And Thereby Hangs a Tale

5. Where There’s a Will*

Now, you’ve all heard the story about the beautiful young nurse who takes care of a bedridden old man, convinces him to change his will in her favour, and ends up with a fortune, having deprived his children of their rightful inheritance. I confess that I thought I’d heard every variation on this theme; at least that was until I came across Miss Evelyn Beattie Moore, and even that wasn’t her real name.

Miss Evelyn Mertzberger hailed from Milwaukee. She was born on the day Marilyn Monroe died, and that wasn’t the only thing they had in common: Evelyn was blonde, she had the kind of figure that makes men turn and take a second look, and she had legs you rarely come across other than in an ad campaign for stockings.

So many of her friends from Milwaukee commented on how like Marilyn Monroe she looked that it wasn’t surprising when as soon as Evelyn left school she bought a one-way ticket to Hollywood. On arrival in the City of Angels, she changed her name to Evelyn Beattie Moore (half Mary Tyler Moore and half Warren Beatty), but quickly discovered that, unlike Marilyn, she didn’t have any talent as an actress, and no number of directors’ couches was going to remedy that.

Once Evelyn had accepted this — not an easy thing for any aspiring young actress to come to terms with — she began to look for alternative employment — which was difficult in the city of a thousand blondes.

She had spent almost all of her savings renting a small apartment in Glendale and buying a suitable wardrobe for auditions, agency photographs and the endless parties young hopefuls had to be seen at.

It was after she’d checked her latest bank statement that Evelyn realized a decision had to be made if she was to avoid returning to Milwaukee and admitting she wasn’t quite as like Marilyn as her friends had thought. But what else could she do?

The idea never would have occurred to Evelyn if she hadn’t come across the entry while she was flicking through the Yellow Pages looking for an electrician. It was some time before she was willing to make the necessary phone call, and then only after a final demand for the last three months’ rent dropped through her mailbox.

The Happy Hunting agency assured Evelyn that their escorts were under no obligation to do anything other than have dinner with the client. They were a professional agency that supplied charming young ladies as companions for discreet gentlemen. However, it was none of their business if those young ladies chose to come to a private arrangement with the client. As the agency took 50 per cent of the booking fee, Evelyn got the message.

She decided at first that she would only sleep with a client if she felt there was a chance of their developing a long-term relationship. However, she quickly discovered that most men’s idea of a long-term relationship was about an hour, and in some cases half an hour. But at least her new job made it possible for her to pay off the landlord, and even to open a savings account.

When Evelyn celebrated — or, to be more accurate, remained silent about — her thirtieth birthday, she decided the time had come to take revenge on the male species.

While not quite as many men were turning to give her a second look, Evelyn had accumulated enough money to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. But not enough to ensure that that lifestyle would continue once she reached her fortieth birthday, and could no longer be sure of a first look.

Evelyn disappeared, and once again she changed her name. Three months later, Lynn Beattie turned up in Florida, where she registered for a diploma course at the Miami College of Nursing.

You may well ask why Lynn selected the Sunshine State for her new enterprise. I think it can be explained by some statistics she came across while carrying out her research. An article she read in Playboy magazine revealed that Florida was the state with the greatest number of millionaires per capita, and that the majority of them had retired and had a life expectancy of less than ten years. However, she quickly realized that she would need to carry out much more research if she hoped to graduate top of that particular class, as she was likely to come up against some pretty formidable rivals who had the same thing in mind as she did.

In the course of a long weekend spent with a middle-aged married doctor, Lynn discovered, without once having to refer to a textbook, not only that Jackson Memorial Hospital was the most expensive rest home in the state, but also that it didn’t offer special rates for deserving cases.

Once Lynn had graduated with a nursing diploma, and a grade which came as a surprise to her fellow students but not to her professor, she applied for a job at Jackson Memorial.

She was interviewed by a panel of three, two of whom, including the Medical Director, were not convinced that Ms Beattie came from the right sort of background to be a Jackson nurse. The third bumped into her in the car park on his way home, and the following morning he was able to convince his colleagues to change their minds.

