What do you wear to a black mass? Marquie asked herself. “For only Satan himself could
find any interest in this.” When she was in the mood for nothing more than a t-shirt and
jeans, she removed a crisp white blouse from a hangar. Out of respect for her father, she
put on a black business suit. Her features were naturally dark so that she needed only a
dab of blush to highlight her cheekbones. Without thinking, she slipped on a pair of black
pumps sans stockings.
The chime of the clock announced that a mere fifteen minutes separated her from disaster.
What she needed was a stiff drink, but that would give her brother another excuse to
accuse her of mental lapses. She winked at a member of the kitchen staff who immediately
delivered a tall glass of Long Island iced tea. It was noticeably heavy on ice and lacking
tea.
“Marquie,” Peter said in greeting. Immediately he rose and moved toward her, his arm
outstretched. “I know this is a hard day for you.”
Her body stiffened to receive his caustic embrace. Defensiveness overtook her at the
sight of him since the day he tossed her eight-year old body over the balcony railing and
she fell to the soft earth of the garden.
‘But Dad, she only broke three bones,’ was her brother’s response. ‘No, you little
bastard,’ her father shot back. ‘You broke them.’
“Peter,” she whispered as she backed away and took a sip of bourbon. “I’m sure you’ve
arranged everything the way you want it.”
“I’m doing this for us now,” he said in his most simpering voice.
“There’s nothing to argue about any more, honey. Everything will go down exactly the way
Dad wanted it.”
She peered into his slate grey eyes a moment and then roved the room. That slimy eel,
Keith Landry otherwise known as the Alphabet Murderer, sat in her father’s favorite chair.
Several of the firm’s lawyers were in attendance though she didn’t understand why criminal
lawyers and international trade negotiators were required. And what did this have to do
with family law? But two of the divorce lawyers were on hand while only one estate
attorney had been invited.
Nowhere was Aunt Patrice. Donnell McLaughlin moved through the atrium door and glanced at
her before bowing his head. Internally, she sighed knowing there was at least one friend
in the room.
“I want to wait for Patrice,” she announced.
Peter’s usually haughty expression melted into a scowl.
“Perhaps you’re unaware, but your Aunt Patrice quit the firm this morning. She did, in
fact, say she wasn’t interested in this afternoon’s proceedings at all.” He reached into
his jacket and retrieved a letter to give to Marquie.
Suspiciously, Marquie studied her brother and then snatched the letter from his hand.
Formally addressed to Mr. Peter Navarre and written on company letterhead, it gave no
reason for the resignation.
But the addendum, “...though I know you’re father has named me in his will, I will not
be in attendance this afternoon.”
A thousand things ran though Marquie’s mind. But she knew Patrice hadn’t been feeling
well lately. The sudden death of her father and the strain of the last few days was enough
to put Patrice in bed for a week.
She folded the letter and shoved it in her pocket. Without a response, she moved toward
the upright chair closest to where Donnell stood. Carefully, she sat down and straightened
her spine as one leg crossed the other. Donnell’s presence, like a guardian warrior
behind her, soothed the tension a little. “You may begin,” she declared.
Heavily, Peter exhaled, his attitude huffy over his sister’s attempt to command him. As
he rolled his eyes, he nodded to the estate attorney who stood with a legal envelope in
hand. He passed it to the next man to inspect the seal and signature of Pierre Navarre,
Esq. Finally, it came to Marquie and she studied it carefully. It certainly looked like
her father’s signature. But the date preceded this event by only a month. Her father had
changed his will that recently. Boldly, she asked, “Was this document filed with the
probate court?”
Respectfully, he answered, “Yes Ma’am. I filed the document myself on that same date.”
Marquie nodded and passed it on. If this document differed from what was filed with the
probate court she could easily find out. If Peter had forged something... No, she decided.
She knew that couldn’t happen.
The attorney took the envelope and broke the seal. As if the contents were gospel, he
pulled them out and studied the top page a moment. His voice, flat and dry began, “For the
estate of Pierre Navarre...”
Cramps twisted Marquie’s intestines into knots. The droning seemed to go on forever.
Quietly, she sipped the bourbon, yet she was lucid enough to hear, “...I hereby name
Patrice Evans as the executrix of my will.”
Instantly, Marquie looked up at her brother. His grim expression explained he knew
nothing of this. Yet for something that should have been a shock, he relaxed back into the
chair too quickly, she thought.
“...and to my son, Peter Navarre, I leave my properties in Antigua, Bermuda, California
and France. The yacht, Perpetual Motion, is to become his sole property. Peter is to
become a senior partner at the law firm of Navarre, Navarre, and Navarre and will retain
sixty percent of my share of the profits. An additional five million dollars of my
personal accounts will be transferred to him.”
Unable to control himself, Peter launched from the chair. His face reddened with anger,
he screamed, “Five million. That’s all. A paltry five million dollars!”
The suits glanced nervously at each other for this appalling lack of decorum. Marquie
understood it well. They now had their hands full; their fate was sealed. It would take
three of them to keep the brat prince out of the law firm’s affairs. Inwardly, she
smiled.
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