The Last Will and Testament of Geralda Connors... A Finish The Story Entry

The Last Will...

Pixabay

...by @gwilberiol...

My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.

I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.

I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.

Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.

I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.

Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.

Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.

Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.
My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!

Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.

It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.

I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'

Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?

'They're all here. I'm about to start.'

We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?

'Can't promise that.'

I'm warning you, Crow!

I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.

I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.

And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.

I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.

"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear"...

...

The Testament of Geralda Connors...
Pixabay
...by @seesladen...

"He didn't do it." Geralda began. "He couldn't possibly have done it."

I waited a while in partial hope that she'd keep talking while I also collected my own thoughts.

"He wasn't that kind of man." She continued. "He loved Sarah, just like he would his own."

I twist my head one way, and raise one eyebrow at multi-millionairess Geralda Connors.

She shrugs..

"Okay, okay. He didn't exactly see her as an angel. But she wasn't now, was she? Which of them is? They're all the same really, one big bunch of parasites."

"You do need them." I remind her.

She scoffs..

"Well now, that only makes them necessary parasites. Which is even worse than what I originally thought of them.."

I didn't know what exactly to say to that comment. How did the Connors come to have such deep hatred in them? I rub my eyes, I needed to stay on course.

"Returning to the subject of Sarah Cotter.." I begin again. "She didn't die of natural courses, she was poisoned. And your late husband was responsible."

I watch to see if she'd react, even a tiny bit. But Geralda Connors isn't any less rigid.

"He may not have been the most perfect of men, but you can make this one right. It isn't too late."

Geralda places her face in her hands. I seem to have gotten to her after all.

"Well, what do I have to lose anyway? It's not like I have much longer to live."

As she falls silent, I know I ought to make a comment. Anything empathic would do.

But I remain silent. She continues..

"I always thought he was Mr. Perfect you know.. I believed everything he said. And why wouldn't I?"

She pauses and looks at me with knowing eyes. I bow my head.

"You defended him at every turn Elisha, and I believed you. As I believe you now."

I breathe with relief...

"Remove her from the will. She shall die anyway... And make him the largest beneficiary."

"And what about..." I begin to say.

But she cuts me off...

"We all die eventually Elisha. And I have lived enough already.. Let it be."

...

I look across the room at all three of my audience. Brigitta, still prejudiced against me, stared at me in a mixture of suspicion and building anger; Pearl, with her hands folded on her laps, looked like she was about to keep over at any moment. John, now fully seated, had a look of impatient excitement written all over his face. They all waited as I slowly put my glasses back on.

Then I clear my throat...

"That was two nights before Geralda Connors was murdered.."

The tension in the room could have been sliced by a hot knife...

Ass if on cue, Francine and two detectives come into the office. I smile a little. The real excitement was just about to begin...

...

I know I have said it a couple times already. But I hate my job. Even now as I sit and watch John Cotter been carted away for the murders of his wife, Geralda Connors, and her husband, I wonder...

Do the dead ever tell it right...?

We all have something to hide after all... Even the dead. Good thing Geralda never signed the new will.

THE END

#SladenSpeaks

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Written for @bananafish's Finish the Story Contest

Sometimes you just don't tell the story, the story tells you...

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