Our Members are Published Authors and Winners!
Congratulations once again, John!
Terrific news! John Pham, is going to be published in Anthology 1 of Burning Willow Press. It will feature his short story “Crossroads in the Dark”. Kudos, and keep it up, John!!!
Terrific news! John Pham, is going to be published in Anthology 1 of Burning Willow Press. It will feature his short story “Crossroads in the Dark”. Kudos, and keep it up, John!!!
Congratulations, John!
John Pham has informed us that the short story he presented to the group the last time he was in attendance, “Handstop”, about a man with an unusual hole in his hand, is going to be published in the anthology, Twisted Tea Party.
John Pham has informed us that the short story he presented to the group the last time he was in attendance, “Handstop”, about a man with an unusual hole in his hand, is going to be published in the anthology, Twisted Tea Party.
Congratulations, Howard!
Howard Russell got the news on April 9. 2015 that he has won 1st Place in the prestigious Mesa Community College (MCC) 2014 Writing Contest for The Divorce. Kudos, Howard! His winning story is below. Enjoy!
P O Stories – The Divorce
By Howard Russell
Anthony Montero stared at his bulging mailbox. He tore three envelopes trying to extract the mess. He skipped past the credit card bills, overdue notices and requisite junk mail.
“Ah,” he said, “finally.” Smiling, he put the one with the fancy legal address in his pocket and tossed the rest in the garbage. If some dumpster diver wanted to assume his identity, let him. Tony no longer cared. He was done working for the man, and sure as hell done supporting his good for nothing ex wife, Helen. Like a Phoenix, he would rise from his own ashes.
#
“Hello?”
“Is this Helen Montero?”
“Well, I’m Helen, but no longer Montero. It’s Helen Lareau now. Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lareau. We still had you as Mrs. Montero. My name is JoAnne D’Mitri, and I work for the law firm of Cabot and Saws.”
“If this is another lame attempt to modify the divorce settlement, you’ll have to contact my attorney. And tell Anthony to go to hell while you’re at it.” She was about to hang up and walk out the door when JoAnne said, “No—wait—we’re not divorce attorneys. We’re an estate settlement firm. It seems you’ve come into a rather large inheritance. I was calling to set up a time for you to come and meet with Mr. Saws; he’s handling your late great aunt’s estate.”
“What late great aunt? I don’t remember any great aunts, late or otherwise.”
“Well, she clearly knew you. Helen Sarah Montero is the last surviving and heir to the Andrea Schafer estate. All the other blood relatives have passed; therefore, you’re entitled to inherit the entire estate, which I understand is quite sizeable.”
“Is this some kind of scam? Because it if is, I’m going directly to the police,” Helen said. “Why haven’t I been notified by mail?”
“We needed to be sure we had the right person before providing written confirmation. As you said, there are all sorts of scams and one of them is to claim inheritances under false pretenses. When you come in to see Mr. Saws, you’ll need to bring two government issued photo ID’s as proof you are, in fact, Ms. Lareau, including copies of your original marriage certificate and your divorce decree.
Helen walked into the living room and put her purse down on the sofa. Picking up pad and pen from the end table, she said “Alright; where are you located?”
She copied down the address and set an appointment for two o’clock the next day.
“Two o’clock would be fine,” Helen said and hung up.
“Fine for what?”
Helen turned to face Jessica. “Oh, hi. I didn’t think you were up yet. Some legal eagle firm claims I inherited a wad of money from my late Great Aunt Andrea.”
“Who’s Aunt Andrea?” Jessica said, walking over and putting her arms around Helen’s neck. She was still wearing her negligee.
“I have no idea, but it sounds like she was loaded,” Helen said, locking onto Jessica’s eyes with her own.
“How do you know it’s not a scam?”
“I thought the same thing, but they knew my name – my whole name. I never give that out.”
“Duh—it’s on your marriage certificate—anyone could have looked it up.” Jessica’s hands drifted down to Helen’s buttocks, caressing them.
“Well, then let’s do our own research.” She kissed Jessica, long and wet, before letting go.
Helen Googled Cabot and Saws on the laptop in the den. Jessica stood behind her, stroking her hair.
Cabot and Saws, a 75-year-old firm, specializes in estate and trust services for the well to do.
It included pictures of the principals, several snapshots of the offices, and driving instructions.
Next, she Googled “Andrea Schafer”, resulting in 18,275 possible entries. She narrowed the search by adding “trust”, “obituary”, and “estate”. When she added “Cabot and Saws”, a single entry popped up—a classified ad in an obscure financial newspaper soliciting “any and all creditors or claimants to the Andrea Schafer estate.”
