Missa Solemnis

“‘ … PERSONAL ESTATE to be divided equally between my daughter, Eilis Logan Webster Taight and my nephew, Fort Knox Oliver Hilliard, both of whom I deprived of what was rightfully theirs.

“‘To Celia Giselle Cox Kenard, I leave this box.

“‘To Celia Gertrude Dunham Hilliard, I leave nothing because I have nothing left to give you. I gave you everything I had and, ultimately, I sacrificed my life and my salvation to make you happy. And I failed.’”

Thirty adults sat or stood in a genteel but aged and shabby conference room meant for ten, shocked into silence, the only sound the soft swish of a box across the conference table and the soft weeping of one woman.

Mr. Jerome Larkin carefully laid James Fenimore Hilliard’s will, a single sheet of paper, on the worn tabletop and looked around at the beneficiaries of the deceased’s largesse.

He’d heard the rumors and the news, of course, and he knew what Fen had confessed to him just six months past. He knew these people were very wealthy and very powerful. He knew these people and Fen had had a very toxic relationship.

What he did not know was why someone like Fen Hilliard would seek out an old country lawyer way up in a rural county far northeast of the Kansas City metro area to completely overhaul his estate on short notice. Not that Jerome had known it was short notice at the time, but obviously something had to be afoot.

Jerome’s office was in a tiny storefront on a stereotypical American county courthouse square across from a stereotypical American county courthouse. His business was insurance, wills and estates, contracts, and other boring things, and his clientele was mostly farmers and the wealthier “elite” of Livingston County and surrounds. He made about enough money to buy groceries and a new suit every five years, but he’d stayed because his father had been here before him, and his grandfather before him, and so on and so forth.

So for Fen Hilliard, a senatorial candidate, to show up at his place, alone, casually dressed, driving a generic Hyundai, wanting to hire work of this massive scope done— Well, Jerome could do it, do it well, and enjoy the experience because he never got any work this challenging, but he was itching to know why.

Hilliard had never said. Jerome had never asked.

Now Jerome could retire.

The beautiful blonde to Jerome’s left, Eilis Logan, Fen Hilliard’s daughter, sat relaxed with an expression of detached, vague interest. Her husband, Sebastian Taight, seemed almost pleased to be here, which Jerome could understand, all things considered.

Fen’s nephew, Eilis’s half-brother, the beleaguered and scandal-ridden Chouteau County prosecutor and the heir to OKH Enterprises, Knox Hilliard, looking weak and gaunt from his injuries and long hospital stay, sat to Jerome’s right, his hands clenching the arms of the ancient wooden chair so tightly Jerome feared it would break. The man stared down at the floor, an expression of rage on his face so intense, Jerome now believed everything he’d ever heard about him. Hilliard’s young wife watched him with great concern and slid one hand across his back, then leaned in to press her lips against his cheek.

The diminutive strawberry blonde who sat just beyond Taight, Fen’s niece Giselle Kenard, possibly the person Fen loved most in the world by his own admission, took possession of the box he had bequeathed her with great reluctance, as if it were laced with poison and she didn’t want to touch it. She studied it carefully.

The size of a large dictionary, it was an elaborate affair: ancient, cracked tooled leather, gold leaf, and utterly masculine. Jerome had inquired of Fen as to its provenance, but Fen had said something like “brukka.” Jerome had no idea where or what “brukka” was and Fen did not seem to want to elaborate. The only word left marginally legible looked like it might spell BRUGES, but the leather was mostly smoothed over and the gold had long worn away.

Not only did Jerome not know where the box came from, he had no idea what was in it. Fen’s niece folded her arms on the table and ducked her head into them to sob, obviously heartbroken. Her husband buried his fingers in her hair to play with her curls, his scarred face betraying only concern.

Jerome looked around at the rest: All eight of Fen’s sisters-in-law were present, a good thirty years between the oldest and youngest, some with spouses, some not. A goodly number of Fen’s other nieces and nephews and their spouses were present, a few babies in varying stages of wakefulness and meal-taking.