Lynn Beattie began work as a probationary nurse on the first day of the following month. She did not rush the next part of her plan, aware that if the Medical Director found out what she was up to, he would dismiss her without a second thought.

From the first day, Lynn went quietly and conscientiously about her work, melting into the background while keeping her eyes wide open. She quickly discovered that a hospital, just like any other workplace, has its gossip-mongers, who enjoy nothing more than to pass on the latest snippet of information to anyone willing to listen. Lynn was willing to listen. After a few weeks Lynn had discovered the one thing she needed to know about the doctors, and, later, a great deal more about their patients.

There were twenty-three doctors who ministered to the needs of seventy-one residents. Lynn had no interest in how many nurses there were, because she had no plans for them, provided she didn’t come across a rival.

The gossip-monger told her that three of the doctors assumed that every nurse wanted to sleep with them, which made it far easier for Lynn to continue her research. After another few weeks, which included several ‘stopovers’, she found out, without ever being able to make a note, that sixty-eight of the residents were married, senile or, worse, received regular visits from their devoted relatives. Lynn had to accept the fact that 90 per cent of women either outlive their husbands or end up divorcing them. It’s all part of the American dream. However, Lynn still managed to come up with a shortlist of three candidates who suffered from none of these deficiencies: Frank Cunningham Jr, Larry Schumacher III and Arthur J. Sommerfield.

Frank Cunningham was eliminated when Lynn discovered that he had two mistresses, one of whom was pregnant and had recently served a paternity suit on him, demanding that a DNA test be carried out.

Larry Schumacher III also had to be crossed off the list when Lynn found out he was visited every day by his close friend Gregory, who didn’t look a day over fifty. Come to think of it, not many people in Florida do.

However, the third candidate ticked all her boxes.

Arthur J. Sommerfield was a retired banker whose worth according to Forbes magazine — a publication which had replaced Playboy as Lynn’s postgraduate reading — was estimated at around a hundred million dollars: a fortune that had grown steadily through the assiduous husbandry of three generations of Sommerfields. Arthur was a widower who had only been married once (another rarity in Florida), to Arlene, who had died of breast cancer some seven years earlier. He had two children, Chester and Joni, both of whom lived abroad. Chester worked for an engineering company in Brazil, and was married with three children, while his sister Joni had recently become engaged to a landscape gardener in Montreal. Although they both wrote to their father regularly, and phoned most Sundays, visits were less frequent.

Six weeks later, after a slower than usual courtship, Lynn was transferred to the private wing of Dr William Grove, who was the personal physician of her would-be victim.

Dr Grove was under the illusion that the only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having to do overtime, especially after he’d informed her that poor Mr Sommerfield didn’t have much longer to live.

Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine that ensured her patient’s every need was attended to. Mr Sommerfield’s preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favourite beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur — he insisted she call him Arthur — to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning constitutional around the grounds, during which he would always cling on to her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung on to.

After lunch she would read to the old man until he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favourite television sitcom, The Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.

At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt whisky — it didn’t take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was acceptable — accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr Grove, but encouraged by Lynn.

‘We just won’t tell him,’ Lynn would say before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something else she didn’t tell the doctor about.

One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only a few weeks to live.

‘Much more pleasant to spend your final days in familiar surroundings,’ Dr Grove explained to Lynn. ‘And besides,’ he added in a quieter voice, ‘it doesn’t look good if everyone who comes to Jackson Memorial dies here.’

On hearing the news of his imminent discharge — which, loosely translated, meant demise — Arthur refused to budge unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an agency nurse who didn’t understand his daily routine.

‘So, how would you feel about leaving us for a few weeks?’ Dr Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.

‘I don’t want to leave you, William,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘but if it’s what you want me to do...’

‘We wouldn’t be apart for too long, honey,’ Dr Grove said, taking her in his arms. ‘And in any case, as his physician, I’d have to visit the old man at least twice a week.’

‘But he could live for months, possibly years,’ said Lynn, clinging to him.

‘No, darling, that’s not possible. I can assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.’ Dr Grove was not able to see the smile on Lynn’s face.

Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.

