Chapter 3 - The Reading of the Stone
Brenda lunged forward to grab the pillow, but before her acrylic nails could graze the faded floral fabric, Thomas stepped between her and the counter, his broad six-foot frame immovable.
"Back off, Brenda," Thomas warned, his voice dead cold. "That pillow was given to Mabel by Mom’s own hand. You don't touch it."
"It's family property!" Derek roared, his face turning an angry crimson as he puffed out his chest. "If there’s money stuffed in that rag, it belongs to the estate! We will file an emergency probate injunction on this entire house by tomorrow morning! You can't steal from our mother!"
The tension in the cramped kitchen was suffocating. Leo shrank back toward the hallway, terrified by his uncle’s shouting. I took a deep, steady breath, walked over to the hallway, and gently nudged Leo toward the staircase. "Go play your game upstairs, honey. Mommy and Daddy will be right up."
Once my boy was safely out of earshot, I turned back to the predators circling my kitchen table.
"You want to know what Fiona left?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
I reached into my wool coat pocket, pulled out the brass key, the folded deed, and the vintage velvet box, and set them squarely in the middle of the kitchen table.
Derek and Brenda froze. Cheryl and Amanda pushed past each other to lean over the table, their eyes wide as saucers.
I opened the velvet box.
The raw Colombian emerald caught the harsh kitchen bulb, radiating a mesmerizing, deep forest-green fire. The surrounding diamonds flared with sharp, icy sparks. The sheer antique brilliance of the piece was undeniable. It looked like something out of a royal archive, sitting on my chipped Formica tabletop.
Cheryl gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Grandmother Harris's brooch... Great-Grandpa brought that back from South America before the Depression! We were told Henry pawned it in nineteen-forty to save the grain silo!"
"He didn't pawn it," I said, looking directly into Cheryl's stunned eyes. "Henry told Fiona never to sell it unless she was starving. And even when she lived on boiled potatoes and cabbage so that you four could have winter boots, she kept it hidden. Not for herself. For the one person who would care for her when her own children stopped visiting."
Brenda’s jaw worked silently for three seconds before greed completely overtook her shame. She reached out with both hands toward the box. "That’s a family heirloom! It belongs to Henry’s daughters! Hand that to me right now, Mabel—"
"Touch that table, Brenda, and I’m calling the county sheriff for attempted armed robbery," a deep, unfamiliar voice resonated from the front entryway.
Everyone spun around.
Standing in the mudroom doorway, shaking the wet snow off his trench coat, was Arthur Vance. He was seventy years old, wearing gold-rimmed wire spectacles, holding a heavy leather briefcase. He was the most respected estate attorney in Morrow County, a man who had represented the local farming families for over forty years.
Derek blinked in shock. "Mr. Vance? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I am here pursuant to the explicit instructions of your late mother, Fiona Harris," Mr. Vance stated with dry, courtroom authority. He stepped into the kitchen, setting his heavy briefcase onto the table right beside the emerald. "I received notice of her passing yesterday afternoon from the county coroner's office. Under the terms of the trust she created with my firm six years ago, I am mandated to execute her final directives within twenty-four hours of her burial."
May you like
Amanda stepped forward, her voice trembling with sudden dread. "Trust? What trust? Mom had no money! She lived on forty dollars of food stamps a month!"
"Your mother possessed significant real property that you were entirely unaware of, Amanda," Mr. Vance replied smoothly, pulling a crisp, blue-bound legal dossier from his case. "Because none of you ever bothered to ask."
