Finish the Story Contest - WEEK #34: An Entry by Michaias

Finish the Story--Week 34

I’ve been writing on some pretty heavy stuff recently, so I’d like to take a short break from the regularly-scheduled content and try something a bit different. Here is my submission to the Week 34 Finish the Story Contest. I cut and cut words, but could only get down to about 550. I hope you all enjoy! Thank you @bananafish for running the contest. Let’s get into it!

[Image source: The Independent]

The Last Will and Testament of Geralda Connors

^{by @gwilberiol}

My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.

I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.

I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.

Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.

I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.

Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.

Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.

Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.
My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!

Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.

It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.

I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'

Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?

'They're all here. I'm about to start.'

We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?

'Can't promise that.'

I'm warning you, Crow!

I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.

I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.

And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.

I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.

"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear."

[My contribution begins]

“My father was a cruel man,” I continue.

“At least you had a father,” Brigitta interrupts. “A lot of y--” She pauses. “Some people don’t.”

She won’t meet my gaze, instead inspecting the third-rate art decorating my walls. She knows she stopped just short of saying the cliched “you people.” I can’t tell if it was intentional. I let it go. It’s not worth getting angry every time a rich white woman lets slip a vaguely racist remark.

Geralda silently mouths two repeating letters: “B, C, B, C…” I put my glasses back on, and Geralda disappears. Brigitta Connors, maybe?

“Why the dumb glasses?” Brigitta asks.

“They help with the migraine,” I say. “Spirits, too.”

“Excuse me?” Pearl asks, speaking for the first time.

“When I was little, my father routinely beat me within an inch of my life, and I started seeing auras.” I stand and approach the window, my back to my audience. John rustles in place.

“Eventually,” I continue, “those auras took human shapes and spoke. Then the skull-splitting migraine began and never left.”

I face my audience. Pearl nods knowingly. She understands pain. I continue.

“Geralda’s spirit is here. Right there, in fact.”

“Bull!” Brigitta screeches. “Stop wasting my time, Mr. Harvard.” So she finally noticed the framed degree. “The court appointed you executor. So spill the beans! How much am I getting?”

“Why weren’t any of you chosen as executor?” I inquire.

“‘Cause don’t none of them play nice,” John ventures.

“Exactly, Mr. Cotter. And how much would you wager the deceased has bequeathed these antagonists?”

“About none?”

“Correct again!”

“This is preposterous!” Brigitta screams. She storms about, rattling off wild accusations about my ulterior motives or information I’m supposedly withholding.

When she composes herself, I remove my glasses again. Geralda appears, flooding my mind with information. I nod. It’s unbelievable, but Geralda merely wants vengeance. She has no reason to lie.

Suddenly, my door flies open. Francine arrives with two officers.

“Lieutenant,” I say. “Welcome. You’ll want to arrest these three.”

“Excuse me?” Brigitta shouts.

“Now, hold on a minute…” John says, holding his hands out, palms forward, as he steps backward.

Pearl doesn’t bother moving, but only hangs her head.

“As unlikely as it seems,” I say, “they all separately poisoned Geralda Heather with aconite. One poisoned the cereal, another the coffee grounds, and another the milk. You had better take them all.”

“I’ll get out of this, Harvard,” Brigitta assures me. “And I’ll get my money.”

“Doubtful,” I reply. “Geralda donated two of her millions to the misanthropic Non-Voluntary Human Extinction Movement.”

“And the rest?” Pearl asks meekly.

“For years, she’s been purchasing something called ‘Bitcoin.’ Ten million dollars’ worth. I’m afraid the money’s all locked up.”

“Can we unlock it?” John asks.

“I don’t have that information.”

My guests share bewildered stares as the officers escort them out in handcuffs. I ask Francine out for a drink, but she gives a noncommittal answer and flees.

Geralda, meanwhile, seems pleased. Finally, she manages to telepathically transmit the entirety of her earlier message. I’m not sure what it means, but fortunately, I have an eidetic memory and some time on my hands. Eventually, I’ll figure out the significance of that random string of alphanumeric characters--64 in total:

BCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBCBC001JC010PHINXQS9LQEAYUEP946BZ4