He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn’s hand. He didn’t speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick mansion.

‘This is the family home,’ said Arthur proudly.

And it’s where I’ll be spending the rest of my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in a public park.

She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur’s master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.

It was on a Thursday evening, after his second whisky (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr Grove wouldn’t be visiting his patient that day), that Arthur said, ‘I know I don’t have much longer to live, my dear.’ Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved a dismissive hand before adding, ‘And I’d like to leave you a little something in my will.’

A little something wasn’t exactly what Lynn had in mind. ‘How considerate of you,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t want anything, Arthur...’ She hesitated. ‘Except perhaps...’

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy cause? Or a bequest to your favourite charity in my name?’

‘How typically thoughtful of you, my dear. But wouldn’t you also like some personal memento?’

Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some time before she said, ‘Well, I’ve grown rather attached to your cane with the silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson Memorial. And if your children wouldn’t object, I’d also like the photo of you that’s on your desk in the study — the one taken when you were a freshman at Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.’

The old man smiled. ‘You shall have both of them, my dear. I’ll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.’

Mr Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins & Purbright, was not the kind of man who would easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie’s charms. However, he wholeheartedly approved when his client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected charities and other institutions to his will — after all, he was a Princeton man himself. And he certainly didn’t object when Arthur told him that he wanted to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.

‘Just a keepsake, you understand,’ Lynn murmured as the lawyer wrote down Arthur’s words.

‘I’ll send the documents to you within a week,’ Mr Haskins said as he rose to leave, ‘in case there are any further revisions you might wish to consider.’

‘Thank you, Haskins,’ Arthur replied, but he had fallen asleep even before they’d had a chance to shake hands.

Mr Haskins was as good as his word, and a large legal envelope, marked Private & Confidential, arrived by courier five days later. Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully. After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to be amended before the old man put his signature to it.

When Lynn brought in Arthur’s breakfast tray the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, ‘I don’t think Mr Haskins likes me.’

‘What makes you say that, my dear?’ asked Arthur as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.

She placed a copy of the will on his bedside table and said, ‘There’s no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of my favourite photo of you. I’m afraid I won’t have anything to remember you by.’

‘Damn the man,’ said Arthur, spilling his hot chocolate. ‘Get him on the phone immediately.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Lynn. ‘I’ll be passing by his office later this afternoon. I’ll drop the will off and remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.’

‘Yes, why don’t you do that, my dear. But be sure you’re back in time for Phil Silvers.’

Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins & Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins & Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner. There were several other lawyers in the town who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr Kullick’s favour was the fact that he was the vice-president of the local branch of the National Rifle Association.

Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As she entered the lawyer’s office, Mr Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his potential client into a chair. ‘How can I help you, Miss Beattie?’ he asked even before he’d sat down.

‘You can’t help me,’ said Lynn, ‘but my employer is in need of your services. He’s unable to attend in person because, sadly, he’s bedridden.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Kullick. ‘However, I’ll need to know who it is that I’d be representing.’ When he heard the name, he sat bolt upright in his chair and straightened his tie.

‘Mr Sommerfield has recently executed a new will,’ said Lynn, ‘and he wishes one paragraph on page thirty-two to be amended.’ She passed over the will that had been prepared by Mr Haskins, and the reworded paragraph she had neatly typed on Arthur’s headed notepaper above a signature he had scrawled after a third whisky.

Once Mr Kullick had read the emendation, he remained silent for some time. ‘I will happily draw up a new will for Mr Sommerfield, but of course I’ll need to be present when he signs the document.’ He paused. ‘It will also have to be countersigned by an independent witness.’

‘Of course,’ said Lynn, who had not anticipated this problem and realized she would need a little time to find a way round it. ‘Shall we say next Thursday afternoon at five o’clock, Mr Kullick?’

The lawyer checked his diary, crossed something out and entered the name Sommerfield in its place. Lynn rose from her chair.

‘I see that this will was originally drawn up by Haskins, Haskins & Purbright,’ said Kullick.

