CHAPTER 4 MY GRANDMOTHER’S MISSING WILL
The demand made no sense.
The police already had the brass key.
Whoever had taken Aunt Marjorie either did not know that or wanted something else.
Detective Ortiz immediately ordered officers to search Hartwell House. No one was found inside, but the mansion’s security system had been disabled shortly after Marjorie’s call.
“Could the key open something inside the house?” Ortiz asked.
Samuel Whitaker nodded slowly.
“Evelyn kept a private study on the third floor. The door had an antique lock, but I believed it was sealed after her death.”
“Why would it be sealed?”
“Because the original will disappeared.”
The official will submitted after Grandmother’s death had left most of her liquid assets to Aunt Marjorie and divided smaller gifts among the rest of the family. Vanessa had received Grandmother’s jewelry collection and money for her future wedding.
I had received twelve thousand dollars and a handwritten cookbook.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now Mr. Whitaker explained that the document filed in probate court was not the final will he had prepared.
“Three months before Evelyn died, she changed everything,” he said. “She removed Marjorie as executor and transferred the largest assets into a trust for Paige.”
My mother looked stunned.
“Why Paige?”
“Because Paige was the only family member who visited her without asking for money.”
I remembered sitting beside Grandmother’s bed on Sunday afternoons. We watched old movies, worked crossword puzzles and argued about whether sweet tea should be served with lemon.
I had never asked what she owned.
I had not even known Hartwell Preservation Company controlled more than thirty historic properties across South Carolina and Georgia.
The company was worth approximately forty-eight million dollars.
Vanessa knew.
That was why she had spent years painting me as arrogant and greedy. She had been preparing the family to believe I would challenge the will out of jealousy.
Instead, she and Marjorie had apparently stolen the real document before Grandmother died.
“The trust still exists,” Mr. Whitaker explained. “It was created separately and cannot be erased by destroying the will. But until Paige formally claimed it, Marjorie maintained temporary control of several properties.”
“Including Hartwell House,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And Vanessa used my house for her engagement party.”
Mr. Whitaker’s mouth tightened. “Without your knowledge.”
Detective Ortiz placed Grandmother’s letter inside an evidence folder.
“Why would they still need the original will?”
“Because it contains a provision affecting Vanessa.”
“What provision?”
Mr. Whitaker looked uncomfortable.
“Evelyn suspected Vanessa and Dr. Voss were exploiting her. She instructed that if evidence of financial abuse emerged, Vanessa would lose all rights to the Hartwell name, assets and company benefits.”
“So Vanessa needed the will destroyed.”
“Yes. But there is something more.”
He opened the leather document case and removed a copy of the Hartwell Trust.
“Paige must sign an acceptance document before her thirtieth birthday. Otherwise, control passes temporarily to the next listed family beneficiary.”
“When is Paige’s birthday?” Detective Ortiz asked.
My mother answered quietly.
“Six days from now.”
The room went still.
“And who is the next beneficiary?” I asked.
Mr. Whitaker’s eyes met mine.
“Vanessa.”
The engagement party, the drugging, the break-in and the fall suddenly formed one clear picture.
Vanessa did not merely hate me.
She needed me unable to claim the trust.
If I died, disappeared or remained mentally incapacitated until my birthday, she could seize temporary control.
“Can Paige sign now?” my mother asked.
“Yes. But the trust requires two independent witnesses and the original Hartwell family seal.”
“Where is the seal?”
“In Evelyn’s third-floor study.”
The brass key was not only evidence.
It was access.
Detective Ortiz did not want me leaving the hospital, but Dr. Keller agreed I could be transported under medical supervision if I remained in a wheelchair and returned within two hours.
By late afternoon, three police vehicles surrounded Hartwell House.
The mansion looked different in daylight.
The white columns, black shutters and sweeping front steps had seemed elegant during the party. Now the place felt like a beautiful mask covering something rotten.
Blood had been cleaned from the bottom of the staircase.
My blood.
Inside, overturned furniture showed where officers had searched. Half-deflated balloons still floated near the ceiling. A sign reading FUTURE MRS. COLEMAN leaned crookedly against the wall.
Detective Reed carried the evidence bag containing the key.
We climbed to the third floor using an old service elevator.
At the end of a narrow hallway stood a dark mahogany door. The lock was small, almost delicate.
The key fit perfectly.
Inside, Grandmother’s study remained exactly as she had left it.
Her reading glasses rested on the desk. A knitted shawl hung over the chair. Shelves held leather-bound books and framed photographs.
One photograph showed Grandmother and me baking peach cobbler when I was eight.
Someone had placed it face down.
My mother turned it upright.
“Marjorie did this.”
Detective Ortiz began checking the walls and cabinets. Mr. Whitaker approached a framed painting of Hartwell House and lifted it from its hook.
Behind it was a small iron safe.
The brass key opened that too.
Inside were the original will, the Hartwell family seal and three digital audio recorders.
There was also a stack of medical reports.
Dr. Keller reviewed the reports later that evening.
They showed that Grandmother’s health had not declined naturally. Over five months, Dr. Voss repeatedly increased dosages of medication that could cause confusion, weakness and cardiac complications. When Grandmother questioned missing funds, her dosage increased again.
“This pattern is consistent with chemical restraint,” Dr. Keller said. “Possibly attempted homicide.”
One audio recording contained Grandmother confronting Dr. Voss.
“You are giving me something that makes me forget,” she said.
“You’re an elderly woman with progressing dementia,” he replied.
“I do not have dementia.”
“Your daughter disagrees.”
“My daughter is frightened of Vanessa.”
Then Grandmother said something that made everyone in the room freeze.
“I know Vanessa is not Marjorie’s biological child.”
My mother stared at the recorder.
“What?”
The recording continued.
“She is yours, Malcolm. Marjorie told me the truth twenty-eight years ago. You have spent her entire life teaching her that this family owes her everything.”
Dr. Voss’s voice became cold.
“If you repeat that allegation, your family will consider it another symptom of mental decline.”
“You forged the medical evaluation.”
“And no one will believe you.”
The recording ended.
Vanessa was Dr. Voss’s daughter.
Brent had helped with the break-ins and financial scheme, but Voss had designed the plan. He had spent decades near the family, first as Marjorie’s secret lover and later as Grandmother’s physician.
Vanessa had believed the Hartwell fortune was her birthright because her father had told her so.
That did not excuse what she had done.
But it explained the obsession.
Detective Ortiz’s phone rang.
She listened, then turned toward us.
“Vanessa made bail.”
My mother looked horrified. “How?”
“Her attorney argued that the fall video did not show intent to kill and that the older assault remains under investigation. Her passport has been surrendered, and she is under electronic monitoring.”
“Where will she go?”
“She listed Brent’s apartment.”
Mr. Whitaker shook his head. “Brent is still in custody.”
A loud crash came from the hallway.
Detective Reed drew his weapon and moved toward the door.
The lights went out.
My mother screamed.
Emergency lights flickered red along the floor.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message appeared from Vanessa.
YOU ALWAYS TAKE WHAT BELONGS TO ME.
A second message followed.
COME TO THE BALLROOM ALONE OR YOUR AUNT DIES.
Beneath the words was a photograph of Marjorie tied to a chair.
May you like
Behind her stood the champagne tower from the engagement party.
Vanessa was already inside the house.
