Final Option

her ten percent. The common shares had no cash value but were in some sense more valuable, since they were the voting shares. All of the common shares had been left to Barton Jr. Simply stated, the girls owned two-thirds of Hexter Commodities but had no say in how the company was to be run.
    “This is not a terribly enlightened bequest,” I protested. “The girls have no control over the company.“
    “Bart wanted to insure that the company not pass out of family control,” explained Kurlander. “He wanted to make it difficult for the girls, who might be influenced by their husbands, to sell their shares.”
    There was so much wrong with what Kurlander was telling me—the will rested on so many faulty and insulting premises that I wanted to shake him—but instead I let it pass. I had neither the time nor the energy to drag Ken Kurlander into a more enlightened age.
    I went back and flipped through the entire document from the beginning. “That’s it? None of the estate passes to Pamela?” I inquired, genuinely surprised. I was certain that Ken would have been sure that Bart understood that property could be passed to his wife tax-free.
    “I know,” replied Kurlander with a disgusted shake of his head. “I brought it up every year. The only thing I can think of is that there must be some history between them, some personal reason for his wanting to cut out Pamela. Perhaps the loan she made to him still rankled. Maybe it was his way of paying her back for what he perceived as her stinginess. I know that Pamela is careful with a dollar—she watches every penny that passes through her household like it was her last. I know for a fact that she used her position as minority shareholder of Hexter Commodities to do a quarterly review of the company’s books. Like I said, in some ways Pamela is a most peculiar woman.”
    “Have you discussed the terms of the will with the family yet?” I inquired.
    “They’re coming in tomorrow morning at ten. But there is another matter that I wanted to bring to your attention. I discovered something very disturbing when I arrived at the office this morning.”
    “Really? What is it?”
    “I was out of the office the entire day on Friday, so I didn’t find out about it until I reviewed my calendar this morning. It appears that Bart Hexter called Friday morning and made an appointment with my secretary to see me this morning.”
    “Did he say what it was about?”
    “No. He didn’t mention anything to my secretary, but Bart and Pamela Hexter have been my clients for more than thirty years. In that time the only work I’ve done for Bart has pertained to estate planning. I can only assume that he wanted to see me about making some changes in his will.”
     
    Detective Ruskowski caught me with a cup of chili on my desk and some cream cheese on my chin, the remainder of my lunch, courtesy of my kindhearted secretary. I stood up when I saw him, quickly applying a napkin to my lips and whisking the crumbs off my skirt. From the doorway, he managed a quick appraisal of my office.
    “Please come in, Detective,” I said, minding my corporate manners and extending my hand. He declined to shake it. Instead he wandered over toward the window. I stood awkwardly, behind my desk. Waiting. Finally he turned to me, running his thick fingers through the ginger brush of his hair.
    “Why don’t you tell me when you first started sleeping with Bart Hexter?”
    Disconcerted, it was a few seconds before I could muster a reply. “I have never slept with Bart Hexter,” I responded, finally, reminding myself that unpleasant as it may be, this was Ruskowski’s job.
    “You don’t have to be modest,” said the detective. “You’re an adult. I’m a policeman. There’s nothing that you’ve done that I haven’t heard about before.” I noticed that he was wearing the same navy suit he’d worn the day before. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, and his freckled skin had taken on a sickly pallor. I would have been surprised if he’d slept since the discovery of Bart Hexter’s death.
    “I appreciate your delicacy, Detective, but the fact remains that I never had any sort of physical relationship with Bart Hexter. I was his attorney. He was my client. I represent a large number of people, many of whom I know much better than I knew Bart Hexter.”
    “You mean like Stephen Azorini?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Isn’t Dr. Azorini a client of yours?”
    “Not personally. I represent