Chapter 3 - THE ESTATE BOX
Naomi located the probate inventory from Dad’s apartment.
Alaric Vale had died at seventy-two.
Heart failure.
Fast.
Not completely unexpected medically.
Unexpected that week.
He had been independent.
Driving.
Complaining.
Writing letters.
Then one morning he did not answer the phone.
Morgause found him.
That fact had always made me feel sorry for her.
It still did.
Grief does not cancel later conduct.
Dad’s apartment had been inventoried two days after death.
Morgause was present.
So was Naomi’s paralegal.
So was I.
I remembered almost none of it clearly.
I was identifying watches and bank statements while Eluned sat with my cousin Brynn.
Personal correspondence was placed into two boxes.
One marked:
FAMILY.
One:
PERSONAL — REVIEW.
The inventory listed fourteen handwritten letters.
No addressees.
Naomi compared the archive now.
Thirteen remained.
One missing.
My stomach dropped.
“Could it be the one?”
“Possibly.”
“Who took it?”
“We don’t know.”
“Who had access?”
“Several people.”
Not enough.
Then Morgause’s attorney claimed Dad handed the letter to her three days before his death.
If true, it never belonged to the estate.
Maybe he intended her to deliver it.
Then why hadn’t she?
Her answer:
“It contained private family matters I believed would distress Eluned.”
Not her decision.
Then her attorney added:
“Morgause believed Alaric changed his mind about giving it to the child.”
Evidence?
None yet.
Then Naomi found her meeting note.
Eight days before Dad died.
ALaric called.
Subject:
Concern about Eluned at Morgause’s home.
No details in the heading.
My hands shook.
“What did he say?”
Naomi looked at me.
“Attorney-client privilege around some estate work survives death and is controlled according to legal rules. I can’t simply repeat everything because you’re angry.”
I hated that answer.
It was correct.
Then:
“But if the estate executor authorizes disclosure relevant to administration and the letter’s ownership, we may be able to establish what he intended.”
The executor was a professional accountant named Gideon Shaw.
Not me.
Not Morgause.
Thank God.
He reviewed.
Authorized limited disclosure.
Dad had told Naomi:
“I wrote Eluned a note because I should have spoken sooner.”
That was all she could safely provide then.
Spoken about what?
Unknown.
Then another clue.
A text from Dad to Morgause, nine days before his death:
We need to talk about Sunday.
Morgause:
Not again.
Dad:
What happened with Eluned was not discipline.
Morgause:
You saw ten minutes.
Dad:
I saw enough.
There.
Then:
Morgause:
You always take Quillon’s side.
Dad:
This is not about Quillon.
No more.
My stomach turned.
Sunday.
Which Sunday?
I checked my calendar.
I had been in Atlanta for a two-day client meeting.
Eluned stayed with Morgause overnight because Dad had a cardiology appointment early the next morning and could not take her.
I had called.
Eluned said:
“We had dinner.”
Nothing else.
What had happened?
I almost asked her.
Stopped.
The child interview was tomorrow.
May you like
No coaching.
No adult hunger for answers placed on a six-year-old.