“That looks like the same kind of classified ad my Dad’s attorney took out when he died a few years ago,” Jessica said excitedly. “He told me they had to make a public announcement to make it legit.”
“But why such a small newspaper in the middle of nowhere?” Helen asked. “I’ve never heard of this place.”
“Exactly,” Jessica said, “that’s the point. The only requirement is to publish it for at least 30 days in a public newspaper. Then they can distribute the estate. Look at the date!”
“June 28th. That’s 24 days ago.”
Helen turned off the computer and stood up, facing Jessica. “It’s our lucky day.”
“Don’t you care what happened to Great Aunt Andrea?”
“I care now.”
“About the money, you mean.”
“Hey—she couldn’t take it with her, and Tony’s money won’t last forever.”
“When are you supposed to see them?”
“Tomorrow at 2 pm. You want to come?”
“I can’t—got to work. Just make sure those shyster lawyers don’t screw you with their fees.”
They embraced and Jess took her by the hand, leading her to the bedroom.
#
“Right this way, Ms. Lareau,” JoAnne said. They walked down a long corridor past offices and conference rooms filled with men and women dressed in business suits, scribbling on long, yellow pads or typing quietly on laptops. They entered a small room, complete with round table, four chairs and a wet bar.
“If you’ll wait here, Mr. Saws will be with you shortly. Did you bring your I D with you?” Helen pulled them from her purse and handed them to her.
“I’ll copy these and be right back. Please help yourself to a refreshment.” Then she was gone.
Helen surveyed the beverages which included coffee, juices, soft drinks and an assortment of liquor bottles, hotel mini-bar style.
“What the hell.” She opened a bottle of White Zinfandel and poured it into a paper coffee cup. She took a sip then slipped three more bottles into her purse.
When the door opened a few minutes later, JoAnne walked with a tall man, fifty-something, carrying a black briefcase. “Here are your papers, Ms. Lareau,” she said. “This is Mr. Saws.”
“Nice to meet you,” Saws said. Helen immediately relaxed, shaking his outstretched hand. His voice reminded her of the velvety smooth voices of TV newscasters who made the most mundane news sound interesting with their hypnotic, sing-song descriptions. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Helen stared into his crystalline blue eyes. His graying brown hair seemed the perfect contrast to those soft, penetrating orbs. She was mesmerized, compelled to trust him.
He withdrew a folder from his briefcase, placing it on the table. He shuffled several documents in her direction, then pulled a Mont Blanc pen from the inside pocket of his blue pinstripe jacket. He wrote her name at the top of a yellow legal pad, dated it, then checked his Rolex and added the time, 2:07 pm.
“It seems your Aunt Andrea left you a sizable estate, Helen. May I call you Helen?”
“Yes, please do. What do you mean by sizable?”
“Ah, yes. That could mean anything, now couldn’t it? Well, we’re still getting estimates of some of her collectibles, but all told, it appears to be in neighborhood of five and a half million dollars.”
“That’s a very nice neighborhood,” Helen said. Five and a half million dollars! Her eyes lit up, and she started thinking about all the vacations and thrilling things she and Jess could do with all that money.
“Neighborhood? Oh, I see, you were making a joke. I understand. Yes, it is a very nice neighborhood, indeed. Your Aunt lived in France, in a small town named Auvers-Sur-Oise. It’s quite famous, actually, home to one of the Impressionists painters, Vincent Van Gogh.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’ll have the chance to see it soon, I expect.”
“Oh? Why?”
“France has extremely strict laws concerning transferring funds out of the country. We could try to liquidate the estate from here, but it would take considerable time and cost a substantial amount of money, diminishing the inheritance I’m afraid. It would be more expeditious and cost effective if you would consent to travel to France to claim your Aunt’s estate.”
“I suppose there could be worse things than to have to travel to France.”
“Very good. In that case, there are some papers requiring your signature, and if you’d like, we can make the travel arrangements.”
“Will there be a representative of your firm accompanying me?” Helen asked.
“No, we have reciprocal arrangements with several prominent French firms. One of them will meet you there to file the estate documents. Their fees are reasonable and much less than the added costs of sending one of our attorneys with you.”
“Well, then, where do I sign?”
#
The bed and breakfast in Auvers-Sur-Oise was cozy, though small. As soon as the young man from the lobby stowed her suitcases for her, she closed the door and collapsed on the bed, exhausted.
It’d been a long, frustrating day. First, Jessica backed out at the last minute claiming some problem at work. The plane hit significant turbulence and she was unable to sleep. In Paris, she was held up in customs for nearly two hours as a fish-eyed customs official kept asking her what her business was in France. Apparently, the French didn’t like people coming to take money out of their country. Finally, after she changed her story to “I’m just a tourist”, he stamped her passport and she was permitted to leave.
