Where There's a Will: Who Poisoned Emily?

By James Babcock

A wealthy widow, heiress to a fortune from Florida oranges, is poisoned—KGB style. The shocking crime sets tongues wagging in a small town on the Gulf Coast shores of the Florida Panhandle. Police detective Joe Phillips and his wife Maryanne, a bank trust officer, follow the money trail while probing the motives of a dysfunctional family and their prominent local lawyer—each of whom is desperate for money. The family’s deep past history comes into play as the duo discover an outcome that is utterly horrendous!

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Babcock
• Release date: Jul 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458179135

James Babcock

Following three years in the Navy and forty years in international and domestic banking, Babcock took up a second career as a writer and composer. His plots draw on his travels abroad and experiences in foreign exchange trading, bank operations, lending, trust services, auditing, and bank management. Active in community work, he served as a university rector, symphony president, and chairman of economic development organizations. He holds degrees from Princeton and the Wharton School. In addition to his novels and short stories, his creative work includes books of humor and games and a number of pieces for violin and piano. He resides with his family in Blacksburg, Virginia.

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Contents

of the third book in the

Joe and Maryanne

series

Where There’s a Will

Chapter  1  Thursday

Chapter  4  Thursday

Chapter  7  Monday

Chapter 10...Monday

Chapter 13...Thursday

Chapter 16...Tuesday

Chapter 19...Tuesday

Chapter 22...Monday

Chapter 25...Friday

Chapter 28...Friday

About the Author

Books by James Babcock

Chapter One

Thursday

The elderly widow lifted the bottle of bright yellow fluid from her refrigerator and poured a tall glass. It was a lifelong habit, this morning ritual of drinking the good Florida orange juice that had made her father wealthy and provided the health and comforts of a long and privileged life.

Sometimes she also went to the trouble of boiling an egg, but on this day she settled for buttered toast and marmalade. As usual she had slept well and late. By the time she took her brisk morning stroll down the paved driveway to the mailbox, the postman had already delivered her daily copy of the Wall Street Journal and the few pieces of mail she still received.

Her daddy had taught her how to follow stocks. Her stock-broker husband, shrewd George, dead now so many years, helped her pick some good ones. And it was refreshing to meet every month at the bank with that pretty young trust officer, whose name she could never remember, and learn why the market was up or down.

The old woman paused in her foyer and tried to recollect where she had left her favorite reading glasses. She wandered through the parlor and dining room and finally located another pair beside the kitchen toaster. She retreated to the patio behind her mansion with her juice, toast, and newspaper and spent a leisurely morning reading and napping.

This was her private day, every other day, when her caregiver was off. The old woman made do for herself, sitting alone and sifting through the pictures in her mind that reminded her of her childhood and her exciting romance with George. Other pictures―the ones of child rearing, chauffeuring to games and ballet, women’s club meetings, church socials, and especially the violence in the bedroom―no longer came clearly, perhaps because those middle years were not always pleasant. She smiled at herself. She could remember the names of the companies whose stocks her daddy said never to sell, but she could never remember where she put her glasses.

She lolled away the afternoon, ate a tomato for supper, watched television until a late hour, and put herself to bed.

In the morning, she woke a little earlier than usual. Troubled by a sudden rush in her intestines, she spent more time than usual seated on the toilet. That tomato, she thought, then suddenly vomited into her sink. She cleaned up the mess, dressed, went downstairs to the kitchen, and repeated her breakfast routine.

At nine the doorbell rang. She opened the door and confronted a stranger. It was a rather nice-looking young woman.

Good morning, Mrs. Bartlett, the young woman said cheerily as she entered without being invited. How are we feeling today?

"We are fine," the old woman lied. Rather than confess to the nausea she was feeling, she decided to enjoy keeping her little secret from this busybody whose name escaped her.

Helen Shields was the person the elderly woman’s children had hired to visit every other day to make sure their mother took her medicines, bathed, and ate properly. The care was expensive, but their mother could easily afford it, and she resisted the idea of moving into an assisted living apartment.

The visitor went to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. She selected a pill from each of three bottles, ran some water in a glass, and went in search of her charge. She found her seated on the toilet in the downstairs powder room off the foyer. As she held out the pills and water glass, the old woman’s face suddenly displayed a horrifying grimace. She rose, gagged on her tongue, and fell forward onto the tiled floor.

By the time Helen Shields knelt to help her, Emily Bartlett was dead.

