Dorothy Daisy: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery Read online

Back in downtown Chicago, (where it was sunny and dry), I started a title search on Dorothy’s house at the Recorders Office and forgot the steps. I blamed the antiquated computer but before I could ask for help, a tiny smiling clerk materialized and asked for the street address and found the document numbers in seconds. They are so nice. Why would such nice folk want to work in a basement?

  The house was in the name of Dorothy, Seumas, Jeanine, Ross and Nancy in joint tenancy. Dorothy was right. There was something called a lis pendens against the real estate. I needed to look that up. It could be a lien of sorts.

  With the PIN (property index number) I was able to get a copy of her last real estate tax bill. Her taxes were current and even with exemptions (discounts for seniors and homeowners), were over twelve thousand dollars a year. At first I wondered how one person would be able to afford to live in that huge house. Then I realized that the estates could have been passed down to brothers and sisters with the exception of the one who married.

  Back at the office, I had messages from Emma and Dorothy. Emma complained that I didn’t consult with her and said she would definitely make the next appointment. Right.

  Dorothy called and left a long, apologetic message.

  “Oh Ms. Fiona, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t very nice to you but I was worried about your bill and of course the rain. I pay all of my bills on time. I feel like I have been horrible. And, the thing is, I think you get me. You know what I mean?” The apology went on almost running the length of my answering machine tape.

  “Hello Judge?”

  “Fiona, how can I help you?”

  Judge Adam Curie is a client, friend and colleague. We met when I drove him home from a bar group meeting. He is very funny and when I show up with him to any bar group event, my status is elevated to say the least. When I needed office space in an emergency, he smoothed the waters for me. We even went to a funeral together, but that is another story.

  “I want to ask a hypothetical question.”

  “About Miss Daisy?” He asked, chuckling softly.

  “You know her?”

  “She called me not five minutes ago.”

  “She never mentioned your name judge.”

  “I gave her your name a while back, probably six months ago when we were at the doctor’s office. I’ve known the family for years. Of course most of them have passed away. You will find her to be rather eccentric but intelligent.”

  “Judge, do you think she has enough going on to make a will?”

  “Testamentary capacity? Absolutely, she was a school principal. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No, I thought she said she worked for a doctor.”

  “She must have been talking about her sister, Nancy. Sometimes she talks about them as if they are still alive. They were close. I imagine the loneliness must be devastating since she is the survivor. After Seumas got married, they seemed to drop out of sight. I think they even stopped attending mass. He was the glue of the family after the parents died.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seumas was different in nature than the other four children. He was more of a leader. He was outgoing. He did things his way. He even retired before he was married.”

  “The kids never left the house?”

  “No, they went to college locally. The father insisted all of his children would attend college. The father may have dictated what they would study. But they remained children in the sense that they never considered leaving the house or getting married or having their own families. I assume she told you the story?”

  “Most of it.”

  “At one time we went to the same church like I mentioned.” The judge added. “Although Seumas was usually outside during most of the service.” He thought he was sneaking cigarettes.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about knowing them?”

  “No, I mean sure about her capacity.”

  “Yes. Dorothy is a person who takes a lot of time to get to know. For a while I thought she had a deep dark secret, but I often confused Jeanette and Dorothy. She never got over the death of her brothers and sisters. She doesn’t trust people easily and doles information out in little pieces.”

  My observations differed but I deferred to his opinion since he was experienced and knew the family for a long time.

  Chapter Six

  “Hello Ms. Gavelle?”

  The voice sounded like Judge Curie, but he always called me Fiona.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Judge Curie calling from my office at the court at the Daley Center. Early this morning, and I do mean early, I received a call from Miss Dorothy Daisy. She called me at home. Do you know how she had my home telephone number?”

  Was he blaming me? “Miss Daisy has never mentioned you and I don’t give out numbers without asking.” My ears were up and I sensed I was being blamed for something else.

  “She is terribly troubled that you have not finished her estate plan, she wants to see you but is convinced you are angry with her.”

  I couldn’t spill the beans any more than I already had due to the confidentiality rules. So, I punted. “I will call her later today, thanks judge.” The thanks part was a lie. Dorothy ran out of our meeting because of the thunder. Should I have let him know?

  While I was stewing over the call, debating whether or not to call Dorothy or to stop by her house, Annette, the office manager, handed me a large envelope.

  “This was just delivered.”

  “Great thanks.” The envelope was large without a return address or postage or anything suggesting how it was delivered. My name was written across the front with the word confidential in red ink. Annette continued to stand in the doorway with a perplexed look. I raised my eyebrows as a question.

  “The delivery person was about ninety years old.” She nitpicked and shook her head.

  “Is he still here?”

  “No, it wasn’t a he but a she and she asked if this was your office why your name wasn’t on the door. Then she made me promise to put this directly into your hands, and took off like a shot.”

  I rushed out to the elevator banks, but Dorothy wasn’t there.

