The Baxter Trust

finally, an old ballpoint pen. He tried it on an old envelope. It worked.
    By that time the recording had already given the phone number and instructed him to stay on the line if he needed further assistance.
    An operator clicked on. “Yes?”
    “The phone number for the Taylor Detective Agency.”
    “We just gave you that number.”
    “I missed it.”
    “All right.”
    There was a click, and the recording began again.
    He got it that time. He broke the connection, got a dial tone and dialed the number.
    A female voice answered. “Taylor Detective Agency.”
    “Mark Taylor, please.”
    “Who’s calling, please?”
    “Steve Winslow.”
    “One moment please.”
    There was a click, and Steve was on hold. He hated that. At least there was no recorded music. Another click, and Mark Taylor’s slightly Brooklyn twang said, “Steve, hi. Good to hear from you. Where you been keeping yourself?”
    “It’s a long story. Listen, Mark. I got some work for you.”
    “Oh yeah? What kind of work?”
    “A murder case.”
    “No shit. I thought Wilson and Doyle fixed it so you’d never work again.”
    “I got lucky. Now look. A man was found murdered in a Miss Sheila Benton’s apartment this afternoon.”
    “Yeah. What about it?”
    “You heard about it?”
    “Can’t say that I have.”
    “Well, you will. It happens to be the biggest thing going.”
    “Oh yeah? And why is that?”
    “Because Sheila Benton happens to be Maxwell Baxter’s niece.”
    Taylor whistled. “You mean to say you got a piece of that action?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Who’s the client?”
    “Sheila Benton. ”
    Taylor whistled again. “How the hell’d you get involved?”
    “That can keep. The thing is, I need information, and I need it fast. The police haven’t identified the body yet. When they do, I want you to go to work on him.”
    “How strong?”
    “As strong as you can. I want to know everything the police know, and some things they don’t know. Get men started. Work round the clock, if you have to.”
    “That’s gonna run into a lot of money.”
    “Don’t worry. I got a huge retainer.”
    Steve hung up the phone. He walked over to a townhouse, sat on the front steps and opened the file folder. Inside, as Baxter had said, was a copy of the provisions of the trust. Steve sat on the steps and read it through.
    It was simple and straightforward. Sheila’s entire fortune was in trust until she reached the age of thirty-five. Maxwell Baxter was designated sole trustee. In the event of his death, the power of trustee reverted to the bank, which was to administer the trust under guidelines specifically laid out in the document, which included the amount of money Sheila could receive each month. The only provision under which she could receive more was in the event of a medical emergency, or if she wished to attend school.
    The morals clause was there too, just as Baxter had said: “... be convicted of any crime, or engage in any illegal, immoral or unethical act which should, in the estimation of the trustee, bring disrepute upon the family name, the entire trust is forfeit, and ...”
    Steve skimmed through the rest of the document and found the passage he was looking for: ‘This trust is held inviolate. No lien of any kind upon the said Sheila Benton shall be payable from or shall in any way reduce the amount of this trust. No judgment in any court of law against the said Sheila Benton shall be payable from this trust or shall in any way reduce the amount of this trust. Any debts incurred by the said Sheila Benton are hers and hers alone, and have no bearing upon this trust, nor shall any creditor of Sheila Benton have any legal recourse....”
    It went on in that manner for another page and a half Steve read it through three times, looking for a loophole. In the end he was forced to admit that Baxter was right There was no way he was going to get a dime.
    Wouldn’t you know it? He was hurting for cash right now. He checked in his pockets. Thirty-six bucks. Nothing in the bank. And the rent coming due.
    Shit! Not only that, but he was late for work.
    Steve drove a cab. This was another carryover from his acting days, just like his long hair and his answering service. Out-of-work actors waited tables or drove cabs. Steve had never had the temperament to wait tables, so as an out-of-work actor he’d driven a cab. And then, as an out-of-work lawyer, he’d driven a cab.
    And he was due to drive one now.
    With a