The Heir to the Fortune

The Heir to the Fortune

By Shani Krammer

February 6, 2021

Elizabeth Filmore used to be my best friend in high school. I would have trusted her with any number of secrets, and for the longest time she was my one and only confidant. That all changed when I found out what she did. Our friendship dissolved after I lost all respect for her.

This all happened because one day, when we were going around the lunch table recounting our craziest stories, she piped up with a story that I could barely believe.

The way she tells it, she was out walking one day in the blistering cold of a Canadian winter, in a little town called Ponteix, Saskatchewan. Way out in the prairies; further than many would care to venture during a drive across the flat land. The whole town could be traversed on foot in a matter of minutes, so there was not much to see.

You can see nothing but grain silos, barns and cows for miles, and the sheer boredom of the endeavour ensures that the town is always drastically underpopulated. The elderly chose this as their retirement spot, so there is typically a hoard of blue hairs inhabiting the sleepy little hamlet, just an hour outside of Swift Current.

The news of the day was often who had recently passed away. It was a morbid afternoon activity for the blue hairs; they would sit around at the cafe and look through the obituaries, pointing with their boney, frail fingers at the various names. Every name came with an annecdote of some sort.

The stories were always exaggerated; like the time Elizabeth overheard two old ladies swear that they saw Old Man Rogers spike his wife's tea with rat poison, or the time they said they saw a 'suspicious figure' sneaking into the Jefferson's shack to hang a noose around Angus Jefferson to make it look like he had committed suicide. Obviously they never proved it was murder, but the shadow of doubt was enough for these ladies.

Elizabeth was paying a visit to her grandparents who lived in the small town. She was the youngest person for miles, and the towns people always stared at her suspiciously. She put up with it though, because her grandparents always gave her gifts and sometimes money whenever she would visit, and they even allowed her to have a drink or two from the liquor cabinet, as long as she didn't tell her parents.

Elizabeth was good at getting what she wanted.

The ironic thing is, Elizabeth's folks sent her down to the quiet town to get away from her somewhat 'wild' tendencies. Back in our high school, she was known for sneaking out on weekdays to go to college parties. I never went to those; I was always too busy studying. but I hear the parties could get wild. Elizabeth always came in to school the next day with tales of wild abandon.

On the day in question, Elizabeth ducked into the cafe to escape the blustering winds and snowflakes that had begun to cluster all over her fleece coat; matting it in some spots, and completely soaking through to her shirt underneath. She had been on her way to visit some boy she had met there the previous winter, but she had gotten stuck in the snowstorm.

The cafe was dingy, and in desperate need of a remodel. The chairs at each table were dreadfully mismatched, as though at one point they were part of a set, but over the years, after wear and tear, each chair had been tossed out in favour of a chair from a garage sale or from the back alley-way.

The floors were equally disgusting; they were once a pale cream colour, but now had taken on a greyish hue, and many of the tiles were loose, possibly from mould or from shoddy workmanship.

She found a seat at a table in the middle of the cafe, surrounded on all sides by full tables made up of the resident blue hairs.

She took off her wet coat and laid it on the chair across from her, and started to look at the menu, unsure about what to eat.

As she waited for a server to take her order, she began to take notice of a particularly loud conversation at the table behind her.

''...left her nothing. I know, I couldn't believe it either, but he was always a little bit of a jerk. He couldn't stand the thought of sharing anything with anyone, the stingy old conker,'' said some old lady who looked like a retired schoolteacher.

''Yeah well, she birthed five children for that man, and gave him the best years of her life,'' a second old lady with horn-rimmed glasses mused. ''The least he could have done is left her a little token of his affection, even if it wasn't genuine affection.''

Elizabeth was intrigued, so much so that when the server came to take her order she waved her away impatiently, and continued to eavesdrop, trying her best to act as though she was very interested in the menu.

