W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

returns are another good place to look.”
    “Speaking of which, am I going to have to pay income taxes on this money?”
    “Nope. You’re clear on that score. Federal estate tax exemption was raised to six hundred thousand dollars just last year. That’s one more reason to make sure he has no other assets that might boost the estate over the six-hundred-thousand-dollar threshold. California inheritance taxes were repealed in 1982 by voter initiative.”
    “Well, hallelujah.”
    “I’m not done yet,” she said. “You need to look for retirement accounts—IRAs and the like—and life insurance policies, though those proceeds, if any, would be paid to the beneficiaries identified in the policy itself.”
    “You think his kids will come after me?”
    “Are you kidding? Why wouldn’t they? Not only did he disinherit them, but he left all his money to someone he never met. Plus, he was homeless in the last stage of his life, which suggests instability. Those kids have nothing to lose. There’s no bequest to them—at least not as far as I can see—so any no-contest clause would be out the window. Then you have the witnesses . . .”
    I said, “Oh, man. Will they have to show up in court? I should warn you, the three aren’t exemplary citizens.”
    “You know them?”
    “I do. They’re currently residents of Harbor House and at least one of them has an issue with alcohol.”
    “All we need are two witnesses anyway, which gives us a one-drunk margin. The will is self-proving. When the witnesses signed, not only did they declare Dace was of sound mind and memory and not acting under duress, menace, fraud, or undue influence, but that the facts were true and correct under penalty of perjury. It helps that this was signed, sealed, and delivered, so to speak, before you were pulled into the equation.”
    “This already sounds too complicated,” I said. “Can’t I hire you to take care of it?”
    “Absolutely. The clerical work isn’t the issue here. Where you’re going to need representation is in the event that these kids show up in court with a phalanx of attorneys. Now, that would be fun.” She opened a desk drawer and took out two printed sheets stapled together in one corner. “Here’s a couple of pages of instructions you can keep for ready reference. It’s a lot to take in and you’ve probably blanked out half of what I’ve said.”
    I glanced at the pages she gave me, but all of it seemed to be gibberish. “I must be having a mental breakdown. None of this makes sense.”
    She stood and peered across the desk. “Oh. That’s the Spanish version.”
    She held out a hand and I returned the pages. She substituted the English-language version, which I couldn’t bring myself to read.
    “How soon will you be driving to Bakersfield?” she asked.
    “I’d like to go tomorrow morning.”
    “Why don’t I meet you at the Superior Court Clerk’s office at eight o’clock? We can get this process under way and then you can hit the road.”
    “Great. That sounds good,” I said. “Do I pay as we go or will you bill me?”
    She waved the issue aside. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll bill you. You’re a friend of Lonnie’s and that’s good enough for me.”

12
    I did as Burke Benjamin had suggested and stopped by the records department at the courthouse after I left her office. I paid the fee for the proper forms, which I would complete and return to the Superior Court Clerk’s office next door when I submitted the original of Dace’s will. I went back to my office and scrutinized the petition as though studying for a test. The format was straightforward, providing a number of boxes that could be marked with X’s or left blank according to the dictates of any given case. I flipped the page over and saw that there was another full set of questions on the back that I’d get to in due course. I rolled the first page into my typewriter and spent far more time than necessary making sure the paper was properly aligned.
    When faced with a tedious questionnaire, which is essentially what this was, the only remedy is to tackle the job one line at a time. In the top box, I typed in my name and address. I typed in Dace’s full name. Put an X in the box indicating the petition was for Probate of Will and for Letters Testamentary. I could see now that this was closer to a multiple-choice test where the answers had to be debated one by one to decide which seemed closest to the facts. I’d