‘That is correct, Mr Kullick,’ Lynn said just before she reached the door. She turned back and smiled sweetly. ‘Mr Sommerfield felt that Mr Haskins’s charges had become... exorbitant, I think was the word he used.’ She opened the door. ‘I do hope you don’t make the same mistake, Mr Kullick, as we may be in need of your services at some time in the future.’ She closed the door quietly behind her.

By four o’clock the following Thursday, Lynn felt confident that she had addressed all the problems posed by Mr Kullick’s demands and that everything was in place. She knew if she made the slightest mistake she would have wasted almost a year of her life, and all she would have to show for it would be a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of a young man at Princeton whom she didn’t particularly like.

As she and Arthur sat and watched yet another episode in the life of Sergeant Bilko, Lynn went over the timing in her mind, trying to think of anything that might crop up at the last moment and derail her. Mr Kullick would need to be on time if her plan was to work. She checked her watch every few minutes.

When the show finally came to an end, with Bilko somehow managing to outsmart Colonel John T. Hall once again, Lynn turned off the television, poured Arthur a generous measure of whisky and handed him a Havana cigar.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, patting her on the bottom.

‘Someone’s coming to see you, Arthur, so you mustn’t fall asleep.’

‘Who?’ demanded Arthur, but not before he’d taken a sip of his whisky.

‘A Mr Kullick. He’s one of Mr Haskins’s associates.’

‘What does he want?’ he asked as Lynn lit a match and held it up to the cigar.

‘He’s bringing over the latest version of your will, so you can sign it. Then you won’t have to bother about it again.’

‘Has he included my bequests to you this time?’

‘He assured me that your wishes would be carried out to the letter, but he needed them confirmed in person,’ said Lynn as the doorbell rang.

‘Good,’ said Arthur, taking another swig of whisky before Lynn plumped up his pillows and helped him to sit up.

Moments later there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door and a maid entered, accompanied by Mr Kullick. Arthur peered intently at the intruder through a cloud of smoke.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Sommerfield,’ said the lawyer as he walked towards the bed. He had intended to shake hands with the old man, but when he saw the look of disdain on his face, he decided against it. ‘My name is Kullick, sir,’ he said, remaining at the foot of the bed.

‘I know,’ said Arthur. ‘And you’ve come about my will.’

‘Yes, sir, I have, and—’

‘And have you remembered to include the bequests for my nurse this time?’

‘Yes, he has, Arthur,’ interrupted Lynn. ‘I told you all about it after I’d returned from visiting Mr Kullick last week.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ said Arthur, draining his glass.

‘You’ve given me everything — ’ she paused ‘ — that I asked for.’

‘Everything?’ said Arthur.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘which is so much more than I deserve. But if you want to change your mind...’ she added as she refilled his glass.

‘No, no, you’ve more than earned it.’

‘Thank you, Arthur,’ she said, taking him by the hand.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ said the old man wearily, turning his attention back to Kullick.

‘Would you like me to take you through the will clause by clause, sir?’

‘Certainly not. Haskins took long enough doing that last time.’

‘As you wish, sir. Then all that remains to be done is for you to sign the document. But, as I explained to Ms Beattie, that will require a witness.’

‘I’m sure Mr Sommerfield’s personal maid will be happy to act as witness,’ said Lynn as the front doorbell rang again.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Kullick.

‘But why not?’ demanded Lynn, who had already given Paula twenty dollars to carry out the task.

‘Because she’s a beneficiary of the will,’ said Kullick, ‘and therefore ineligible to be a witness.’

‘She is indeed,’ said Arthur. Turning to Lynn he explained, ‘I’ve left her the silver-plated dinner service.’ He leaned across and whispered, ‘But I can assure you, my dear, that the silver cane is, like you, sterling.’

Lynn smiled as she desperately tried to think who could take Paula’s place. Her first thought was the chauffeur, but then she remembered that he was also a beneficiary — Arthur’s ancient car. She didn’t want to risk going through the whole process again, but she couldn’t think of anyone suitable to take the maid’s place at such short notice.

‘Could you come back this time tomorrow?’ she asked, trying to remain calm. ‘By then I’m sure—’ She was interrupted by a knock on the door and Dr Grove strode into the room.