She slept fitfully until her cell phone woke her. It was dark out, and she was confused. Fumbling around in her purse, she finally just dumped the whole thing out on the bed and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Helen? It’s Jess. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah… what time is it?”
“It’s 11 am here, which makes it 9 pm, there. How was your flight? Did you contact the attorney?”
“No, I didn’t. Shit. I meant to do it when I got to the hotel, but I was so tired—I must have fallen asleep. It’s too late to call now; I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It was a long flight, and some shit-for-brains Gendarme kept me in a little, locked room for two hours.”
“I wish I could have come. I speak French. Sorry, gal.”
“Me, too. Once I get my hands on that money, we can go anywhere we like, anytime we like, and you can pull a Dolly Parton on your boss.”
“Can’t wait,” Jess said. “So, what are you going to do now?”
“I’m starving—I didn’t eat before I fell asleep. I’ll just call room service. I hope this time difference doesn’t make me oversleep in the morning.”
“I’ll give you a wake-up call if you want.”
“Good idea. Don’t forget!”
“Okay. Just be careful; France can be a dangerous place for American tourists. Bye!”
“Bye,” Helen said. What the hell did she mean by that? Pushing it out of her mind, she dialed the front desk to order some food, hoping they spoke English.
#
Following Saws’ hand-drawn map, she entered the main concourse. Tourists were shopping or sipping espressos and French wines at the sidewalk cafes. The locals shared stories, mostly untrue, about Van Gogh. She felt their eyes on her back as she passed, like icy fingers mistaking her spine for a xylophone. She increased her pace, looking up from the map only to check the street signs.
She turned on Rue de Gaston and ran the three blocks to the address at the bottom of the page. It stood two stories high, white with blue trim, looking like it belonged in a New England fishing village rather than a French provincial town. Finding it allayed her unexplained fears momentarily. She stood admiring it. Aunt Andrea had good taste. Finally, when her heart stopped pounding, she rang the doorbell.
A tall, strapping man, perhaps thirty, opened the door. His dazzling green eyes met hers and he spoke in perfect English, “Good morning, Ms. Lareau; I’ve been expecting you.”
Helen couldn’t help staring. She’d expected an old, grizzled lawyer, smelling of must and decay. Instead, this was a fit, tanned statue of a man, dressed in Bermudas, a golf shirt, and expensive French loafers.
“Ms. Lareau? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, I just didn’t expect…”
“Someone so young?”
“And handsome.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. Arthur Prim, at your service. Please come in.”
Stepping across the threshold, she noted the large portrait in the foyer. “Is that Aunt Andrea?”
“Why yes, I believe it is. I’ve only been here twice in preparation for your visit, so I didn’t take much notice of the wall hangings. There’s a large attic as well as a basement, both of which are filled with old trunks and boxes. I’m told she was quite a collector.”
“Really? Of what?”
“Coins, Stamps, First Editions, you name it. She was an antiques dealer.”
They entered a great room at the center of the house. Here, the furnishings were eclectic, but tastefully matched. There was a 17th century sofa, bookended by two 20th century glass and ceramic bookcases housing an extensive collection of 18th century first editions. On the coffee table was an open book of poetry by Charles Baudelaire.
“Baudelaire was quite famous around these parts,” Arthur said. “He was an author, poet and something of a philosopher. He was among the first to translate your Edgar Allen Poe’s works into French.”
“You’re not American?”
“Me? No. I’m French to the core.”
“But your accent...”
“I was born to French parents while they lived in the States on assignment. They were career diplomats, so I spent my early childhood in Washington, DC. I learned both English and French, but even after returning to France when I was nine, I never developed an accent.”
Helen wandered through the house, asking questions. Arthur followed her, occasionally brushing against her in the narrow hallways, which caused her heart to flutter.
They came to a heavy wooden door with a brass doorknob that refused to turn. She put her hand on his arm and looked questioningly at him.
“That’s the door to the attic. Would you like to take a look?”
“Yes, of course,” she said with suddenly soft eyes.
“Wait here. I have to get the key.”
As his footsteps echoed down the hall, she pulled out her cell phone.
“What’s up, girl?” Jessica asked.
“You wouldn’t believe this place! It’s a museum and a treasure trove, all wrapped up in one.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not. I know your heart.”
“Well, there are boxes of coins and stamps in the attic. That’s where we’re going next.”
“Just be careful… don’t break anything.”