''I'm sure she knew it was a loveless marriage!'' the schoolteacher exclaimed. "Did you see those letters she found in his underwear drawer that time? I thought she was going to have an aneurysm, and beat him over the head with a frying pan!"

''I just wish I could take a look at that weird black notebook,'' Horn Rim said, as she chewed a stale scone slathered in jam.

''Good luck. She won't show it to anyone, even her daughters,'' Teacher said. ''And trust me, they've been begging nonstop for weeks. Any last words from him would be a blessing, seeing as how he was alone when he died. His body was at the bottom of those stairs for hours before anyone was called to the house. Poor man.''

Teacher was speaking loudly now, without a care that everyone in the place was listening.

The server stopped at their table to deliver some fresh coffee and she lingered there for a minute, obviously interested in the exchange. The surrounding tables had ceased to converse, and were all listening with rapt attention.

''Are you talking about Agnes and Abe?'' The server inquired.

''You know what I heard?'' a voice piped up from across the room, originating from behind the counter. It was the barista. ''I heard Agnes killed him, because Abe told her she wasn't in his will.

"I heard them arguing in here at their usual table last week, fighting up a storm.

"I couldn't hear what they were fighting about, except she kept screaming about 'finding it someday','' he said with a morbid grin.

A warning suddenly came onto the radio, warning everyone in town to stay indoors, as the storm had begun to pick up.

The server came back to Elizabeth's table and she decided to order some coffee.

''Will that be everything?'' the server asked.

''Yes, for now. Maybe I'll order some food in a bit,'' replied Elizabeth.

As Elizabeth contemplated the danger of being frozen to death, the cafe door swung open forcefully, and Agnes Wheeler blew in, as if she had flown there on a broomstick.

Everyone in town, including Elizabeth, knew her. Hers was a house every child knew to avoid; her face was usually enough to cross over to the next street if you saw her approaching.

Her white hair stood at attention, each long strand pointing in a different direction. Her eyes darted around like a crackhead, and her head kept bobbing everywhere like a seagull searching for scraps.

Mrs. Wheeler's sillouette made her appear as though she had been struck by lightning, and her thick cake makeup was sliding down her skin where the snow had blown across her face, and she looked rather melted, like a chocolate bunny that had been left out in the sun.

''I need coffee, can you handle that?'' she muttered, to nobody in particular, as she rooted around in her purse for the change to pay. 'And gimme some sugar.'

''Yes Ma'am,'' stuttered the server from her corner. ''I'll put your order in now. Have a seat and I'll bring it to you.''

All eyes fixed onto Agnes, whom unbeknownst to her, had been the topic of discussion mere seconds prior.

Each customer was so silent that it seemed that many had started to hold their breath, out of fear of being noticed.

Agnes' eyes darted around the cafe, and it became apparent that there was no place for her to sit. Every seat was filled, save for the chair that held Elizabeth's coat.

Before Elizabeth knew what was happening, she witnessed a hand grasping her wet coat, and tossing it haphazardly onto the dirty floor. She suddenly came face-to-face with Mrs. Wheeler, who was glaring menacingly at her.

''Chairs are for sitting,'' she snarled.

She plopped down into the chair, as Elizabeth scrambled to lift her coat from the muddy surface. There was a hook on the wall, so Elizabeth hung the coat up and sat back down gingerly.

Elizabeth glanced awkwardly at Agnes Wheeler, unsure of what to do or say.

Mrs. Wheeler, unphased by her own rudeness, began to read. Not from any novel or magazine, no. From a small, tattered notebook that was most definately black in colour.

As she read, a deep frown formed on her face, and she appeared noticeably angry, as though someone had farted in her vicinity, and she was trying to find the culprit.

''What are you reading, Mrs. Wheeler?'' Elizabeth ventured.

''Oh, just... Abe's idea of a joke,'' Agnes said, her voice dripping with disdain. ''He left me a cryptic message that he knows I'll never decipher.''

''May I see it?''

Across the cafe, Teacher and Horn Rim audibly gasped.

