Chapter 25
Preston was not happy that Titus was joining them for breakfast, Waverly observed. He stared at Titus, then at her, and then finally stated baldly, “And you were concerned about my dalliances, cousin?”
Preston took a seat at the table and proceeded to shell a hard-boiled egg.
Titus sat as well, and for a moment, Waverly felt a renewed sense of confidence. If Preston were her uncle and aunt’s killer, then she and Titus outnumbered him now. Still, sharing breakfast with a murderer was not on her list of preferred things to do.
“Actually, Mr. Scofield,” Titus said to Preston as he slid a linen napkin on his lap.
“I am here to tend the remains regularly now that we’ve exceeded the typical four days for a wake.
And, well, you must admit, the bodies require a special sort of tending—that is, until the terms of the will are met. ”
“Terms of the will!” Preston barked. “Ridiculous. I don’t know what Leopold was thinking.”
“I quite agree.” Titus gave him a thin smile. “I’m merely here to do my duty by Mr. Traeger and his wife, yes?”
Aveline cleared her throat from the dining room doorway.
Preston shot her a look, and she paled.
“Sir, Mr. Grossman is here to see you.”
“At this hour?” Preston let his spoon drop from his hand onto the table. “Well, Aveline, show him in. I believe both Miss Pembrooke and Mr. Fitzgerald should hear what he has to say.”
Aveline dipped in a curtsy and disappeared around the corner.
Within seconds, Mr. Grossman blustered in, his thin face ruddy from what appeared to be a brisk walk in the cool November morning. He held a portfolio under one arm and tapped the floor with a walking stick with his other hand.
“Mr. Scofield!” He acknowledged Preston with a small smile.
“My apologies for taking so long to meet with you. I had business outside of town, and then my wife took sick. But here I am!” Mr. Grossman appeared to notice Waverly and Titus at that moment, giving an understandable second look when he registered their presence.
“Mr. Fitzgerald?” The unspoken question was obvious.
“I’m here to tend the bodies,” Titus said without hesitation.
“Ah. Well then.” Mr. Grossman turned back to Preston. “Would you prefer to meet privately?”
“No.” Preston gestured to an empty chair and beckoned for Mr. Grossman to have a seat. “I do believe this is all pertinent information, and Mr. Fitzgerald, being the undertaker here, understands the need for confidentiality.”
“I do,” Titus responded appropriately.
Mr. Grossman appeared a bit out of his element as he set his portfolio down beside him at the table and accepted Waverly’s offer of coffee.
Without a full staff, and with Aveline nowhere in sight, Waverly stood and moved to the sideboard to pour a hot cup of coffee for the lawyer.
Her hand shook as she poured it, and she was glad that no one witnessed it.
This was the moment that would reveal Preston’s true intentions regarding Uncle Leopold’s estate.
She was not the heir apparent, nor would any alliance with her benefit Preston.
He would not be named in the will. It all fell—if they were honest—to Mr. Grossman himself.
While he didn’t benefit personally from the funds and properties, he did benefit from the prestige of managing the affairs of Leopold Traeger. It was an enviable position.
“Thank you.” Mr. Grossman accepted the coffee and waited for Waverly to be seated again. Once she had, he began. “Mr. Scofield, as you are aware, I’ve already gone over the details of the last will and testament with Miss Pembrooke.”
Preston cast her a wary look. She couldn’t tell if he was surprised or had simply forgotten that she had told him this fact.
Mr. Grossman sipped his coffee, then continued.
“In short, the will lays out rather . . . well, unique specifics surrounding the burial of Mr. Traeger and his wife—specifics that Waverly has been requested to attend to. In addition, the will states that the Traeger Estate, its business holdings, and all financial investments are to be transferred to the care and oversight of my office.”
Preston paled.
Mr. Grossman didn’t seem to notice. “On my own death, the estate will transfer to Newton Creek. The town may sell or do with the assets as best suits the community at that time.”
Waverly exchanged glances with Titus, who turned to Preston. He was watching the man, Waverly knew, for any sign of murderous intent. Which was a bit ridiculous because, at this point, even a kind and friendly Preston Scofield would likely feel murderous after hearing this news.
“I-I don’t understand,” Preston spat out.
Mr. Grossman appeared far more understanding than when he’d told Waverly the will’s terms. “Miss Pembrooke didn’t either. But there really is nothing complicated about it. Aside from the eccentricities surrounding his burial, Leopold Traeger left the terms of his will quite cut-and-dried.”
“And this house?” Preston blustered. “What about Traeger Hall? Is she the one to remain here?” Preston jerked his head toward Waverly, his face a purple color.
“No,” Mr. Grossman replied. “This property will be sealed, along with the entirety of its belongings, forty-eight hours after the burial of Mr. Traeger and his wife. And it’s not to be reopened for a century.”
Preston launched from his chair, slamming his fist on the tabletop and sending the dishware clattering. “Preposterous! How do I contest this?”
Mr. Grossman didn’t seem flustered in the slightest. “You don’t. It is incontestable.”
“The courts may have something else to say.” Preston tugged at his jacket, straightening it on his torso. “You cannot possibly understand the inner—” he glanced at Titus and Waverly and gritted his teeth—“the inner workings of Leopold Traeger’s business interests.”
Waverly noticed that Titus remained placid with regard to the scene unfolding, yet his eyes remained sharp. He wasn’t missing a thing.
“I understand more than you know, Mr. Scofield.” Mr. Grossman pushed his chair back and stood. “There is nothing more to discuss.” Despite his professional demeanor, there was steel in the lawyer’s voice.
“I will see you out,” Preston stated flatly.
As the two men exited the dining room, Waverly stared after them, debating on whether to follow for the purpose of spying.
Titus’s low voice kept her planted in her chair. “Both men are hiding something.”
“That is apparent,” said Waverly, “but what is it?”
“I would wager there is more to your uncle’s business ventures than meets the eye.”
“Everyone assumes that already,” Waverly retorted. “Still, we’ve no evidence of anything, Titus. There still isn’t any indication as to whether Preston or Mr. Grossman—or perhaps both—had anything to do with the murders.”
“Or Louisa.” Titus eyed her with some reproof.
Waverly was unwilling to entertain that idea. She tossed out an equally absurd suggestion. “Or Reverend Billings.”
Titus laughed. “Because of some stained-glass windows for his church?”
“People have murdered for less.”
“Perhaps, but whoever killed your uncle and aunt was overcome with violent rage. The killer showed no mercy or hesitation.”
“So then . . . what next?” Waverly asked pointedly.
Titus lifted his cup and took a long drink of coffee. He set the cup back on its saucer and said, “I believe it is time to plan the funeral.”
Waverly
In an interview shortly before her death in 1950; memories from a few days after the murders:
But I had no idea of the course of events I had set into motion. I had no idea of the events that were already well under way without my knowledge. The morning Preston discovered what was in my uncle’s will was the morning everything became a terrifying whirlwind.
Nothing could prepare me for what was to happen next. The secrets that Traeger Hall buried . . .