‘How are you, Arthur?’ he asked.

‘Not too bad,’ said Arthur. ‘I’d be even better if you felt able to witness my signature. Or is Grove also a beneficiary of my will?’ he asked Kullick.

‘Certainly not,’ said Dr Grove before the lawyer could speak. ‘It’s against company policy for any employee of Jackson Memorial to benefit from a bequest left by a patient.’

‘Good, then you can earn your fee for a change, Grove. That is, assuming Kullick agrees you’re acceptable.’

‘Eminently so, Mr Sommerfield,’ said Kullick as he opened his briefcase and extracted three thick documents. He slowly turned the pages, pointing to the small pencil crosses at the bottom of each page indicating where both signatures should be placed.

Although Lynn had taken a step back so as not to appear too involved in the process, her heartbeat didn’t return to normal until the last page of all three copies had been signed and witnessed.

Once the ceremony had been completed, Kullick gathered up the documents, placed one copy in his briefcase and handed the other two to Mr Sommerfield, who waved them away, so Lynn placed them in the drawer by his bed.

‘I’ll take my leave, sir,’ said Kullick, still not confident enough to shake hands with his latest client.

‘Give Haskins my best wishes,’ said Arthur as he screwed the top back on his fountain pen.

‘But I no longer work for—’

‘Just be sure to tell Mr Haskins when you next see him,’ Lynn said quickly, ‘that he obviously didn’t fully appreciate Mr Sommerfield’s wishes when it came to the very generous bequest he had in mind for me. But at the same time, do assure him I am not someone who bears grudges.’

Dr Grove frowned, but said nothing.

‘Very magnanimous of you in the circumstances, my dear,’ said Arthur.

‘When I next see him,’ Kullick repeated. Then he added, ‘I feel it’s my duty to point out to you, Mr Sommerfield, that your children may feel they are entitled to—’

‘Not you as well, Kullick. When will you all accept that I’ve made my decision, and nothing you can say will change my mind? Now please leave us.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Kullick, stepping back as Dr Grove stuck a thermometer into his patient’s mouth.

Lynn accompanied the lawyer to the door. ‘Thank you, Mr Kullick, the maid will show you out.’

Kullick left without another word and after Lynn had closed the door behind him she returned to Arthur’s bedside where Dr Grove was studying the thermometer.

‘Your temperature is up a little, Arthur, but that’s hardly surprising, considering all the excitement you’ve just been put through.’ Turning to Lynn, he added, ‘Perhaps we should leave him to have a little rest before supper.’ Lynn nodded. ‘Goodbye, Arthur,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘See you in a few days’ time.’

‘Good day, Grove,’ said Arthur, switching the television back on.

‘He’s looking very frail,’ said Dr Grove as Lynn accompanied him down the stairs. ‘I’m going to advise his children to fly home in the next few days. I can’t believe it will be much longer.’

‘I’ll make sure their rooms are ready,’ said Lynn, ‘and that Mr Sommerfield’s driver picks them up at the airport.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Dr Grove as they walked across the hall. ‘I want you to know, Lynn, how much I appreciate all you’re doing for Arthur. When you come back to Jackson Memorial, I’m going to recommend to the medical director that you’re given a promotion and a rise in salary to go with it.’

‘Only if you think I’m worth it,’ said Lynn coyly.

‘You’re more than worth it,’ Grove said. ‘But you do realize,’ he added, lowering his voice when he spotted the maid coming out of the kitchen, ‘that if Arthur left you anything in his will, however small, you would lose your job?’

‘I would lose so much more than that,’ said Lynn, squeezing his hand.

Grove smiled as the maid opened the door for him. ‘Goodbye, honey,’ he whispered.

‘Goodbye, Dr Grove,’ Lynn said, for the last time.

She ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom to find Arthur, cigar in one hand and an empty glass in the other, watching The Johnny Carson Show. Once she’d poured him a second whisky, Lynn sat down by his side. Arthur had almost fallen asleep when Carson bade goodnight to his thirty million viewers with the familiar words, ‘See you all at the same time tomorrow.’ Lynn turned off the TV, deftly removed the half-smoked cigar from Arthur’s fingers and placed it in an ashtray on the side table, then switched off the light by his bed.