“I won’t. Wait… I hear Arthur coming back up. Gotta go.”
“Good luck,” Jess said, hanging up.
Good luck?
“Here we go,” Arthur fitted the skeleton key into the slot.
Helen put her hand on Arthur’s arm again. “Wow! A real skeleton key. I didn’t think they used those anymore.”
“It’s an old house, Helen.” Smiling broadly he turned the knob, opening the door wide. Behind it was a darkened staircase.
“Is there a light?” Helen asked, searching the walls for a switch.
“It’s at the top of the stairs.” He took her hand in his.
“Let’s go,” Helen said, blushing.
When they reached the top step, something hit her lightly in the face. She let out a screech, and Arthur put his arm around her shoulder to steady her.
He reached up and pulled on the light cord.
The sudden glare blinded her temporarily, but her eyes finally adjusted.
The attic was completely empty, except for a table, two chairs and a long white object about four feet tall by seven feet long. She recognized it as a large freezer, the kind you keep in the garage for meat and ice cream.
“What the hell is this? Where are all the boxes? The collections you said were…” She turned and saw the gun in Arthur’s hand.
“I’m afraid there are no collectibles here, Helen. Please take a seat, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll explain it all to you.”
Helen backed away from Arthur and his gun, feeling behind her for the table and chair. She considered running down the stairs, but Arthur blocked the way with his body.
“This room is sound-proofed. No one can hear you, nor will they hear the discharge from my pistol.”
“What do you want?” Helen asked, trying to sound calm and in control.
“We have a little business to conduct, after which you’ll be free to leave.”
“People know where I am. If anything happens to me, they’ll come after you.”
“I don’t think so.” Pulling a briefcase from behind the freezer, he sat down and placed it between them. He pulled out a single folder and a Mont Blanc pen.
“These are your walking papers. All you have to do is sign and I’ll allow you to leave.”
“What are they?”
“The legal documents required by the French government to settle Aunt Andrea’s estate, with a few slight modifications.”
“What modifications?”
“The ones which state you relinquish all interest in your inheritance, turning it over in its entirety to your good friend and lover, Jessica Sampson.”
Her face went blank as her jaw dropped open.
“What!?”
“This may come as a shock, but Jessica isn’t everything you imagined her to be. She’s a whole lot less, I’m afraid.”
“You’re lying!” Helen grabbed the phone out of her purse and hit the redial button.
"We’re sorry. The number you’ve dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
“NO!!!!!!!!!” Helen screamed, and dialed their home number.
“We’re sorry. The number you’ve dialed is…” She threw the phone at Arthur, who simply batted it away. She bolted, evading his outstretched arm, and ran to the stairs, jumping down three at a time. She grabbed the knob at the bottom, tried to twist it and pushed on the heavy wooden door, but neither one would budge. She started banging on the door with both fists, screaming at the top of her lungs. After fifteen minutes of wailing and flailing, she stopped. She turned around and looked up at Arthur.
He was sitting on the top step, looking down.
“Whenever you’re ready, we can complete our transaction.”
Defeated, Helen slowly retraced her steps, her body slumping like an old woman who’d lost the will to live. In an act of mock chivalry, Arthur pulled the chair out for her and eased it in after she collapsed onto it. The papers were all in French, and she realized it would do no good to have him translate; how would she know if he was telling the truth?
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Of course we will. No one is coming to rescue you. You have far fewer friends in the world then you may have believed
“The attorney—Mr. Saws—he’ll follow up, and when I don’t return, he’ll call the police.”
“Ah, so you’ve guessed you won’t be showing your pretty face around much longer. I told him you were smarter than you let on.”
“Told whom?”
“Keep signing, please.”
“Wait. Are you saying Saws was a fake?”
“You do catch on quick.”
“And you? Who the hell are you?”
“Just the hired hand.”
He picked up the papers and rifled through them one more time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He tapped them on the table to straighten them before putting them back in the file and, ultimately, the briefcase.
“What’s with the freezer?”
“Oh, this old thing?” Arthur got up and pulled a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the top-loading appliance. He nodded for Helen to come have a look for herself. She approached slowly, and just before her final, blood-curdling scream, she heard Arthur say, “Meet your long, lost Great Aunt Andrea.”
#
“So? Is it all there?”
“Yes,” he said, staring at the letter. “It all transferred, net of taxes and French transfer fees.”
“How much?”
“About $5 million, give or take a few Francs. Arthur says he was quite thorough.”
“And what about, well, you know…”
“He said no one will ever see her again. She and dear Great Aunt Andrea have been reunited in eternity.”
Jessica sighed.
