Chuck started. “A friend? You’re not representing Florence?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “I’m representing Bernie McLintock, and Florence invited me to the will reading.” It wasn’t a conflict for me to represent Florence if she asked. Well, probably. Unless she became a suspect in the murder, and then she and Bernie couldn’t have the same attorney.
Hoyt’s brow wrinkled beneath his dark brown hair, and he turned to face Florence more fully before eyeing me. “Wait a minute. You’re representing the guy who killed my dad, possibly as an accomplice to this woman? You can’t be here.”
Florence looked around and dropped her bag to the floor. Then she clasped her gnarled hands on the table and lifted her chin. “Anna, I’d like to hire you as my attorney as long as you can be mine. I understand if there’s a conflict, you’ll have to withdraw.”
I settled. Florence could seriously read a room, and she apparently understood the law fairly well. “You’ve got it,” I said.
Chuck opened his file folder. “In that case, Miss Albertini has every right to attend this reading.”
Florence cut me a look of triumph.
I grimaced, not wanting any of this to get more uncomfortable than it already had become. “Mr. Forrest, I’m very sorry for your loss.” Somebody had to say it. “I know that Florence is grieving as well, and it’s unfortunate we had to meet under these very sad circumstances.” I couldn’t imagine losing my father, and my heart hurt for the guy.
His lips tightened. “I think your client helped kill him, and I’ve made a report with the police to that fact.”
Florence paled beneath her powdery pink blush. “That’s not nice, Hoyt. I didn’t kill Lawrence, and neither did Bernie.”
“Bernie, your former husband?” Hoyt shot back.
“Enough.” I leaned forward to partially block his view of my new client. Anger was an element of grief, so I kept my voice gentle. “Let’s hear the will, and then we can go on from there.” I still had doubts whether or not Florence should give the money from the ring to Hoyt.
Chuck cleared his throat and drew out a Last Will and Testament on the good thick paper used for wills. “As you know, we represented Lawrence Forrest and now represent his estate.” He scanned the heavy stock paper. “The document sets aside funds for a funeral and directs us to pay any and all debts before distributing the rest of the estate.” He read some more. “After that, Lawrence made several specific bequests.”
I reached for a legal pad from a stack in the middle of the table and then took a pen from a holder next to the paper.
Chuck kept reading. “Lawrence left his various shotguns, all listed here, to the Kringle Club, directing them to disperse the guns as they see fit.” He looked up as I made notes. “He left the fully owned Forrest Bait and Tackle Shop, including the land, building, improvements, inventory, and two bank accounts to his son, Hoyt Forrest.”
Hoyt sat back, his body visibly relaxing for the first time.
Chuck flipped a page. “The residence at Twenty-Two Spruce Lane, along with the accompanying twenty acres of forest land, is bequeathed to Florence McLintock.”
Hoyt sucked in a breath.
Florence slowly slid her hands off the table. “I, well, this is unexpected.”
“No shit,” Hoyt snarled.
I exhaled and looked at Chuck. “Does that take care of the specific bequests?”
“No.” Chuck flipped the page again. “All vehicles go to Hoyt, the lake cabin goes to Florence, and the investment accounts, now equaling approximately two million dollars, are bequeathed to Florence.”
Florence gasped.
Hoyt slammed his fist on the table.
Florence jumped in her seat and turned toward him. “Hoyt, I didn’t know. This is, well, we can come to some sort of….”
I put my hand on her arm. “Let’s all take a day or so to think about this before you make decisions.” I had a duty to represent my client and make sure she understood all of her options. If she wanted to refuse the bequests from the deceased, she had every right to do so—but I couldn’t let her be hasty.
Hoyt’s face turned a motley red, and he stood, looking taller than I’d surmised. Probably around six feet or so. He glared down at us. “If I can prove she murdered my father, then she gets nothing, right?”
I also stood. “That’s enough.”
Anger darkened his brown eyes behind the glasses, and his nostrils flared. “Is that it for the will?”
Chuck pushed his reading glasses farther up his nose. “Ah, no. One more bestowal.” He cleared his throat. “A third stock portfolio, approximate value of one hundred thousand dollars, to a Ms. Sharon Smith.”
