there as Chub transformed it from a seedy low-end beer hall, known for its illegal poker and bookmaking, to a mid-level sports bar with a dozen widescreens and a less violent clientele. Gambling was still rampant because Chub was the biggest bookie in the area, but it was kept quiet and out of the way. The vice squad made a perfunctory visit once a week but only because it was expected. Most of the cops hung out in Chub’s when off duty. He even paid a few of them to work the door on weekends.