Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“The locks on my bedroom door were changed, Sable,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and deliberate.
“Only because of safety concerns,” Sable said, not looking up from her carving. “I authorized the locksmith to do the whole house last Tuesday after I saw a strange car idling near the hedge.”
She reached into the pocket of her silk trousers and produced a folded blue folder, laying it flat beside my salad fork.
“If you sign this waiver for the probate trust, we can have the locksmith return tomorrow morning to hand you the new keys,” she said.
The paper lay between us, the legal heading printed in a heavy black font that seemed to absorb the light from the chandelier.
“The estate appraisal cost thirty-five hundred dollars, Cassandra,” Sable said, her voice dropping to a low, tight whisper. “We cannot afford to let the probate drag on for months because of a few sentimental disagreements.”
“And my husband’s private trust?” I asked, looking directly at her.
“The private trust is empty, Mom,” Nathan said, his voice trailing off as he looked toward the window. “We checked the primary accounts with the bank yesterday.”