“Problem?” he asked.
“No, no problem. She was good in bed, though.”
“Better than me?”
“Different. Don’t worry; she was never any real competition for you. But playing the lesbian lover taught me a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like I never want to do it again. I’m definitely hetero.”
“That’s good to hear, Jess darling,” he said, closing the post office box for the last time.
“You’re the only one for me, Tony dearest!”
-END-
Howard Russell got the news on April 9. 2015 that he has won 1st Place in the prestigious Mesa Community College (MCC) 2014 Writing Contest for The Divorce. Kudos, Howard! His winning story is below. Enjoy!
P O Stories – The Divorce
By Howard Russell
Anthony Montero stared at his bulging mailbox. He tore three envelopes trying to extract the mess. He skipped past the credit card bills, overdue notices and requisite junk mail.
“Ah,” he said, “finally.” Smiling, he put the one with the fancy legal address in his pocket and tossed the rest in the garbage. If some dumpster diver wanted to assume his identity, let him. Tony no longer cared. He was done working for the man, and sure as hell done supporting his good for nothing ex wife, Helen. Like a Phoenix, he would rise from his own ashes.
#
“Hello?”
“Is this Helen Montero?”
“Well, I’m Helen, but no longer Montero. It’s Helen Lareau now. Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lareau. We still had you as Mrs. Montero. My name is JoAnne D’Mitri, and I work for the law firm of Cabot and Saws.”
“If this is another lame attempt to modify the divorce settlement, you’ll have to contact my attorney. And tell Anthony to go to hell while you’re at it.” She was about to hang up and walk out the door when JoAnne said, “No—wait—we’re not divorce attorneys. We’re an estate settlement firm. It seems you’ve come into a rather large inheritance. I was calling to set up a time for you to come and meet with Mr. Saws; he’s handling your late great aunt’s estate.”
“What late great aunt? I don’t remember any great aunts, late or otherwise.”
“Well, she clearly knew you. Helen Sarah Montero is the last surviving and heir to the Andrea Schafer estate. All the other blood relatives have passed; therefore, you’re entitled to inherit the entire estate, which I understand is quite sizeable.”
“Is this some kind of scam? Because it if is, I’m going directly to the police,” Helen said. “Why haven’t I been notified by mail?”
“We needed to be sure we had the right person before providing written confirmation. As you said, there are all sorts of scams and one of them is to claim inheritances under false pretenses. When you come in to see Mr. Saws, you’ll need to bring two government issued photo ID’s as proof you are, in fact, Ms. Lareau, including copies of your original marriage certificate and your divorce decree.
Helen walked into the living room and put her purse down on the sofa. Picking up pad and pen from the end table, she said “Alright; where are you located?”
She copied down the address and set an appointment for two o’clock the next day.
“Two o’clock would be fine,” Helen said and hung up.
“Fine for what?”
Helen turned to face Jessica. “Oh, hi. I didn’t think you were up yet. Some legal eagle firm claims I inherited a wad of money from my late Great Aunt Andrea.”
“Who’s Aunt Andrea?” Jessica said, walking over and putting her arms around Helen’s neck. She was still wearing her negligee.
“I have no idea, but it sounds like she was loaded,” Helen said, locking onto Jessica’s eyes with her own.
“How do you know it’s not a scam?”
“I thought the same thing, but they knew my name – my whole name. I never give that out.”
“Duh—it’s on your marriage certificate—anyone could have looked it up.” Jessica’s hands drifted down to Helen’s buttocks, caressing them.
“Well, then let’s do our own research.” She kissed Jessica, long and wet, before letting go.
Helen Googled Cabot and Saws on the laptop in the den. Jessica stood behind her, stroking her hair.
Cabot and Saws, a 75-year-old firm, specializes in estate and trust services for the well to do.
It included pictures of the principals, several snapshots of the offices, and driving instructions.
Next, she Googled “Andrea Schafer”, resulting in 18,275 possible entries. She narrowed the search by adding “trust”, “obituary”, and “estate”. When she added “Cabot and Saws”, a single entry popped up—a classified ad in an obscure financial newspaper soliciting “any and all creditors or claimants to the Andrea Schafer estate.”
“That looks like the same kind of classified ad my Dad’s attorney took out when he died a few years ago,” Jessica said excitedly. “He told me they had to make a public announcement to make it legit.”
“But why such a small newspaper in the middle of nowhere?” Helen asked. “I’ve never heard of this place.”
“Exactly,” Jessica said, “that’s the point. The only requirement is to publish it for at least 30 days in a public newspaper. Then they can distribute the estate. Look at the date!”
“June 28th. That’s 24 days ago.”