  The envelope had a letter of apology, the death certificates for her brothers and sisters and a nice check payable to me.

  Since she couldn’t be home yet (if she delivered the envelope), I drafted a receipt, and mailed it to her. I reminded her that I would see her on Thursday as was our habit.

  After depositing her check, I went to the Vital Records Department and ordered certified copies of the death certificates. The ones Dorothy left were only copies.

  The recorder’s office requires certified copies to be recorded against a deed to remove a dead owner from title.

  For her estate plan, the only decision outstanding was about an executor. And a trustee. And agents under powers of attorney. We never had a chance to talk about powers.

  At the probate clerk’s office I poked through the books that record wills. They are enormous, the size Paul Bunyan might read. There is one book for each year. Dorothy said her father died before Seumas, so I looked in each year until I found Victor Daisy. He died in 1960. Unfortunately since his probate estate was so old the file was warehoused in another building and had to be ordered. It would take ten to fourteen days for the file to get to the Daley Center. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I also hoped to run into someone with more experience, to pick their brain, hypothetically of course.

  I put the documents together for Ms., make that Miss Daisy, and left enormous asterisks where I needed information to complete her plan. Hopefully with one more appointment we would be able to wrap up the loose ends and set a time to sign the documents.

  I picked up the certified death certificates on my way into the office the next morning, tucking them safely in my briefcase.

  Chapter Seven

  Our third appointment was smooth. The weather was clear and we sat in the yard where it now seemed normal to practice law.
Miss Dorothy listened and focused more than the other times. It wasn’t necessary to repeat concepts. My mind was at rest on the issue of her capacity.

  She asked about the final bill for my fee and we set a time to execute the documents.

  Much to my dismay and despite my slight prodding, she didn’t want powers of attorney. They are really important, especially for someone without much, or any family. I thought about asking her to sign a letter that said I recommended powers of attorney and that she understood and declined. This seemed overbearing.

  The time I spent on her estate plan was more than double what any other plan took in terms of time. That meant I was making half of my usual fee. Still, I didn’t want her to feel overcharged. Earlier Dorothy expressed some money issues. It must be scary to retire and wonder if the money will last until you die.

  Dorothy could of course, reverse mortgage the house if her cash ran out or low.

  The next day, we signed the documents in Dorothy’s back yard with her tenants serving as witnesses. We used a breadboard to sign the documents on since we were as usual sitting on inside chairs placed out in the back yard.

  “Don’t worry kids,” she told the students. “I’ll be around for a long time so you can live here until I drop dead.”

  I promised to make copies of the original documents, and to return on Thursday.

  Chapter Eight

  Dorothy called on Monday in a panic.

  “Fiona you have to help me, that woman is here again from the city. She says the neighbors called her and that you are taking advantage of me. Can you come to the house? I need you to help me. She’s very pushy and I don’t trust her. She was asking about the daisies.” She paused and I could hear her breathing hard. “Fiona?”

  It took me over an hour to get to her house since I went home to collect my car. Rushing up the steps, a beady eyed sour puss woman blocked my ringing of the bell.

  She wore a comfortable outfit (elastic instead of zippers) that would forgive a large lunch or several. Her hair was mousy and poorly cut. The lanyard she wore was turned so that I couldn’t read it. I would bet her picture was as horrible as her disposition.

  “Oh no you don’t. I’m here to protect this senior from predators like you.”

  “I represent Miss Daisy as her lawyer. Is she alright?”

  Instead of answering she stood glaring at me.

  “Dorothy?” I called out and tried to reach around her and press the bell.

  “She is safe from people like you.” Old trout face was pleased with herself.

  “She isn’t here?” I asked.

  “Look, I know you were trying to get her to sign over the house and I will personally come after you.”

  Great. Suddenly Dorothy didn’t seem okay if she thought I wanted to steal her house. Of course I don’t know if it was what Dorothy said.

  A police car stopped at the curb with a chirp. A police woman walked casually up the steps. Not like the television police who were always running. Wordlessly she looked from one of us to the other.

  “Break the door down,” the social worker demanded while she stood to the side and pointed to the door (in case the police lady was confused about which door).

  “Wait a minute, I’m the attorney for Dorothy Daisy. She owns the house. I understand she is not in the house, so I guess you have a search warrant?” I asked carefully, trying not to smile.

  “No one is inside?” The officer asked.

  A few unpleasant words were exchanged about calling the police on the emergency line when it was not an emergency. Mumbling about another report, the policewoman started back toward the squad car.

  I walked down the stairs after her. The social worker remained on the porch fuming. I think she actually stamped her feet.

  “Excuse me, officer? Do you have any idea where they could have taken Miss Daisy?” I asked before she closed the car door.

  “Nortown hospital has a psych unit, St. Everest doesn’t.” She smiled. “But I never said anything like that to you, get it?”

  “Get what?” I answered.

