They convened in David Williamson’s office a few minutes after two. Warren had stopped in front of his house, leaving Sylvie Weber in the car while he ran inside to change his shirt. She’d been quiet on the drive, looking out the window and clutching her basket and a small notebook and pencil. She was very nervous, Warren thought, and he wanted to ask her why—if it was the anticipation of meeting Victor Weber for the first time or if she was still afraid of losing the house. He didn’t know what to say to her if that was the case, though, so he stayed quiet and held the door for her as they went into the lobby.
Victor Weber had already arrived, and when Williamson showed them into his office, Sylvie Weber hesitated before stepping over the threshold.
“Sylvie,” Victor said, offering her his hand, suddenly charming. “I’m sorry that we are only meeting for the first time under these sad circumstances.” She shook his hand and nodded, but didn’t answer, carefully placing her basket of yarn on the floor. She was still holding the small notebook and as she sat down in the seat Williamson offered her, she clutched it in her lap. Victor Weber was actually quite a handsome man, Warren saw now, though he was haughty and didn’t seem capable of smiling. Warren made his way to a chair at the side of the room, so he would have a good view of both Sylvie’s and Victor’s faces.
“Now,” Williamson said. “You all know each other. I offered to give Mrs. Weber a private accounting of the contents of the will, which is her right, but she said it was fine to do it once and to have Mr. Weber present since he is named as the executor. I’ve allowed Detective Warren to be here as the details of Mr. Weber’s last will and testament may have some relevance to his investigation. It seems … efficient to deliver the information at one time. I assume there are no objections?” The look Williamson gave Victor Weber seemed to convey that they all knew why Warren was here, even if Williamson was too much a gentleman to mention it and that Victor had better not have any objections.
Victor nodded.
Williamson took a thick stack of paper out of a folder and placed it on the desk. “Because of the nature of Mr. Hugh Weber’s death and the understandable interest that Mr. Victor Weber has in the contents of the will, I am going to give an overview of the history of Mr. Weber’s estate planning. Hugh Weber signed the current and operative will ten years ago,” he said. “I believe that was after your father died and your parents’ estate was settled, Mr. Weber, and the two of you, as heirs to your parents’ estate, received equal shares in the Weber Paper Company. Is that correct?”
Victor Weber had been sitting forward in his chair, his whole body poised in expectation. But instead of answering the question, he demanded, “Did you say ten years?”
Warren leaned forward so he could see Victor’s expression. He was angry, but more than that, he was confused.
David Williamson pressed his lips together and went on. “That’s correct. We’ll get back to the shares. The remainder of Mr. Weber’s estate is comprised of the house and farm where Mrs. Weber and the children are now living, the contents of the house, the land associated with the farm, and a bank account at the Bank of Vermont here in Bethany. The amount of available funds in the account as of close of business yesterday was $263.” He paused, looking very grim, and said, “Mr. Weber did not hold a life insurance policy and unfortunately, there was no policy on the barn.”
The room was silent. Warren glanced at Sylvie Weber. If the news of her poverty disheartened her, she did not show it. How would she manage?
“What about the shares?” Victor demanded. “Who did he leave the shares to?” He seemed suspended in a desperate state of anxiety.
Williamson ignored him and said to Sylvie Weber, “Mrs. Weber, your husband’s estate in its entirety has been left to you, as his wife. Now, since the will mentioned the inherited shares in the paper company, which was bought by a larger company a few years ago, I called the administrator of the brokerage account in New York. It turns out that Mr. Weber sold the shares a few years ago.” His voice changed, became gentler then. “Mrs. Weber, did you know anything about this?”
She looked genuinely surprised and shook her head.
Williamson said, “Well, ideally, I would be able to give you all of the information about the estate now, but I haven’t been able to track down the proceeds of the share sales. I called a few banks this morning, but they have not been able to get back to me and sometimes these things take—”
“What did the will say?” Victor Weber asked in a tight voice. “Was there anything else in it?”
Williamson hesitated. “He did not leave any special instructions. Except for one bequeathment to his brother, Mr. Victor Weber.” Williamson pressed his lips together and held a typed piece of paper in front of him.
When he hesitated, Victor said, in an almost whisper, “Go on, what was it?”
“‘To my brother, Victor, I leave my copy of The Communist Manifesto by Mr. Friedrich Engels and Mr. Karl Marx.’” Williamson’s voice got very quiet. “‘Perhaps it will do something to educate him as to his bloodthirsty capitalist impulses and how he might temper them.’”