Truth be told, Jerome was unnerved by the presence of so many wealthy and powerful people in his shabby little space. He’d never aspired to run in these circles, never really thought about people who put small-town wealth and power to shame. He was a small-time country lawyer doing what small-time country lawyers did if they weren’t part of the justice system. It was part of Jerome’s contract with Fen that he never say a word about this until the will was read. Fen hadn’t wanted to be hounded by the county’s penny-ante players, and, he told Jerome, those same players would come for Jerome before he could carry out Fen’s last wishes.

Fen had driven two hundred miles round-trip for a new estate lawyer for a reason, and Jerome could appreciate the precaution.

But now there were a lot of very expensive cars parked outside, a lot of very expensively clothed people in his office, a lot of very scandalous news coming out of Kansas City, and probably a lot of very curious townspeople milling about outside wondering what was going on in Mr. Larkin’s tiny office.

He took another glance at Knox Hilliard’s wife and wondered when to approach her with his knowledge of her family because she needed to know a few things. He’d never done it because he never knew she existed until Fen walked into his office. As soon as Jerome heard the words “Justice” and “McKinley” and “Chouteau County assistant prosecutor,” he knew what must have happened, but also knew he had to wait.

The grief and anger in the room was not foreign or unexpected, but the nature of it was off. It didn’t involve money, didn’t involve envy or jealousy or family politics. No, here, the rage and grief had everything to do with the sick and twisted relationships Fen had had with his family, part love, part hate, one warring with the other every minute of every day. And it seemed most of these people returned that love-hate, unable to decide which.

Jerome knew why: Trudy, Fen’s wife, the mother of the two Hilliard children flanking Jerome, and sister of most of the older women present.

Trudy Hilliard was everything every “wealthy” Livingston County matron aspired to be, but on a broader scale, exponentially wealthy, privileged, and powerful—or as powerful as a small-city society wife could be, which was to say, a lot more than a small-county society wife.

There was one thing, however, that Fen had not foreseen: Trudy’s suicide. From what Jerome could glean, Trudy was not the type of person who would do such a thing, but something had pushed her over the edge. Fen hadn’t said much about her but the one damning sentence in his will, and Jerome had not asked.

“So … that’s it?” asked one of the sisters-in-law. “One page?”

“That’s it,” Jerome answered, still a little amazed himself. It was the shortest will he’d ever drawn up, a last-minute revision from the previous drafts. Unbeknownst to Jerome at the time, Fen had planned his death, which day, and by what method—suicide-by-Knox-Hilliard.

Giselle Kenard raised her head finally and looked to her husband helplessly. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to gently dry her face of tears. Once he’d finished, he murmured, “What’s in the box, Wife?”

She took a deep breath and looked down at it. Touched it. Caressed it. She hesitantly worked the key out of its hidden pocket (which meant she’d been shown at some point, because Jerome hadn’t been able to find it), then unlocked it.

A piece of paper fluttered with the opening of the lid. She picked it up gingerly and read silently, her husband looking over her shoulder. The couple grew matching expressions of shock and horror until Giselle stuffed it back into the box and slammed the lid closed.

She bolted out of her chair and out the door, her husband scrambling to follow. When Taight reached for the box, one of Trudy’s sisters slapped it. Hard. “Not yours!” she snapped.

It was the first time Jerome had ever seen a forty-two-year-old man—a powerful one, at that—reduced to the affect of a guilty but very highly amused and obnoxious ten-year-old boy.

These people made Jerome terribly uncomfortable. He had never encountered such collective passion and loyalty, such respect, such love. The power that these people represented, in terms of personal strength and nationwide influence, was suffocating. Jerome checked his watch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I do have another appointment I need to prepare for.” No, he didn’t. He just wanted them gone. “If you would excuse me … ”

No one said a word, so Jerome stood, gathered his papers, and left unnoticed, wondering when to approach Justice McKinley about her grandfather’s estate.

★