Dorothy Daisy: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery Read online

  Dorothy Daisy

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  © 2014 by Una Tiers

  Gavelle Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

  Brilliant Cover Art Gad Savage

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. The information about the magnificence of Chicago, Illinois is real. Newspaper stories provided morsels for the plot.

  Dorothy Daisy

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my first reader, Gayle A. Her input was tremendous to help me over troubled spots and her recommendations were spectacular.

  Thanks to my readers of Not Safe for the Bank(er) and Judge vs. Nuts. Your input and support warms my heart.

  Chapter One

  Did she fall asleep every night fear pounding in her ears, or did she fall asleep washed with relief that her secret was safe one more day?

  Those questions were never answered.

  About a year ago, I met Dorothy Daisy and her story lingers in my mind.

  From the start, she was a different sort of client. Most clients call me, but Dorothy’s neighbors called me and seemed intent on telling me what she wanted. Trying to avoid the neighbors, I looked for her.

  Turning down the 2700 block of Asbury, I saw rows of small, frame houses. Getting closer, an enormous three story Victorian house loomed well above the rest. What made me assume she would have a small house?

  The name Daisy was printed on the bell. I rang and waited. The house seemed aloof and then I thought it whispered RUN.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Startled, I saw a small woman who had materialized along the sidewalk next to the porch and was glaring up at me.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Dorothy …Dorothy Daisy.” This eloquence came out with my heart pounding louder than the Clydesdale’s hooves on a cobble stoned street.

  Silence. The woman continued to beam her annoyance at me. She looked every day of ninety, if not more. Her thick hair was white, and appeared natural. She wore glasses with enormous lens, contributing to an odd duck image. Her sweater seemed too heavy for the weather and her pedal pushers seemed too light.

  Her aura carried menace and she carried a rusty garden spade clumped with mud.

  “Are you Mrs. Daisy?” I tried to sound friendly to prevent attack.

  “No, it’s Miss Daisy, Miss. I never married. And who are you? Are you from the city?”

  “Fiona Gavelle. Your neighbors called and said you wanted to speak to a lawyer.”

  “A lady lawyer?” She asked sweetly.

  “Yes.”

  That netted me an invitation to return in two days. With that edict she disappeared as quickly and soundlessly as she appeared.

  Chapter Two

  My name is Fiona Gavelle, I’m an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. In law school I was somewhat lackluster about my career direction, and as a result, I have yet to land in the lap of luxury enjoyed by lawyers on television. With my solid C minus grade average, I didn’t have job offers after graduation and the bar exam, so I went to work for an older attorney who basically took advantage of me.

  The job fell apart about the same time that I walked out of my marriage. For what seemed to be a long time my life was in shambles, I was living with my Aunt and feeling bad all the time.

  Now I have an office sharing arrangement, my own apartment and a little of my dignity back. I don’t date well since I pick the wrong guys. Or maybe they pick me. I still hold hope for someone to love me and make a life together.

  My office is with Cartofle and Cebula, a firm of four lawyers: two partners and two associates. Partners have an ownership interest and receive a part of every fee generated, resembling a kick back. Associates are paid less, and need to work long hours with the hope of being invited to the partnership level.

  One of the partners likes me, but he is only around a day or two a month (apparently I am more charming in bits and pieces). The other partner, Paul Cartofle, seemed to like me when the arrangement started, but lately he has been increasingly impatient with me. If I was really smart I would start to look for office space elsewhere.

  The two associates eye me with contempt.

  The bad attitudes toward me are probably more sexist than anything else. Despite the growing numbers of women in law, the glass ceiling, in my opinion, is still firmly in place. I am also outspoken, or try to be whenever possible.

  My arrangement is called space for services. That means I do a set number of hours of work for the firm, in exchange for the tiny office (that I love) and minimal copy machine use.

  Space for services starts as an advantage for the new attorney and decreases in value quickly as they learn the business. After the attorney learns the ropes, the agreement turns in favor of the firm. The estimated top time for this arrangement is two years, three if the new attorney is kind of dumb.

  My work consists of some ghost will and trust drafting, going to court for continuances (making me feel like a pawn or shill), proof reading and filing papers in court. When I go over the limit of hours, I am paid a meager hourly rate. This also irritates Paul, but when we get close to my set hours, he consolidates and makes the associates cover some of the work because they do not get paid extra.

  I’m learning about running a business and what to do. When I put in my own phone line, for instance, Paul was royally annoyed. This assured me it was a good business decision. Why should my clients have his telephone number?

  His angst affirms my business decisions.