  Since the hospital was close, I drove over. It cost seven dollars to park. There at the reception desk I was told that they could not disclose the name of patients on the psychiatric unit. This I took as a clue.

  “I’m her attorney, she is my client, and wants to see me.”

  That afternoon I didn’t see Dorothy Daisy. The clerk at the desk won the fight.

  Back at the office, I tried to call Dorothy at the hospital. The first operator said they could not disclose patients names by law. Disconnecting the call, I pressed redial. The second operator corrected the room number I provided and I was put through to my client.

  “Are you alright Miss Daisy?” I asked in relief at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh Fiona, I’m so glad to hear from you. They told me you wanted to take my house away from me and when I told them you were making me a trust they said you lied. They just wouldn’t listen, but we did sign so many papers, I was unsure of what each one was called. And I don’t have copies.”

  “Yes, we made a trust for you and a pour over will. You wanted that over a regular will to stay out of probate court.” I explained with patience that was feigned.

  “Oh I remember, because I saw those lectures at the Italian restaurant. Then you wanted me to make powers for attorney and I decided to wait until I needed them.”

  “Yes.” I skipped the lecture about when you need to make powers of attorney.

  “Oh. I knew she got it wrong, but she was asking questions that were not her business. She said seniors get wills free. She said she could get me another attorney.”

  “But your plan is done, I’ve done the work, we’ve signed the documents and you paid me.”

  “Oh I know that Fiona, she was so meddlesome.”

  Before I could ask more questions, Dorothy talked to someone while covering the phone, when she came back she explained a man named Tom brought her a dinner tray and she would call me back. Click.

  The next day, Tuesday, the hospital operator said that Dorothy was no longer a patient at the hospital. I believed her.

  I dropped by her house, not believing she would be there, but without a better idea. She didn’t answer the bell and wasn’t in the yard. A few letters were hanging out of the mailbox and I slipped them into my pocket for safekeeping.

  Walking back to the car, fast footsteps were coming up from behind me. Turning while making fists, I saw Emma, the neighbor. I relaxed in frustration.

  “Didn’t you get my messages? Where is she Fiona? What are you going to do?” She was close to tears.

  “Hi Emma,” I knew I shouldn’t be talking to her because of confidentiality rules. “I don’t know. Was she sick?”

  “Sick, no. That horrible woman from the city was here. They took her away in an ambulance. She wasn’t sick and they told me I should step away because I wasn’t related to her. How can they do that? What right do they have? She isn’t sick. She is fine.”

  “She was at the hospital yesterday but isn’t there today. I don’t know where she is now. I suppose we could call nursing homes.” After this slipped out, I realized it could be a good idea.

  “Nursing homes,” Emma shrieked. “She’ll die if they put her in one of those. And she doesn’t need nursing care. She prepares her meals and shops for groceries. She does laundry and takes care of her garden. That house, that house means the world to her.”

  “Look Emma, I am too tired to explain the rules I have to follow as an attorney. And, and I don’t know where she is.”

  “But on the phone you said I could be the power of attorney and take care of her.”

  I skipped a few beats. “Emma, we never talked on the phone.” Gradually, I understood. “How many attorneys did you call?”

  She had the grace to blush, “I wanted someone who would come out right away. But I ended up leaving message after message.”

  We waited in an uncomfortable silence before she st
arted to cry. “She is all alone.”

  “I know.”

  “How can we find her?” She wailed.

  “Well, the hospital was nearby, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if they moved her to a nursing home, or rehab place, it could be nearby too.” This seemed logical.

  “Why would she need them? There was nothing wrong with her. There was no emergency.” Emma had tears rolling merrily down her cheeks.

  “I don’t know, maybe something was wrong that we didn’t see.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “They had her in the hospital for less than a day. If there was something wrong they wouldn’t discharge her like she was in a revolving door. How can we find out where she is?”

  “The city is involved and that is not good. We don’t have the right to her medical records. She didn’t make powers of attorney.”

  “Well you were…”

  “Listen Emma,” I interrupted displaying more anger than I intended, “I don’t know who called the city on her, and I am trying to do damage control.”

  Tears streamed down her face. She had called the city, no question. She didn’t like being cut out of the decision making so she called the city.

  “But how can we find the nursing home, there must be a dozen of them that could be considered close.” She sniffed unconvincingly.

  Our plan, ill conceived as it was, began with two light bulb moments, one for each of us. “I would list them all and could start calling with the letter A…” I said.

  “And I can start at Z…” Emma laughed and ran to her house, hollering thanks over her shoulder.

  Two hours later, Emma called. She found “her cousin” Dorothy Daisy at a nursing home on Sheridan Road and Martha, busybody neighbor number two, was on her way over.

  The call an hour later was not encouraging.

  “Hello Fiona, it’s Emma, Martha saw her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes and no, I can’t go today because my cousin is coming in this evening from Colorado.”