CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

 

My substitute sauntered in late, giving me mere minutes to pick up Dad and Ida. With the great number of mourners still in line when we arrived, the service didn’t start on time, and I was able to take my place across from Pete.

In his tender eulogy, Lance Erickson reflected on the generous life of Grace Loehr, a musician, humanitarian, teacher, and friend. I’m not certain anyone knew she had provided music scholarships every year for three outstanding piano students. Her undercover philanthropy included replacing the stained-glass windows in the parish hall and underwriting the summer vacation bible school. The high school music directors knew where to go if they needed to purchase instruments for students without resources. I thought Lance had finished, but he choked up while trying to introduce Carlee.

Galen wheeled her to the front and handed her the microphone. She held it at her side for a long time before she brought it to her lips. “Miss Grace came into my life when I least expected and most needed her.” Her voice cracked. “She took in my sister Ana and me, knowing only that we’d been horribly deceived. She offered us food, and clothing, and a beautiful place to lay our heads while our future was sorted. Miss Grace listened to us and when she spoke, we knew it would be profound. She was a performer of first order and shared her gift, teaching us lessons we’ll never forget. I plan to be a pianist, just like her.” Ana stepped up to the front and put her hand on Carlee’s shoulder. Carlee kept her eyes on Ana and started to sing. Ana joined her and the transcendent blending of their voices took me with them, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

We exited the church to a recording of Frank Sinatra singing “My Way” and Ida handed me a wad of extras because I’d run out of tissues.

Galen had Carlee bundled next to my car. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“Thanks, but no,” she said. “You have to train and be ready to start wrestling after the Christmas break. Ms. Wilk is going with me.” He lifted her into the passenger seat and collapsed the wheelchair, stowing it in the truck.

The look he gave me would have withered a wiser woman. “She’ll be fine. Promise.”

“And my folks and I will be there too.” Ana said, walking up and standing next to the open door.

Galen reluctantly turned and walked back to his car.

Ana and her parents followed me through the snow-slicked streets, parking in the lot adjacent to Dorene Dvorak’s office on Main Street. Ana’s dad lifted Carlee into the wheelchair. The tenderness he showed both girls was filled with apology. It was his vengeful first wife who had wreaked havoc on their lives.

Dorene’s assistant seated us around a large table in a conference room and offered bottles of water. “She’ll be right with you,” she said as she closed the door and muffled the rapid-fire cadence of a busy office. We timidly cleared our throats, cracked open water bottles, and avoided looking at one another.

Dorene blew in with a stack of papers and positioned herself in the middle of the table. “Grace Loehr will be sorely missed,” she said and sat. She placed cheaters on her nose and met the eyes of each one of us. “You each have been named in Grace’s will with a specific bequest. There is a no-contest clause. If you challenge the terms of this document, you will receive nothing. Any questions?”

I thought I understood why Carlee and Ana had been given a gift, but Miss Grace had certainly gathered a hodge-podge of disconnected individuals. Jordan Quintz rocked in his chair. Paula McCall nestled deeper in her seat and sat back. Daniella Jericho repositioned her fur coat. Yvonne Nygren looked at the hands in her lap, shredding a tissue. Dad leaned toward Ida who sat bolt upright.

“Before her death, Grace Loehr created an endowment, ensuring continued support of the area arts. That is not part of her estate.”

Someone sucked in a breath.

“Which is still substantial. Let’s get down to it. Shall we? All the provisions must be met before the settlement will be made.”

“Carlee and Ana share the house and all its contents, except items specifically identified, if they would live in it until graduating from high school. They take possession one week after this reading,” she said. I approved.

“The Steinway goes to Jordan Quintz.”

Jordan’s face contorted. “What if I don’t want her big, ugly, white, grand piano? Who cares if she thinks I’m a great musician? What am I going to do with that albatross? What’s it worth?” He turned on the girls. “Who are you anyway? What did you do to my great-aunt?”

I leaned forward, planting my face in front of him. “Leave. Them. Alone.”

Dorene kept reading. “Grace’s estate will pay two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars for a set of four completed encaustic pieces donated to the hospital.”

Paula sniffed. “We toiled, scrimped, and scraped for years, and now, when Phillip’s lost to me, his art is finally receiving the recognition it deserves.”

“Miss Grace’s estate will make good on her pledge to the Midwest Minnesota History Center and add an additional quarter of a million dollars after Mrs. Nygren inventories and certifies the provenance for the artifacts registered at the center in the Titanic exhibit.” Yvonne’s eyes grew large behind her glasses. Dorene handed her a thick folder. She had her work cut out for her.

“After that time, Ms. Jericho, you will be held legally responsible to match the gift.”

Daniella wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. She lost the smug look she’d had. She might be required to come up with the funds.

“Lastly …” Ida blinked. Dad took her hand. “Grace Loehr bequeathed sheet music, books, and recording equipment, plus an undisclosed amount of money, to Ida Clemashevski if she plays the holiday piece she performed at their last competition forty years ago.”

Dorene gazed over her glasses at the shell-shocked faces around the table. “There is one more condition to be met or her prior will goes into effect.”

Jordan sat forward, hopeful. “What’s in the prior will?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“When was it written?”

“Before this one.”

Paula said, “What’s the condition?”

Dorene surveyed the room. “Grace wrote, ‘You must determine who killed me.’”

Carlee and Ana gasped. The air left the room. Silence. Daniella shuffled her shoes. Jordan slid his chair forward. Yvonne sniffed.

“She was killed?” Carlee wrapped her hand around Ana’s.

“You mean, no one gets anything until we find out who killed her? How do we know anyone killed her?” said Jordan.

“There’s more.” Her eyes lingered on the page. “You have five days, beginning today.”

Jordan slammed his hand on the table. I jumped. “God did it. Done,” he said it.

Dorene continued to read. “With irrefutable proof.”

The door to the conference room banged against the wall. Pete stepped in followed by four police officers who surrounded the table.

“Grace Loehr was murdered. The drink we found on her piano was laced with strychnine,” Pete said solemnly.

A larger man shoved past Pete. Metal handcuffs clanked in his right hand.

“Now, Ronnie,” Ida began in a reprimand. She stood. “That’s no way to enter a room.”

He stood a full foot taller than Ida. With a glint in his eye and a satisfied smirk on his face, he dangled the bracelets in front of her. Temporary Police Chief Ronnie Christianson said, “Ida Clemashevski, I am placing you under arrest for the murders of Grace Loehr and Phillip McCall.”

Jordan whacked the table with both hands. “Well, Miss Dvorak. Now we know.”