Victor Weber roared. Warren thought later that he had sounded like a beast, thwarted. He jumped up, ready to stop the man from attacking Williamson, but it was Sylvie Weber he went for, leaning down and grabbing her by the arms so that he could shout right into her face.
“What did you do?” he demanded. “What did you do? He told me about you, you low-class whore! He said he wouldn’t leave anything to you because women are all the same, too dumb to manage money. What did you do?”
“Mr. Weber!” Warren shouted, pushing him away from her and revealing his revolver in its holster on his belt. “I will place you under arrest right now if you continue threatening Mrs. Weber.” Sylvie Weber looked terrified and so did David Williamson.
“This is a travesty,” Victor shouted. “His money was meant to go to me. When Hugh told me about her, he said I wasn’t to worry. She was just a child and too stupid to know what to do with money. She’s committed some sort of fraud. I don’t know how she’s done it, but you’ve helped her!” He spat it out in David Williamson’s direction. “I’m the executor. I have rights and I will get to the bottom of this. You are warned!” And he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Mrs. Weber, do you want me to arrest him for assault?” Warren asked Sylvie, who was still sitting stunned in the chair.
She shook her head. “Let him go. He just yelled at me. He didn’t hurt me.”
They were all silent for a moment. The stuffed deer head looked down passively at them. Warren was aware that he was breathing hard, his heart pounding.
“Well,” David Williamson said. “Never had that happen before. Thank you for being here, Mr. Warren.”
Sylvie Weber looked over at him and nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
Williamson went on. “Mrs. Weber, the will has to go through probate and then the deed of the house and farm will be transferred to you. I’ll let you know when I hear from New York. You’re sure he never talked to you about his will or these accounts?”
“No.” She shook her head, worried and preoccupied again, her shoulders rounded and her eyes on her lap. “I don’t remember it anyway.”
“Did you know that he hadn’t paid up the insurance on the barn?”
She blinked. “Oh, he didn’t believe in it. He said you just paid and paid and it didn’t benefit anyone but the insurance company.”
Williamson closed the folder that was sitting on the desk in front of him. “Do you have any further questions?”
She seemed in shock when she said quietly, “I … My head is all swimming. I need to think but then I can come back, perhaps. Maybe I can write down my questions. I … Thank you, Mr. Williamson, but I think I want to go.”
“Okay, Mrs. Weber.” Williamson stood up and showed them out. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Williamson,” she said quietly, picking up her basket.
Outside, they walked together toward where Warren had parked his car, but when they reached it and he started to go around to open the door, she shook her head at him and he had the sense she was on the verge of tears. “Thank you, but I’m going to stop at Mrs. Bellows’s house. She’ll run me home in her car.”
“Oh, of course.” He felt an odd layer of disappointment fall over him.
“Goodbye,” she said. “Thank you for driving me.”
He got into the car and, forcing himself not to watch her walk along the street, pulled out and passed her, the air through the windows smelling of roses. As he drove toward the barracks, he tried to put together what he’d learned. Victor Weber had thought he was the sole beneficiary of Hugh Weber’s estate. It had seemed from the man’s reaction that he had been expecting to inherit from his brother upon his death.
Interesting.
And then there was Sylvie Weber. Warren couldn’t figure out her reaction at all. She had seemed not to know about the existence of a bank account or accounts containing the proceeds from the sale of the shares. Had she known but was lying to them for some reason? Because she knew how much money there was and that it gave her a motive for her husband’s murder? Perhaps that was it.
Or … she didn’t know and she just … didn’t care. Warren remembered her casual assertion that she would manage just fine as long as they could stay in the farmhouse. Did she just not understand how difficult it would be? Was she even competent to manage the money, if there was money there? If Victor Weber challenged the will on that basis, how would a judge decide the issue?
And why was Warren thinking about all of this anyway? Despite the second fire, it was still most likely that Hugh Weber had set that first fire himself.
He had just pulled into the barracks when Tommy Johnson pulled in behind him. Warren got out and Tommy waved something at him from the open window of the car. “Frankie!” Tommy called out. “I got something for you!”
“What is it?” Warren called out, jogging the twenty yards to the cruiser.
Tommy jumped out. He was holding a manila envelope and he grinned at Warren, the news spilling out of him as Warren took it from him. “Autopsy report on Hugh Weber is in,” he said. “State pathologist thinks it could have been murder.”