Helen turned off the computer and stood up, facing Jessica. “It’s our lucky day.”
“Don’t you care what happened to Great Aunt Andrea?”
“I care now.”
“About the money, you mean.”
“Hey—she couldn’t take it with her, and Tony’s money won’t last forever.”
“When are you supposed to see them?”
“Tomorrow at 2 pm. You want to come?”
“I can’t—got to work. Just make sure those shyster lawyers don’t screw you with their fees.”
They embraced and Jess took her by the hand, leading her to the bedroom.
#
“Right this way, Ms. Lareau,” JoAnne said. They walked down a long corridor past offices and conference rooms filled with men and women dressed in business suits, scribbling on long, yellow pads or typing quietly on laptops. They entered a small room, complete with round table, four chairs and a wet bar.
“If you’ll wait here, Mr. Saws will be with you shortly. Did you bring your I D with you?” Helen pulled them from her purse and handed them to her.
“I’ll copy these and be right back. Please help yourself to a refreshment.” Then she was gone.
Helen surveyed the beverages which included coffee, juices, soft drinks and an assortment of liquor bottles, hotel mini-bar style.
“What the hell.” She opened a bottle of White Zinfandel and poured it into a paper coffee cup. She took a sip then slipped three more bottles into her purse.
When the door opened a few minutes later, JoAnne walked with a tall man, fifty-something, carrying a black briefcase. “Here are your papers, Ms. Lareau,” she said. “This is Mr. Saws.”
“Nice to meet you,” Saws said. Helen immediately relaxed, shaking his outstretched hand. His voice reminded her of the velvety smooth voices of TV newscasters who made the most mundane news sound interesting with their hypnotic, sing-song descriptions. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Helen stared into his crystalline blue eyes. His graying brown hair seemed the perfect contrast to those soft, penetrating orbs. She was mesmerized, compelled to trust him.
He withdrew a folder from his briefcase, placing it on the table. He shuffled several documents in her direction, then pulled a Mont Blanc pen from the inside pocket of his blue pinstripe jacket. He wrote her name at the top of a yellow legal pad, dated it, then checked his Rolex and added the time, 2:07 pm.
“It seems your Aunt Andrea left you a sizable estate, Helen. May I call you Helen?”
“Yes, please do. What do you mean by sizable?”
“Ah, yes. That could mean anything, now couldn’t it? Well, we’re still getting estimates of some of her collectibles, but all told, it appears to be in neighborhood of five and a half million dollars.”
“That’s a very nice neighborhood,” Helen said. Five and a half million dollars! Her eyes lit up, and she started thinking about all the vacations and thrilling things she and Jess could do with all that money.
“Neighborhood? Oh, I see, you were making a joke. I understand. Yes, it is a very nice neighborhood, indeed. Your Aunt lived in France, in a small town named Auvers-Sur-Oise. It’s quite famous, actually, home to one of the Impressionists painters, Vincent Van Gogh.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’ll have the chance to see it soon, I expect.”
“Oh? Why?”
“France has extremely strict laws concerning transferring funds out of the country. We could try to liquidate the estate from here, but it would take considerable time and cost a substantial amount of money, diminishing the inheritance I’m afraid. It would be more expeditious and cost effective if you would consent to travel to France to claim your Aunt’s estate.”
“I suppose there could be worse things than to have to travel to France.”
“Very good. In that case, there are some papers requiring your signature, and if you’d like, we can make the travel arrangements.”
“Will there be a representative of your firm accompanying me?” Helen asked.
“No, we have reciprocal arrangements with several prominent French firms. One of them will meet you there to file the estate documents. Their fees are reasonable and much less than the added costs of sending one of our attorneys with you.”
“Well, then, where do I sign?”
#
The bed and breakfast in Auvers-Sur-Oise was cozy, though small. As soon as the young man from the lobby stowed her suitcases for her, she closed the door and collapsed on the bed, exhausted.
It’d been a long, frustrating day. First, Jessica backed out at the last minute claiming some problem at work. The plane hit significant turbulence and she was unable to sleep. In Paris, she was held up in customs for nearly two hours as a fish-eyed customs official kept asking her what her business was in France. Apparently, the French didn’t like people coming to take money out of their country. Finally, after she changed her story to “I’m just a tourist”, he stamped her passport and she was permitted to leave.
She slept fitfully until her cell phone woke her. It was dark out, and she was confused. Fumbling around in her purse, she finally just dumped the whole thing out on the bed and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Helen? It’s Jess. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah… what time is it?”
“It’s 11 am here, which makes it 9 pm, there. How was your flight? Did you contact the attorney?”
