James Grippando - Found money

It was the kind of question that needed no answer. Until he thought about it. “Depends on how good the fake is.” He rose and retreated into the house, letting the screen door slap shut behind him.

Liz slept late on Sunday. She’d had trouble falling asleep. Yesterday’s court appearance had given her the jitters. They’d lasted all day, keeping her up most of the night. Not even a bottle of Merlot had calmed her nerves. She’d never testified in court before. Jackson had told her she was terrific, but she didn’t have the stomach for it. Thankfully, Ryan’s lawyer hadn’t come after her. She knew that wouldn’t be the case, however, if the legal battle continued. Yesterday had been a victory for sure. But it had taught her something. She was far less interested in courtroom warfare than her lawyer was.

Still, she wasn’t about to back down. Last night, drifting in and out of near-sleep, her mind had wandered to places she hadn’t visited for some time — scenes from her childhood. She was at the Prowers County Fair, and she was nine years old. It was funny how so many of the games at the fair revolved around money, at least the way Liz remembered it. There used to be a flagpole smeared with grease, with a twenty-dollar bill taped on the top. Kids would line up all day to take a shot at climbing up for the prize. Liz was the one who got it. Instead of wearing old shorts like most of the kids, she’d worn a skirt with her bathing suit underneath, using it like a rag to wipe off the axle grease as she climbed so she wouldn’t slide down. Her mother had slapped her face afterward. “What kind of stupid fool are you, Elizabeth? You don’t ruin a twenty-dollar skirt to get a twenty-dollar prize.” Liz understood the logic, but it seemed beside the point. Nothing could dim the feeling of winning that twenty bucks.

The phone rang on the nightstand. Liz rolled across the bed and answered. It was Sarah.

She sat up quickly, wiping the sleep from her eyes. She listened in shock as Sarah told her about Brent.

“Sarah, I had no idea.”

“Then why was your lawyer down here this morning?”

“Phil was in Piedmont Springs?”

“Came right to my house to offer me a deal. He wants me to help you squeeze more money out of my brother. Says you’ll give me a cut of whatever I can get you.”

Her mouth fell open. “Sarah, I swear to you, I never even talked to my lawyer about this. I wouldn’t. I would never try to turn you against Ryan. All I’m looking to get is my fair share. I’m not looking to destroy you guys.”

“I’d like to believe you.”

“You have to believe me. Please. Let’s work this out.”

Sarah fell silent for a moment. Finally, she said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“What?”

“The way I see it, that snake you hired is going to cost us all a fortune. You’re going to spend a lot of money trying to get your share, Ryan is going to spend a fortune trying to protect the estate.”

Liz nodded to herself, seeing the logic. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“I think Jackson uses people. He used Brent. He’ll use you. And he won’t stop until every dime my father stashed away is lining the pockets of his three-piece suit.”

“He is aggressive.”

“He’s a shark, Liz. And he’s circling all of us.”

“What are you proposing?”

“From what I’ve been able to tell, it seems Dad wanted you to share in the family fortune. I’m willing to honor those wishes. On one condition. Fire Phil Jackson.”

“You want me to fire my lawyer?”

“Immediately. Jackson is going to screw everything up for everybody. And in the end, the only winners will be the lawyers.”

Liz said nothing, but she couldn’t disagree. For a split second she was nine years old again, thinking of that twenty-dollar skirt she’d ruined to get the twenty-dollar prize. One Pyrrhic victory was enough for anyone’s lifetime.

“Let me think about it,” said Liz. “This might just work.”

Amy drove nonstop back to Boulder, returning just after noon. Taylor was having a tea party in her room with Barbie. Amy was just in time to join them, but she was able to convince Taylor that the affair was much too formal for someone who had traveled clear across the state without showering. Taylor pinched her nose, hugged her as if she were covered with garlic, and sent her mommy marching off to the bathroom.

Amy had just about made a clean getaway when she heard Gram’s voice.

“Not so fast, young lady.”

Gram was leaning against the headboard, reading in bed. Amy was almost too tired to talk, but that was irrelevant to her grandmother. She wasn’t about to settle for the Reader’s Digest version, let alone a simple “Tell you later.” It took thirty minutes, but Amy sat obediently at the foot of the bed and recounted every detail. She even let Gram read the letter. At first it was difficult, but telling the story seemed to energize her. By the time she’d finished, her second (or perhaps third) wind had kicked in and she was ready to brainstorm.

“Why would Marilyn make the whole thing up?” asked Amy.

“Why does any woman make a false accusation of rape? Maybe they had sex and he dumped her. Maybe she got pregnant and couldn’t tell her parents she’d engaged in consensual sex. This was the 1950s, after all. Marilyn did come from a very proper family. Her grandfather founded the biggest law firm in Colorado.”

“But the letter doesn’t explain any of that.”

“Probably because Frank Duffy knew why she had lied. He just never was able to prove it.”

“What does this prove, though? It’s just a letter from my mother saying that Marilyn was never actually raped by Frank Duffy.”

Gram took another look at the letter. “It’s more than that. It says Marilyn and your mother attended their twenty-fifth high school reunion together. They had a few drinks, got to talking about old boyfriends. And then Marilyn admitted to your mother that Frank Duffy didn’t rape her.”

“What’s the difference?”

“To me, it makes the letter more believable. It’s not a secret your mother kept bottled up for twenty-five years and then, for no apparent reason, she decided to write a letter to Frank Duffy. She apparently wrote this letter not too long after Marilyn told her the truth.”

“Do you believe she wrote the letter?”

“What reason would I have to doubt that?”

Amy took the letter back. “I don’t think the handwriting looks all that much like Mom’s. Look at it. It’s shaky.”

Gram took another look. “There could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe she wrote it the night she came back from the reunion, when it was fresh in her mind. She could have been dead tired or even drunk.”

“Or scared,” said Amy.

“Scared of what?”

“This was a very courageous thing to do. Marilyn Gaslow was married to Joe Kozelka at the time. That’s a pretty intimidating duo. Not everyone would do the right thing under those circumstances.”

“Meaning what, Amy?”

“Meaning that she might have feared some retaliation. She could have been afraid… afraid for her life.”

Gram groaned. “Now you’re going off the deep end again.”

Amy was even more serious. “I don’t think so. Look at the evidence. I never believed Mom really killed herself. Not the way she talked to me that night, the way the door was tied shut even though she knew I could crawl out through the attic. I never knew why anyone would want to kill her. But this letter — that’s a reason, isn’t it?”

“Nobody killed your mother, Amy. Your mother killed herself.”

“I don’t believe it. She wasn’t the type to just check out on an eight-year-old daughter.”