Sy set his cigar on the table and took out a sheaf of papers. He handed Deirdre and Henry each a packet like he was dealing cards. Deirdre looked down at hers. On the first page, it said LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
“Your father? He was a dreamer, but I am afraid reality had him by the short hairs,” Sy said.
“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Henry said. “How bad is it?”
“There is still the house. You two will own it once the will is through probate. There is a mortgage, of course, but you will be able to get quite a bit more for the house, even”—he gestured to the water-stained ceiling—“the way it is. Your father may have already lined up a broker.”
“I think he did,” Deirdre said.
“Did he?” Henry said, and shot Deirdre a look. She hoped he’d let Joelen sell the house for them.
“So that is good news,” Sy said. “Bad news is that between Arthur’s debts and his assets, there is”—he paused, searching for the word—“overlap. When the estate pays what is owed you will be left with maybe twenty-five thousand. Of course I do not charge you for my legal services, but other expenses will have to come out of that. Burial and the funeral, of course.”
“But they made a fortune—” Henry said.
“Made and spent it. And I should not have to remind you that until quite recently your father had certain obligations. Financial obligations. So some of his savings?” Sy said, looking steadily at Henry, “Pffft.”
Henry stared back at Sy. For a moment it was a standoff.
“So,” Deirdre said, “is anyone going to tell me what you’re talking about?”
The dogs, who’d been lying on the rug in the living room, picked up their massive heads and started to bark, then scrambled over to the door before the bell chimed.
“Probably another fruit basket,” Henry said.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a rap and a sharp voice. “Police. Please open the door. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Henry blinked. “Oh shit.” He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair, then lunged for the front hall. The dogs were in a frenzy, barking and leaping.
“Just a minute,” Sy called out. “Henry, dammit, control your dogs.”
Henry turned in circles, probably realizing belatedly that the garbage bag was no longer by the door where he’d left it. He shoved Baby out of the way and pulled open the door to the front closet, looking for what Deirdre knew wasn’t there.
“Henry,” Deirdre said sharply, gesturing her brother over. Under her breath, she said, “I got rid of it.”
“Henry!” Sy said. He had one hand anchored on Bear’s collar while the dog jumped up and down, oblivious. Baby was barking, standing with her paws up on the door where the finish had long ago been scratched away.
“Bear, down. Baby, down,” Henry shouted. Both dogs went still. “Sit.” The dogs scooted back on their haunches. Baby put her head between her paws and whined. Sy relinquished his hold on Bear and Henry grabbed the dogs’ collars, one in each hand.
Multiple raps sounded on the door. Sy put a finger to his lips. He mouthed the words, Let me do the talking, then pulled open the door.
Four officers were on the other side. Deirdre recognized the one in the lead: Detective Sergeant Martinez.
“Officers. Can I help you?” Sy said, all traces of an accent gone.
Martinez looked past Sy to Deirdre and Henry. He glanced uneasily at the dogs. “We have a warrant to search the premises.” He held up a piece of paper. “We’ll need access to the garage and the cars. And, please, we’d appreciate it if you stay out of the way until we’re done.”
“May I see that warrant, please?” Sy asked.
“And you are?”
“Seymour Sterling.” Sy took a breath and puffed out his chest, a banty prizefighter still. “I’m the family’s attorney.”
Henry and Deirdre nodded like a pair of bobbleheads.
Martinez handed over the paper. Sy took his time, sliding a pair of reading glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Search residence,” he said under his breath. “Property. Vehicles. . . .”
Deirdre’s heart lurched. Would they search her car?
Sy ran his finger from line to line. “Ah, probable cause. . . .” He cleared his throat and read. “ ‘The Beverly Hills Police Department has been conducting an investigation into the death of Arthur Unger—’ ” His voice dropped again and turned to a mumble. As his eyes scanned the page, the scowl on his face intensified. He stepped aside and the officers swept into the house, Martinez taking up the rear.
Chapter 11
Can they search my car?” Deirdre whispered to Sy once they were outside, getting settled at the patio table.
Sy gave her a narrow look. “Where is it?”
“Parked on the street.”
“Then no.”
At least that was a relief. But as Sy started going over the details of Arthur’s will, Deirdre found herself barely able to follow. She strained to see over the bushes at the edge of the patio. The ground vibrated as the police investigators dropped item after item onto a plastic tarp spread out in the driveway. Crowbar. Tire iron. Shovel. Hedge clippers. Long-handled branch lopper. A candlestick lamp. All of them heavy blunt objects. Obviously they didn’t think Arthur Unger’s death had been an accident. He hadn’t been taken ill. They were looking for a murder weapon.
Deirdre tried to make sense of it. Maybe Arthur had surprised an intruder. He hadn’t turned on any lights, so the intruder didn’t realize he was out there. Arthur could be impulsive, belligerent, especially after a few drinks. Maybe he’d confronted the person. Thrown a punch, even. The intruder would have fended him off. Picked up something readily at hand. Something heavy. Swung it at Arthur and knocked him into the pool.
“Deirdre?” Sy was saying. “Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m sorry. I zoned out.”
“I said, your father named you his literary executor. You’ll need to go through his personal effects. His papers, letters, memos, photographs, keepsakes. Who knows what you will find. Early drafts of movie scripts. Unpublished manuscripts. He entrusted you with deciding what to preserve.”
Deirdre thought of Arthur’s memoir, sitting in the drawer in her bedside table. She was having fun reading it, but did it have historical or literary merit? “I’m hardly qualified—”
“Your father thought otherwise. Just take it item by item, one step at a time. First sort and cull. Then inventory what is worthy of preserving. If you are not sure, I can help. Try to imagine someone coming along a hundred years from now, trying to understand your father’s Hollywood. What you are doing: conserving his piece of it. His legacy.”
“Legacy.” Henry snorted a laugh.
“Okay,” Sy said, “your parents were not Comden and Green. But they were not hacks, either. Their films, and even some of the projects your father worked on later alone? Among the best of a certain breed. His collected works are emblematic of an era.”
“Still, Mom would make a much better judge—” Deirdre started.
“You do not get to decide. Your father selected you.”
It would be no small task, going through Arthur’s papers. Deirdre hadn’t been in his office on the second floor of the garage in ages, but she remembered it was lined with bookshelves and file cabinets. Then there was everything in the den. More probably in his bedroom. Maybe there were storage boxes. Her mother would know where all to look. It would be a huge chore, but secretly Deirdre was pleased. Flattered that her father had entrusted her with the task. “Of course I’ll want your advice—” she started.
Henry interrupted. “So there are no other assets? No life insurance?”
“No life insurance.”
“What about their movies?” Henry again. “Aren’t there residuals?”
“There were none back then. Who knew television would be hungry for old movies?”