“No, I didn’t. Shit. I meant to do it when I got to the hotel, but I was so tired—I must have fallen asleep. It’s too late to call now; I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It was a long flight, and some shit-for-brains Gendarme kept me in a little, locked room for two hours.”
“I wish I could have come. I speak French. Sorry, gal.”
“Me, too. Once I get my hands on that money, we can go anywhere we like, anytime we like, and you can pull a Dolly Parton on your boss.”
“Can’t wait,” Jess said. “So, what are you going to do now?”
“I’m starving—I didn’t eat before I fell asleep. I’ll just call room service. I hope this time difference doesn’t make me oversleep in the morning.”
“I’ll give you a wake-up call if you want.”
“Good idea. Don’t forget!”
“Okay. Just be careful; France can be a dangerous place for American tourists. Bye!”
“Bye,” Helen said. What the hell did she mean by that? Pushing it out of her mind, she dialed the front desk to order some food, hoping they spoke English.
#
Following Saws’ hand-drawn map, she entered the main concourse. Tourists were shopping or sipping espressos and French wines at the sidewalk cafes. The locals shared stories, mostly untrue, about Van Gogh. She felt their eyes on her back as she passed, like icy fingers mistaking her spine for a xylophone. She increased her pace, looking up from the map only to check the street signs.
She turned on Rue de Gaston and ran the three blocks to the address at the bottom of the page. It stood two stories high, white with blue trim, looking like it belonged in a New England fishing village rather than a French provincial town. Finding it allayed her unexplained fears momentarily. She stood admiring it. Aunt Andrea had good taste. Finally, when her heart stopped pounding, she rang the doorbell.
A tall, strapping man, perhaps thirty, opened the door. His dazzling green eyes met hers and he spoke in perfect English, “Good morning, Ms. Lareau; I’ve been expecting you.”
Helen couldn’t help staring. She’d expected an old, grizzled lawyer, smelling of must and decay. Instead, this was a fit, tanned statue of a man, dressed in Bermudas, a golf shirt, and expensive French loafers.
“Ms. Lareau? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, I just didn’t expect…”
“Someone so young?”
“And handsome.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. Arthur Prim, at your service. Please come in.”
Stepping across the threshold, she noted the large portrait in the foyer. “Is that Aunt Andrea?”
“Why yes, I believe it is. I’ve only been here twice in preparation for your visit, so I didn’t take much notice of the wall hangings. There’s a large attic as well as a basement, both of which are filled with old trunks and boxes. I’m told she was quite a collector.”
“Really? Of what?”
“Coins, Stamps, First Editions, you name it. She was an antiques dealer.”
They entered a great room at the center of the house. Here, the furnishings were eclectic, but tastefully matched. There was a 17th century sofa, bookended by two 20th century glass and ceramic bookcases housing an extensive collection of 18th century first editions. On the coffee table was an open book of poetry by Charles Baudelaire.
“Baudelaire was quite famous around these parts,” Arthur said. “He was an author, poet and something of a philosopher. He was among the first to translate your Edgar Allen Poe’s works into French.”
“You’re not American?”
“Me? No. I’m French to the core.”
“But your accent...”
“I was born to French parents while they lived in the States on assignment. They were career diplomats, so I spent my early childhood in Washington, DC. I learned both English and French, but even after returning to France when I was nine, I never developed an accent.”
Helen wandered through the house, asking questions. Arthur followed her, occasionally brushing against her in the narrow hallways, which caused her heart to flutter.
They came to a heavy wooden door with a brass doorknob that refused to turn. She put her hand on his arm and looked questioningly at him.
“That’s the door to the attic. Would you like to take a look?”
“Yes, of course,” she said with suddenly soft eyes.
“Wait here. I have to get the key.”
As his footsteps echoed down the hall, she pulled out her cell phone.
“What’s up, girl?” Jessica asked.
“You wouldn’t believe this place! It’s a museum and a treasure trove, all wrapped up in one.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not. I know your heart.”
“Well, there are boxes of coins and stamps in the attic. That’s where we’re going next.”
“Just be careful… don’t break anything.”
“I won’t. Wait… I hear Arthur coming back up. Gotta go.”
“Good luck,” Jess said, hanging up.
Good luck?
“Here we go,” Arthur fitted the skeleton key into the slot.
Helen put her hand on Arthur’s arm again. “Wow! A real skeleton key. I didn’t think they used those anymore.”
“It’s an old house, Helen.” Smiling broadly he turned the knob, opening the door wide. Behind it was a darkened staircase.
“Is there a light?” Helen asked, searching the walls for a switch.
