I tore a page from my notebook, wrote down Buchanan McCleary's name. Not only was he the borough solicitor, but he had his own private practice and loved to champion the underdog. They'd be a match made in heaven, of that I was sure.
As I crossed the room I reached down and gently touched Kayla on the shoulder. The child looked up and smiled at me. I gave her a thumbs-up sign that caused her to giggle. “Have you sought out any help for her?” I asked Lillie as she held the door open for me.
“Like what? I don't have no money for fancy doctoring.”
I sighed. This was what happened when children had children. “Try Easter Seal,” I suggested.
“Mack's wife volunteers there, teaching sign language, and I sure don't want to bump into her.”
When I was back on the street, the cold wind rushing down from the mountains felt good to me after the cloying atmosphere of the small apartment. I buttoned my sweater and wondered if this was the start of that “killing frost” Lillie had mentioned.
At least now I understood why Lillie had told me Mack Macmillan was going to marry her. Quite possibly, she was right. As I got into my car, it occurred to me to wonder why a man would commit suicide when he was excitedly expecting his first child. Sure, he'd been told he only had about ten years left, but from my thirty-something viewpoint, ten years was a long time, especially for a man who was already in his seventies. He'd told Lillie he'd take care of her and the child-did that mean he'd changed his will in their favor? I decided the person to ask was Buchanan McCleary.
I drove the couple of blocks to his office in the old Pizza Hut building the borough council had bought to use as a town hall annex. Buchanan had told me it was a real bargain because it shared a parking lot and snow removal costs with the Church of God. That church, located in what used to be a service station, had a new sign up: NO JESUS, NO PEACE. KNOW JESUS, KNOW PEACE. How easy life must be for the faithful, I thought. There certainly wasn't much peace in my life these days.
Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, but I was positive I smelled garlic as I entered through the glass door that faced the parking lot. Buchanan, six foot eight if you counted his seventies Afro, came around the desk to give me a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Ugh!” he said, straightening up and rubbing his back. “Wish you'd grow about eight inches.”
“I will if you'll agree to shrink by the same amount.”
A grin crossed his dark, handsome face. “How about a cup of Darjeeling?” He'd once told me tea drinking was a habit he'd picked up when he was a Rhodes scholar in England.
“I'd love some.”
While he busied himself at the hot plate in the corner, I wondered how his relationship with Garnet's sister, Greta, was going. They were both aging hippie activists who espoused many causes, such as the rain forests, the whales, dolphins, the Bay, and recycling. If I'd ever met two people who were destined to be soul mates, they were Buchanan and Greta.
Buchanan was reputed to be the best lawyer in the tri-state area, and his private practice was quite lucrative. I often wondered why he worked for the borough council as a part-time attorney, but then I realized, that Buchanan, with his penchant for good deeds, probably thought of the work he did for the borough as his charitable contribution to Lickin Creek. He came back carrying two blue-and-white Spode mugs full of fragrant hot tea. He'd remembered I like mine with milk and sugar.
“What do you hear from Garnet?” he asked, taking his seat behind the giant library table that served as his desk.
“He called Wednesday.”
“Will he be coming home before he leaves for Costa Rica?”
I had no idea. “Of course,” I said.
“Damn shame about that young man getting himself killed. Luscious told me it looks like he was responsible for the recent rash of button-and-bullet robberies. Sounds like someone he double-crossed got revenge. No honor among thieves.”
“What do you mean by ‘buttons and bullets’?”
“That's what we call most of the Civil War collections around here. Most contain a lot of objects, but none are particularly valuable.”
“But there were some really important artifacts stolen from the Gettysburg museum, weren't there? Did everything turn up in the barn?”
Buchanan shook his head. “Not everything. The two rangers who were at the barn all morning stopped by the police station an hour ago to tell Luscious the rarest items are still missing.”
“Anything in particular?”
“General Meade's sword, for one, and some battle flags. They left some photos to help Luscious identify them if they should turn up. Luscious came by to use my scanner to make some copies.” He pulled three pieces of paper out of his in-box and handed them to me. “This is the clearest. You can easily read the letters and numbers on the banners.”
I studied the photos. Two showed the banners. The third was of the sword, and something about it bothered me, but I didn't know why.
Putting the pictures to one side, Buchanan leaned back, cocked his head, and looked quizzically at me. “May I ask why you have honored me with this visit?”
“I want to know about Mack Macmillan's will. Has it been filed for probate?”
Buchanan nodded. “It has. Shouldn't take long at all to take care of the few bequests he made and wind it up.”
“Were there any unusual or unexpected bequests?”
“Not unless you count the ten grand he left to the animal shelter. I guess his conscience got the better of him.”
“So you know about the puppy mills?”
“Sure. Everybody does. And thanks to Mack, it's still not illegal to run one.”
“Can you tell me how long ago the will was written?”
“Of course. He came to see me at my office, the real one, not this place, about a month ago. Asked me to tear up the trust he'd written immediately after he and Charlotte were married. He replaced it with a simple will, the kind that costs about fifty bucks, leaving the bulk of his estate to Charlotte. When I pointed out to him that his estate was large and complicated and better served by the trust, he told me to mind my own business. That he knew what he was doing.”
“I wonder why he did that,” I said, thinking of Lillie White and the baby she was expecting. Had Macmillan lied to her about taking care of her and the child? For all that it was worth, I didn't even know if she'd told me the truth about his being the father. Maybe she saw his death as an opportunity to grab some of his money for herself.
“What if there was a child?” I asked.
“But he and Charlotte never had… Wait just a minute. Are you telling me there is a child?”
“There might be. It hasn't been born yet.”
“But Charlotte… uh… isn't she a little old for…”
“Not Charlotte, Buchanan. Another woman.”
“That explains why he didn't let me scratch that line out of the will.”
“What line?”
“The one that's in most standard wills-leaving half the deceased's assets to be divided up among his children.”
“If what you're saying is true and there is a child, it could change things. Give me the woman's name.”
“I'll have her call you,” I said. For once, I decided, I would not be caught in the middle of another Lickin Creek scandal.
CHAPTER 20
FRIDAY WAS MUCH BUSIER THAN USUAL AT THE Chronicle. We had to toss out the entire front page to make room for articles about Mack Macmillan's suicide and Darious DeShong's murder. Cassie also reminded me that the mayor wanted something in the paper about Woody and Moonbeam rescuing me from sure death. Now that he had been cleared by the D.A. and was not waiting to go to trial, the mayor had decided to honor him at a ceremony at The Accident Theatre next weekend.