  Chapter Three

  The day of our appointment I rang the bell and Dorothy came around the side walk of the house from the back again and invited me to follow her. Her mood seemed light and happy.

  The garden was spectacular, no it was better than spectacular; it was like walking into a magazine or the colorized version of a black and white movie.

  Instead of lawn, the yard was covered in gravel. It had four raised, wood framed flowerbeds around eight feet by four feet. One was dense with daisies or sunflowers. The blossoms were at least four inches across on thick sturdy stems easily shoulder high. The other plots housed thriving vegetables, but not the same in terms of magnificence. There were trellises against the garage covered with buds promising to dazzle the beholder shortly.

  “You’re quite a gardener,” I admired. Would it be rude to ask for a flower to go, or seeds?

  “Only the flowers are mine, the vegetable plots are rented to neighbors. I live on a small pension and it helps ends to meet.” She explained.

  “Are those sunflowers?”

  “Daisies,” she answered. “We grow them from an old family recipe, “ she laughed.

  Personally I have never seen daisies that large, but I live a sheltered life.

  After more laborious chit chat, and identification of the sweet peas and the morning glories, we completed our garden walk.

  “You look a little young to be a lawyer,” she noted.

  “I’ve been licensed for two years and have a private practice.” I explained as if she wanted to know my experience.

  We bonded a little more.

  Dorothy did not invite me into the house. We sat in the shade of the coach house on chairs that looked like they belonged in the house. This was my first outdoor client meeting.

  The beginning of an estate interview is about the family,
marriages, divorces, children and the like. It is always interesting for me.

  Dorothy said that she was ninety-two and the youngest daughter of Victor and Gayle Daisy. All four of her siblings, Seumas, Ross, Nancy and Jeanine died years before.

  “Seumas,” I repeated since the name seemed out of character with the other names.

  “My parents honeymooned in Scotland,” she explained with a giggle.

  “Did your brothers and sisters marry?”

  “What does that have to do with my will?” A little glimpse of evil shadowed her question. Her mouth pursed and eyes narrowed.

  Lightly, I explained about testamentary capacity, what you need to know to make an estate plan.

  “I am presumed innocent you know.” She laughed with an edge of mockery.

  Kind Dorothy was back. But I remained on guard.

  “Only Seumas, my late brother, was married, in answer to your question. The rest of us, well we never found our better halves.” She laughed quietly.

  “We were a close family, growing up and into our adult years. I guess we never really wanted more company.”

  I could see her travel to the past, where she was happy and her family was together again. Her smile was small but sweet. Then without warning, she returned to the present.

  “He married a divorced woman,” she answered. “Seumas did. Oh what an uproar that caused. It was his way to always be different. They moved to Springfield together and we didn’t see him again. Never. I don’t know why he wanted to get married at his age.”

  “I’m sorry. Was that Springfield, Illinois?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Let me see, he was the first one out of the nest so to speak. Maybe 1975 or 1976, I could ask, well never mind, I can find the papers if you need them.”

  “No, not really, I’m just trying to get a timeframe about your family. Did he have children?”

  “Children.” She snorted. “Seumas took early retirement at sixty after teaching for over thirty years. His blushing bride was sixty-five when they married. So, no children unless it was a miracle.” Her laughter lasted several more breaths. “They met…” she snorted, “at country line dancing.”

  After she finished laughing, she went on to describe other relationships. Her parents met at church, after immigrating from the old country. Her mother was twenty when she married her father, about ten years her senior. When I asked about extended family members, Dorothy didn’t remember aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents.

  “Our family was our world, there were seven of us total. We would talk and laugh and always played board games well into the night.”

  She went on to describe how they went to college locally, at their father’s insistence. Leaving home never appealed to them.

  Dorothy wanted to leave her entire estate to medical research for lung disease.

  “Do you mean the lung association?”

  “Maybe,” she answered slowly. “My father died from lung cancer. He was a pipe smoker. And I think I should give something back. Maybe the Mayo Clinic or the Lung Association would be good. Could I do that?”

  “Sure you can. Was your father young when he died?”

  She looked at me with annoyance.

  In haste, I explained. “I’m taking your family tree down.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, in probate, we do an affidavit of heirship.”

  “Probate?”

  “Probate court.”

  “No, I don’t want to be stuck there and, excuse me, but attorney fees can eat up your whole estate, everybody knows that, right?”

  We reviewed the differences between wills and trusts. I wasn’t sure she was following me.

  I took notes and asked, “Now who do you have in mind to be the executor?” I thought I would keep the terms generic, instead of distinguishing executors from trustees.

  “Executor?”

  I wasn’t sure this lady was a candidate for a trust, she needed to understand how it worked. I needed to bone up on my explanation of the differences between the two types of plans.