“It’s at the top of the stairs.” He took her hand in his.
“Let’s go,” Helen said, blushing.
When they reached the top step, something hit her lightly in the face. She let out a screech, and Arthur put his arm around her shoulder to steady her.
He reached up and pulled on the light cord.
The sudden glare blinded her temporarily, but her eyes finally adjusted.
The attic was completely empty, except for a table, two chairs and a long white object about four feet tall by seven feet long. She recognized it as a large freezer, the kind you keep in the garage for meat and ice cream.
“What the hell is this? Where are all the boxes? The collections you said were…” She turned and saw the gun in Arthur’s hand.
“I’m afraid there are no collectibles here, Helen. Please take a seat, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll explain it all to you.”
Helen backed away from Arthur and his gun, feeling behind her for the table and chair. She considered running down the stairs, but Arthur blocked the way with his body.
“This room is sound-proofed. No one can hear you, nor will they hear the discharge from my pistol.”
“What do you want?” Helen asked, trying to sound calm and in control.
“We have a little business to conduct, after which you’ll be free to leave.”
“People know where I am. If anything happens to me, they’ll come after you.”
“I don’t think so.” Pulling a briefcase from behind the freezer, he sat down and placed it between them. He pulled out a single folder and a Mont Blanc pen.
“These are your walking papers. All you have to do is sign and I’ll allow you to leave.”
“What are they?”
“The legal documents required by the French government to settle Aunt Andrea’s estate, with a few slight modifications.”
“What modifications?”
“The ones which state you relinquish all interest in your inheritance, turning it over in its entirety to your good friend and lover, Jessica Sampson.”
Her face went blank as her jaw dropped open.
“What!?”
“This may come as a shock, but Jessica isn’t everything you imagined her to be. She’s a whole lot less, I’m afraid.”
“You’re lying!” Helen grabbed the phone out of her purse and hit the redial button.
"We’re sorry. The number you’ve dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
“NO!!!!!!!!!” Helen screamed, and dialed their home number.
“We’re sorry. The number you’ve dialed is…” She threw the phone at Arthur, who simply batted it away. She bolted, evading his outstretched arm, and ran to the stairs, jumping down three at a time. She grabbed the knob at the bottom, tried to twist it and pushed on the heavy wooden door, but neither one would budge. She started banging on the door with both fists, screaming at the top of her lungs. After fifteen minutes of wailing and flailing, she stopped. She turned around and looked up at Arthur.
He was sitting on the top step, looking down.
“Whenever you’re ready, we can complete our transaction.”
Defeated, Helen slowly retraced her steps, her body slumping like an old woman who’d lost the will to live. In an act of mock chivalry, Arthur pulled the chair out for her and eased it in after she collapsed onto it. The papers were all in French, and she realized it would do no good to have him translate; how would she know if he was telling the truth?
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Of course we will. No one is coming to rescue you. You have far fewer friends in the world then you may have believed
“The attorney—Mr. Saws—he’ll follow up, and when I don’t return, he’ll call the police.”
“Ah, so you’ve guessed you won’t be showing your pretty face around much longer. I told him you were smarter than you let on.”
“Told whom?”
“Keep signing, please.”
“Wait. Are you saying Saws was a fake?”
“You do catch on quick.”
“And you? Who the hell are you?”
“Just the hired hand.”
He picked up the papers and rifled through them one more time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He tapped them on the table to straighten them before putting them back in the file and, ultimately, the briefcase.
“What’s with the freezer?”
“Oh, this old thing?” Arthur got up and pulled a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the top-loading appliance. He nodded for Helen to come have a look for herself. She approached slowly, and just before her final, blood-curdling scream, she heard Arthur say, “Meet your long, lost Great Aunt Andrea.”
#
“So? Is it all there?”
“Yes,” he said, staring at the letter. “It all transferred, net of taxes and French transfer fees.”
“How much?”
“About $5 million, give or take a few Francs. Arthur says he was quite thorough.”
“And what about, well, you know…”
“He said no one will ever see her again. She and dear Great Aunt Andrea have been reunited in eternity.”
Jessica sighed.
“Problem?” he asked.
“No, no problem. She was good in bed, though.”
“Better than me?”
“Different. Don’t worry; she was never any real competition for you. But playing the lesbian lover taught me a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like I never want to do it again. I’m definitely hetero.”
“That’s good to hear, Jess darling,” he said, closing the post office box for the last time.
“You’re the only one for me, Tony dearest!”
-END-
Copyright © Howard Russell Gershkowitz, March 8, 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this blog may be used or produced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, email the author: [email protected]