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Chapter Two

Saturday

Detective Captain Joe Phillips was having a leisurely breakfast with his wife Maryanne. He had the day off, so he was still dressed in his jogging outfit. She, on the other hand, was dressed for work in her standard black pants suit that complemented her dark hair and blue eyes. First National Bank offered Saturday morning hours, and as the only trust officer in the small bank, she was expected to be on hand to provide personal service.

Oh! Maryanne exclaimed. She lowered the newspaper and looked across the breakfast table at her husband. One of my clients died!

Who?

Emily Bartlett.

Our rich widow?

Yes.

What did she die of? Was it sudden, or had she been ill?

It doesn’t say. But she must have had a stroke, or a heart attack. I just met with her last week and she looked as healthy as a race horse.

Joe laughed. Maybe the downturn in the value of her account got to her.

Maryanne pursed her lips. I resent that, Joseph Phillips. Her stocks were actually going up. Her stocks were always going up. I have the formal investment authority, but she liked to give me her advice. She supervised her trust account ever since her husband died years ago.

I’m not sure I’d like that. Aren’t you responsible for investment decisions?

Yes, but it’s a huge account, Joe. Twenty-five million dollars. With an account like that I have to pay attention to the client’s wishes.

Was she hard to work with?

Not at all. She was very sweet, but forgetful. She couldn’t remember my name. It’s funny how memory loss works. She wouldn’t remember what we’d talked about at our last meeting, but she was sharp, and always asked good questions.

Joe contemplated his pregnant wife, enjoying the bloom of color on her smooth cheeks. "How are you feeling, Maddy?"

I feel great, but a little bloated.

I’ve never asked. What do you want, a boy or a girl?

Either, as long as it’s healthy and whole.

It should be. You look beautiful.

Thank you, my love. She returned to reading the newspaper. Oh! she exclaimed again.

Now what?

On the business page. It says our bank has been sold! It’s going to merge with American International Bank of Atlanta. I had no idea!

Merger negotiations are always top secret with management. Employees are the last to learn. But that is a shocker. Has the bank had problems?

On the contrary. Mr. Cartright has done a great job. First National sailed through the panic unscathed.

Then American International will have paid a big premium. They probably want to get into the Panhandle market. We should get a nice kicker on the exchange of stock. Both of them owned shares in their local bank. Or is it a cash sale?

No, Maddy replied, thank goodness. A cash sale would be taxable. It’s an exchange, two and a half for one.

So how much money are we going to make? Does the article give the market values?

Let me see. Yes. She made a mental calculation. It’s roughly a fifteen percent premium. That’s exceptional.

So then we’ve made a few bucks and can afford to get ourselves a bigger house, for when the baby comes. 

That would be fantastic! Selling their house was an idea Joe had not yet discussed with her. Could we really do that?

Sure. Phillips, when still a bachelor, had bought the bungalow as an investment, when the residential real estate market was down sharply. I’m not upside down with the mortgage on this place. We could get a house with an extra bedroom and maybe a den for me. We can afford it. We have two salaries.

Only if I don’t get laid off because of the merger, she cautioned, suddenly thinking of possible downsides of that startling news.

He nodded That would be a big change, for sure. But you’re a lawyer with special experience and knowledge of estate planning. You could join a law firm.

"Or start my own. Wouldn’t that be a change!"

What you’d make in fees we’d spend on child are.

True. But I’d still be outside, not stuck at home with cleaning and laundry.

Not interested in ‘kinder, kücken, und kirche’?

Not any more than you, mister police detective.

Fair enough.

Speaking of big changes, she said, changing the subject, Daddy has definitely decided to retire. He’s going to announce early so someone else has time to campaign for the election.

Joe grinned. "Now that will be a surprising headline. ‘Judge Larkin to Retire.’ That will be a bigger institutional change than your bank merger."

Maddy glanced at her wristwatch. Yipes! I better get going or I’ll be late. Then I will get fired. She rose from the kitchen table, kissed her husband on the forehead, and hurried out of the house to her car.

Joe sipped the last of his coffee and left the house through the kitchen door. He collected Osceola Junior from his kennel, opened the gate in the picket fence, and trotted down through the cut in the embankment to Riverside Drive. With his young golden retriever at his heel, he made his regular morning run by the river to the bridge.

At age thirty-three, Phillips’ exercise regime kept his body in shape and his mind sharp for his work in the county police department. He had earned a reputation as a puzzle solver, though his skills were seldom taxed in his hometown and he had ample time for outdoor activities. As he jogged alongside the river with his puppy, he had no inkling his skills as a sleuth were soon to be tested once again.