The server quietly delivered Mrs. Wheeler and Elizabeth their drinks and sidled off to her corner of the room again, where she could observe the interaction.

Elizabeth pretended not to notice the stares from everyone in the cafe, and went on.

''It's just," Elizabeth chose her words carefully, "Maybe you could use a set of fresh eyes. Sometimes, you're too close to a problem, and it can help to get an outsider's perspective."

''...Okay...'' Agnes said, and handed the notebook over to Elizabeth, grudgingly.

Elizabeth tried to contain her curiousity as she opened the small notebook.

On the first page, it read: This notebook is the property of Abraham J. Wheeler, born 1935.

The following pages contained a list of women's names and phone numbers. Next to each one, Abe had added little notes. Things such as: Most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, and Her lips are the soft pillows of heaven. I am in ecstasy.

''What am I looking at?'' Elizabeth inquired nervously.

''That's a list of women Abraham was seeing on the side during our entire marriage,'' Agnes said in an icy voice, devoid of all emotion. ''Skip to the last page.''

Elizabeth flipped through the book to the last page. It said: If you want it so badly, Agnes, look under the place where we had our first date.

''Agnes, what does this page mean?'' She asked, unphased. Everyone around her was looking at Elizabeth, as she did what they were too afraid to.

''That's his idea of a joke,'' Agnes said bitterly.

''Why is it a joke?''

''Oh, because he refused to leave me a Last Will and Testament upon his death. All he left me is that damned notebook, because he's obviously hidden his money somewhere he doesn't want me to find.''

''Well, it's easy then! You just look where you had your first date, and bam! You've found your inheritance!'' Elizabeth was becoming excited; she loved puzzles.

''That would be easier said than done, child,'' Agnes said sharply. ''You see, our first date wasn't here. It was in Paris, France, in 1960.''

Elizabeth's heart sank.

''...So you see,'' continued Agnes, ''He's just trying to tell me that he has sent me on a wild goose chase.

"I haven't got the money to travel, and even if I did, I can't remember what the restaurant was called, or if it's even there anymore.

"After everything that two-timing waste of skin has done to me, he refuses to throw me a bone, even in death.''

''Is it possible Abraham could have been talking about something else?'' Elizabeth offered. ''Maybe it's a riddle or like, a puzzle?''

''What else could 'first date' mean? It's obviously a reference to when we first courted,'' Agnes was visibly frustrated, and she had begun tapping her fingers on the table.

''I'm not sure...'' Elizabeth stammered.

''I thought so. Useless girl,'' Agnes spat, as she stood up, and made her way towards the door, her coffee half-finished and cold.

She threw open the door, and stomped out into the storm, and slowly began to disappear into the blizzarding landscape whence she came.

The cold winds buffeted her around violently, and she appeared to melt into the cold white tundra, as though she had never existed at all.

Elizabeth sat, deflated and hungry. She decided to order a slice of pie, since she wasn't going to be leaving the cafe any time soon. She flagged over a server, and asked what kinds of pie were on special.

The server paused for a minute, and recited the list: cherry, apple, pumpkin, lemon meringue, pecan and date pie, chocolate cream pie, blueberry...

''I'm sorry, did you say pecan and date?'' Elizabeth inquired, feeling an odd sensation.

She felt goosebumps on her arms.

''Yes,' the server said, in an impatient tone. ''It's our oldest pie; we've been serving it since the '60s. People seem to love it for some reason...''

''Can you tell me please, which table did the Wheelers always sit at?''

''Is that a trick question?''

''No.''

''Well, it's where you're sitting right now,'' the waitress said, rolling her eyes. ''I'll give you another minute to decide.''

Elizabeth's heart caught in her throat. She rose out of her chair and knelt on her hands and knees.

She peered underneath the table, and all she saw was chewed gum. Determined, she looked underneath each chair, but found nothing.