‘I’m still awake,’ said Arthur.

‘I know you are,’ said Lynn. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead before slipping an arm under the sheet. She didn’t comment when a stray hand moved slowly up the inside of her leg. She stopped when she heard the familiar sigh, that moments later was followed by steady breathing. She removed her hand from under the sheet and strolled into the bathroom, wondering how many more times she would have to...

Sadly, the children arrived home just a few hours after Arthur passed away peacefully in his sleep.

Mr Haskins removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose, put down the will and looked across his desk at his two clients.

‘So all I get,’ said Chester Sommerfield, not attempting to hide his anger, ‘is a silver-handled cane, while Joni ends up with just a picture of Dad taken when he was a freshman at Princeton?’

‘While all his other worldly goods,’ confirmed Mr Haskins, ‘are bequeathed to a Miss Lynn Beattie.’

‘And what the hell has she done to deserve that?’ demanded Joni.

‘To quote the will,’ said Haskins, looking back down at it, ‘she has acted as “my devoted nurse and close companion”.’

‘Are there no loopholes for us to exploit?’ asked Chester.

‘That’s most unlikely,’ said Haskins, ‘because, with the exception of one paragraph, I drew up the will myself.’

‘But that one paragraph changes the whole outcome of the will,’ said Joni. ‘Surely we should take this woman to court. Any jury will see that she is nothing more than a fraudster who tricked my father into signing a new will only days after you had amended the old one for him.’

‘You may well be right,’ said Haskins, ‘but, given the circumstances, I couldn’t advise you to contest the validity of the will.’

‘But your firm’s investigators have come up with irrefutable evidence that Ms Beattie was nothing more than a common prostitute,’ said Chester, ‘and her nursing qualifications were almost certainly exaggerated. Once the court learns the truth, surely our claim will be upheld.’

‘In normal circumstances I would agree with you, Chester, but these are not normal circumstances. As I have said, I could not advise you to take her on.’

‘But why not?’ came back Joni. ‘At the very least we could show that my father wasn’t in his right mind when he signed the will.’

‘I’m afraid we’d be laughed out of court,’ said Haskins, ‘when the other side points out that the will was witnessed by a highly respected doctor who was at your father’s bedside right up until the day he died.’

‘I’d still be willing to risk it,’ said Chester. ‘Just look at it from her perspective. She’s a penniless whore who has recently been dismissed from her job without a reference, and she sure won’t want her past activities aired in court and then reported on the early evening news followed by the front page of every morning paper.’

‘You may well be right,’ said Haskins. ‘But it’s still my duty as a lawyer to inform my clients when I believe their case cannot be won.’

‘But you can’t be worried about taking on Kullick in court,’ said Chester. ‘After all, you didn’t even think he was good enough to be a partner in your firm.’

Haskins raised an eyebrow. ‘That may well be the case, but it wouldn’t be Mr Kullick I would be up against.’ He replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and once again picked up the will, then turned over several pages before identifying the relevant clause. He looked solemnly at his clients before he began to read.

‘“I also bequeath ten million dollars to my alma mater, Princeton University; five million dollars to the Veterans Association of America; five million dollars to the Conference of Presidents, to assist their work in Israel; five million dollars to the Republican Party, which I have supported all my life; and finally five million dollars to the National Rifle Association, the aims of which I approve, and which I have always supported.”’

The old lawyer looked up. ‘I should point out to you both that none of these bequests was in your father’s original will,’ he said, before adding, ‘and although I am in no doubt that we could beat Mr Kullick if he was our only opponent, I can assure you that we would have little chance of defeating five of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the land. Between them they would have bled you dry long before the case came to court. I fear I can only recommend that you settle for a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of your father at Princeton.’

‘While she walks away with a cool seventy million dollars,’ said Joni.

‘Having sacrificed thirty million to ensure she would never have to appear in court,’ said Haskins as he placed the will back on his desk. ‘Clever woman, Ms Lynn Beattie, and that wasn’t even her real name.’