  “The person you nominate to carry out the terms of your will? They will wrap up the financial loose ends.” I explained.

  “A will? No, I don’t want a will, oh what do you call the other thing?” She interrupted almost changing her personality again. “A trust, I want a trust, you know, like the lawyers talk about when they give you a free dinner at the Italian restaurant if you listen to their sales pitch. They keep you out of probate court.”

  “Living trusts?” I asked. In my ghost writing capacity I proof read several for the firm. This would be great, there was more work and the fee was larger.

  “Are those the ones that keep you out of court?” She asked.

  “They are. Miss Daisy, did you go to one of those dinner lectures?” I asked.

  “Sure I’ve been several times but I didn’t want to buy from those high pressure salesmen. Can you make a trust like that? They implied they had something special.”

  When I explained funding of the trust, Dorothy was troubled.

  “Assets?” She questioned. “Changing hands? Changing title?”

  “Not changing hands, but changed into the name of the trust. That is the key to make the trust work. Your assets would include the house. So instead of it being in your name…”

  “It was transferred into all our names as joint tenants after our father died. So I own it since I outlived the others, right?”

  “Yes. Instead of the title saying Dorothy Daisy, it would say the Dorothy Daisy Trust.” Suddenly I wondered if I had the facts straight about the trusts.

  “The house was in all five names and I’m the only one left. Just me.” The sincerity of her statement was lost when she tried to look sad. This felt a little like a con.

  “In joint tenancy?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any retirement accounts?”

  “Of course, I’m ninety-two and I retired, I can’t remember the year. It was probably when people retire, maybe sixty-five.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Daisy.”

  “Miss, its Miss not Mrs.”

  “Yes of course, excuse me.” I was losing track of what we went over and what seemed to elude Miss Daisy. I needed crib notes. Having attended several free dinner lectures, I mistakenly assumed she understood the mechanics of a living trust.

  We reviewed the concept of funding the trust using the bank account as an example.

  “Do you have death certificates for your brothers and sisters?” I started the explanation from another standpoint.

  “Why are we back to them again? Are you going to make wills for them?” A mean side was coming out every five minutes. When it did, she pursed her lips and breathed hard through her nose.

  As I stared at her, evil Dorothy left and nice Dorothy returned. I moved back in the chair a little and found the arms had something black on them that transferred to my hands.

  “We’ll need to transfer the house into the name of the trust…”

  Dorothy objected.

  Smiling I wondered if it would be okay to run for the car, screaming.

  “You’re making this awfully complicated, the men at the lecture said it was easy,” she complained.

  “A trust is more complicated than a will and has more paperwork and costs more to prepare.”

  “Is there any place I can get this done for free since I’m a senior?”

  While this perturbed me, I answered evenly, “I don’t know about that. I’m a private attorney and I do this for a living, you know, to pay my bills. If you want to shop around…”

  This was not going well. I needed a routine for these appointments so to separate the shoppers from the clients.

  That was pretty much where we stopped for the day. When I asked to use the bathroom to rinse my hands, Miss Daisy suggested I run them under the hose, because it was always dripping. She invited me to return the next week at the
same time.

  Chapter Four

  The weather didn’t cooperate for our next appointment. Dorothy was waiting for me in the indoor looking chairs that were now on the unenclosed front porch. As I reached the top step, the skies opened up and produced sheets of rain so dense they resembled a curtain. That was almost manageable but the rumble of thunder tipped the scales for me.

  While I was about to ask who was moving the chairs for Miss Daisy, a flash of blue light and simultaneous thunder caused my shoes to vibrate.

  “Are you afraid of a little rain?” She teased and then pulled her lips in like Popeye.

  A new bolt of lightning with rumbling thunder sent Dorothy running down the stairs and around the side of the house, heading, I guess to the yard.

  “Come back next week?” She called over her shoulder. It was more of a command than a question.

  A short let up in the rain allowed me to run, as fast as you can in two inch heels, to my car. As I was locking the doors, a slight woman tapped on the window. She had the largest umbrella ever and was holding a yellow rain jacket together with her hand.

  “I’m Emma, the neighbor who called you, didn’t you get my calls? Why did you meet with her alone? I wanted to be there.”

  “Did you want a will?” Cute but stupid, a game I play rather well. Besides I don’t do my lecture about rights in a thunder storm.

  “I can answer questions about Dorothy, she is a bit daft left on her own.”

  Emma asked me to park in front of her house and come inside. She hurried up the steps and I drove away, with a nasty headache developing. A few blocks away, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Was this a sign from the universe?

  Chapter Five