As she peered under the table, she noticed a tile that was a slightly darker shade of grey, so it caught her eye immediately.

She crawled under the table and jiggled the tile a little bit. It was loose, as though it had been removed more than once.

She used her nails to jiggle it further, and it popped right out of it's spot on the floor.

Underneath the tile was a small hole.

''Hey, what are you doing?'' cried the server.

''I'm just looking for something,'' said Elizabeth, determined at this point to uncover the mysteries held within the floor.

She rummaged around for a few seconds, and eventually her hands wrapped around what felt like an envelope. She grasped the envelope and pulled it out from inside the hole.

As she sat back down at her table, she hastily opened the envelope in her shaking hands.

Someone in the cafe yelled out: ''Hey, what is that?''

Elizabeth ignored them, and quickly tore open the envelope.

Inside was a wad of cash, it must have bee around twenty thousand dollars, all in one hundred dollar bills, and a note that read:

'Agnes, I know this may come as a shock to you, but I know what you were planning. When you thought I was sleeping, I was really watching you go about your nightly routine of adding small pieces of plywood onto the stairs to make them ever-so-slightly uneven. It was barely perceptable to the human eye, but I caught it.

'You always came up with some excuse not to come upstairs; that your arthritis was kicking in, or that your back was sore. You had begun sleeping in the living room, and I chalked it up to my various indiscretions with the ladies of my black book. I understood why you'd never want to share a bed with me again, after I had defiled it so many times over the years. But after I saw what you were doing all those nights in the darkness, I vowed to get my revenge.

'I knew you wouldn't be smart enough to figure out where I had hidden my fortune; you always hated the pecan and date pie at the cafe, and you only ate it once before vowing to never again partake in the stuff. Do you like that added touch?

'We are now even. I committed adultery and you, in turn, have killed me. At least, that's what I suspect. If you're reading this, it must mean I have died and I am quite certain you had something to do with it. There is no way on this earth that I would leave you my worldly possessions, aside from the house. That mouldy death trap is all yours, but my money shall never fall into your hands, my dear.

'Whoever finds this letter, please take the money enclosed as a finders' fee, and pass the letter along to my wife. I want her to read these words and know that I would rather have a stranger be the heir to my fortune, than let her have a dime.

I have also left the remainder of my money to our beautiful daughters, of course. I don't want them to suffer for our mistakes. The money is in the hands of my attorney, who has been instructed to the release the funds to them upon my passing, as per my last wishes.

'This last part is for the authorities. Please open an investigation against my wife, Agnes. She is not to be trusted.'

From what Elizabeth has said, she showed the letter to the people at the cafe, and all the blue hairs decided to allow her to keep the money, and the police took the letter to Mrs. Wheeler's house, where she was promptly arrested.

The death was ruled as a homicide, after the police discovered many blocks of plywood having been hastily glued onto the staircase, creating a death-trap of sorts.

What nobody mentions, of course, is that Agnes and Abe had a granddaughter who regularly visited them every year.

This person knew firsthand of the evils that Abraham had committed over the years; the many many women whom he had seduced and abandoned, and worse.

His nightly activities had gone mostly undetected for years. Dead bodies seemed to follow him wherever he went, and yet nobody thought to put the dots together.

That's small towns for you. All matter of evils is possible when the police force is mostly ignorant.

This person vowed that if she could ever got the chance to right the wrongs of Abe's past, she would do it, with the help of her grandmother, Agnes.

This person knew where Abe hid his secret stash of money, and she also knew that he would never let go of it willingly.

All she needed was to convince her grandmother to glue the pieces of wood onto the staircase in the dead of night, and then the grandmother and granddaughter could share the fortune.

Elizabeth, however, was never supposed to find that money. She didn't earn it, and she knows it.

She knew nothing of the horrors that I have witnessed.

I guess she'll regret ever stealing from me, now that she's paralyzed from the waist down. Fell down a flight of very dangerous stairs. It could happen to anyone, they say.