A few of the people in Joe Phillips’ hometown made their living from sugar, but most relied on fishing or tourism. The marina accommodated not only scores of private boats but also the town’s shrimp boat fleet, its main industry. Indeed, it was the venturing of these vessels out into the Gulf of Mexico that had begun to entice Colombian and Mexican drug smugglers to this part of the Florida coast. Sport fishermen, however, were drawn by the promise of tarpon, while other visitors rented skiffs at the marina, fished in the eastside bayou, and scanned the marsh cattails with binoculars in hopes of seeing ibis, flamingos, and spoonbills. Weekend tourists thronged the quaint shops lining the main street that ran up from the waterfront to the town park, Town Hall, and Hall of Justice.

From his third-floor office in Justice, Phillips could see over the trees to his beloved waterfront. His and Maddy’s cottage, though, was on the west side of town by the river. The road along the river recently had been widened and grandly renamed Riverside Drive, for the town council had declared this section of Olde Towne blighted, cleared the land, and sold it to developers. Opposite the narrow strip of beach, with more hope than practical sense, speculators had built an office tower, several apartment buildings, and a hotel and conference center. Joe’s modest house was one of the few that still had a backyard view of the river and access to the beach. All of this activity reflected the new money that had flooded in with the fish and the tourists.

It was the north side of town that reflected the old money, the money made from sugar. Beyond the downtown and central park, Main Street became a two-lane highway, lined for a half mile with filling stations and warehouses and the town’s principal shopping mall. But eventually the road broke out into open country on the way to the country club, hospital, Air Force Base, and sugar plantations. There, converting old farmland, developers created a protected upscale enclave of gabled mansions enticingly named Pine Valley Acres. This was where Emily Bartlett, the town’s leading old money heiress, had lived, and died.

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Chapter Three

Monday

At three o’clock in the afternoon, the justices of the Florida Supreme Court gathered with their colleagues in Tallahassee to honor Judge Hudson J. Larkin on the occasion of his retirement.

The brief ceremony was opened by the Chief Justice. Ladies and Gentlemen, good afternoon, and a warm welcome to you on a warm day. It’s a pleasure to preside over this noteworthy event in honor of Judge Larkin. Hudson, he said affably, c’mon up here and stand by me so the folks can look on your happy countenance.

Larkin complied, and the Chief continued. I am happy to see that this courtroom is filled with members of Judge Larkin’s family, colleagues, former law clerks, and other special guests. Except perhaps for a funeral, nothing better demonstrates the respect and affection in which one of our own is held than such a turnout―unless it’s the size of the kitty put together to purchase a suitable memento. He paused for the good-humored laughter.

Judge Larkin is the longest-serving judge in the history of Florida’s Second Judicial Circuit. He reaches the constitutionally mandated retirement age of seventy next year, but he has demonstrated a balanced judicial sense by choosing to step down early enough before the coming general election to allow the whippersnappers down there on the coast to compete for his position. That they would compete for it is understandable. I will not say that the Panhandle is the sleepier part of our great state when it comes to the flow of court business. Nor will I say that the position of a county judge there is a sinecure. Nevertheless, I do note with interest that Judge Larkin’s golf handicap remains at a very low figure. More laughter.

The Chief then recounted other highlights from his col-league’s career, including Larkin’s military service and his volunteer work on various committees and boards.

I am pleased to announce that Judge Larkin, with his extensive experience and expertise, has agreed to continue to serve his court and the citizens of Florida as a senior judge. So, to conclude, please join me in applauding this fine man’s distinguished career of public service.

Everyone in the courtroom stood and applauded.

Now, Hudson, about that kitty I mentioned. The present they had bought was a solid silver tray and a silver-plated gavel.

After the Chief Justice’s presentation, Judge Larkin was given the opportunity to comment.

Chief, he said with a twinkle in his eye, "I think your remarks must be one of the shortest summations you ever delivered. But I doted on every word….Well, I guess this is the moment when I could pay off old scores, explain why reversals of my rulings were in error, and otherwise advise the Governor how he ought to run the state. But I hope I’ve still got a few years left to do that….I will just say that if there is any one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things change. And the time has come―some might say long past time―for me to make a big change. I don’t regret a thing in my past, and I welcome this change. Meanwhile, let me express my heartfelt gratitude to the people of my Florida county for having given me the opportunity for such a rewarding career. And to prove that I’m not really as long-winded as some people think I am, I shall close with these simple words of