The Last Word

The flames in the fireplace flickered, throwing dancing shadows on the wall. The wood crackled and, for a moment, she lost herself in the flames, mesmerized and wondering about the future. A grim sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her body. 

Great Aunt Tilly stretched in her writing chair, yawning. It had been a long and rather revealing day. Her gaze drifted to the window. The storm howled outside and rattled the frame. Small bits of debris clicked and clacked against the glass in a spellbinding melody underscored by the sound of rain. 

Perhaps tomorrow the world would look different, and she would feel silly about writing her will. Perhaps not. 

The light flickered, reminding her time was precious. She tore her eyes from the window and put pen to paper. The stiffness in her joints was worse than usual.

“Last Will and Testament of…”

The pen hovering above the paper, she gritted her teeth. Erbschleicher, crossed her mind. No, she would not make it this easy for them. They would have to jump through hoops, roll over and play dead before they would glimpse even a penny.

She tightened her grip around the pen. She exhaled, assuring herself she could do this.

“Matilda Petra. Being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, declare you suck and can go to hell.”

She stared at the words on the piece of paper lying before her. A laugh bubbled in her belly, rose through her chest until it reached her vocal cords and shattered the silence. Not what she meant to write, but it would do. 

“Affirming that I understand the nature and extent of my property, as well as your depravity and corruption, I hereby declare you will not receive a penny of my estate unless certain conditions are met.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she thought about the reactions of her relatives. It would be epic. The outrage, the fury, the panic - and they deserved it all, the miserable lot. She rolled her head from side to side, deliberating how to start the next paragraph. 

“First and foremost, to all those who were waiting for me to die: Congratulations, it finally happened. I am dead and you have survived me. Now, take a moment and relish in your pitiful accomplishment, because when you are done, we are getting down to business.”

In her mind’s eye, she imagined Mr. Pendleton from P&P Attorneys at Law reading the lines she had just written to her relatives. He would look up from the papers, his rimmed glasses hovering on the tip of his nose. As was his habit when he wanted the information to sink in before he proceeded with the matter at hand, he would count silently till ten, his lips moving as he did so. All the while, he would look across the room, his gaze earnest and solemn. 

Pressing her lips together, Great Aunt Tilly returned her focus to the present and to the words she had yet to put on paper. 

“You lot are probably here to see how much my estate is worth and how much of it will be yours, or perhaps you have already tallied up the bits and determined your fair share. But before we dive into the nitty-gritty details of inheriting my fortune, I’d like to know how you enjoyed my funeral.”

Great Aunt Tilly put the pen on the table, parallel to the paper, before standing up. She had almost forgotten about her funeral arrangements. She stared down at the will and exhaled slowly. She needed to prepare a list of instructions for Mr. Pendleton to carry out on her behalf. 

Anxious, she crossed the space between the desk and the window with one hand on her back and the fingers of the other rubbing her temple. Forlorn, she stared out the window into the darkness. Was that what would await her?

Lightening flashed, illuminating the garden in a sudden burst and turning the trees into otherworldly creatures, their hands reaching for her. Startled, she turned on her heels and shuffled back. They were coming for her. She needed to finish before the morning. 

Great Aunt Tilly sat back down at the table, grabbed another piece of paper and wrote a list of instructions concerning her funeral. Mr. Pendleton would see to her wishes being carried out. He was dutiful like that, a trustworthy soul for a lawyer. 

After she completed the list, she continued writing, “Were the clowns to your liking? How about the pies? I sincerely hope Barron, the stuck-up stick in the mud, enjoyed the cream pie to his face. After all, I specifically requested an extra messy one for him. That said, and to lay your suspicions to rest, the clowns had a list of targets. If you were caked, creamed, or pied chances are we had a score to settle, some loose ends I felt in need to tie up before I could succumb to eternal slumber. Consider them settled now.”

She sniggered at the image of Mr. Pendleton’s usually stoic face struggling to remain expressionless at the affronted faces of her relatives. He would probably raise an eyebrow and clear his throat in an effort to conceal his amusement. Pity, she would not be present to see it. 

She continued on, “Now to the more important business. We all know things in our family are never what they appear to be. More often than not, what you see is far from what you get or what it actually is. So, in the spirit of the sentiment, I want you to consider my death unnatural. Putting it more plainly for those of you who are less blessed with intelligence: one of you greedy buggers killed me or created the conditions for my demise.”

She put her hand to her heart. If only her suspicions would turn out wrong. If only.

She exhaled and steadied her hand. Her eyes wandered across her desk and landed on a picture of her niece, Alexy. She felt grief grip her heart. The poor girl would have to sit among all those leeches, looking from side-to-side, wondering who had done her great aunt in. No one, aside from Alexy, would inhale in shock or put their hands over their heart after being accused of murder. Everyone would sit still, heads bowed or staring at the lawyer in anticipation of the good fortune he would bestow upon them.

The image caused her to flare her nostrils and clutch her tissue. She told herself to calm down and finish what must be done. So, she picked up the pen once more and wrote, “Since I may never rest in peace until my murderer has been unmasked, I demand the culprit to step forward.”

She grabbed a sticky note and attached it to the paragraph, instructing Mr. Pendleton to stare into the crowd, study them over the rim of his glasses as he counted to ten. If no one raised their hand or announced their guilt, which I expected to be the case, he could proceed with the reading.

“I see, no one is taking credit. Pity, but not unexpected from a herd of cowards. In any case, here is my last will and testament. For the next six months my estate shall be held in a trust. No one shall receive any funds until someone has identified the culprit. This also applies to you, Peter. In short: keine Extrawürste.”

Her shoulders shook with delight as she imagined their faces. This should shake them out of their stupor and solicit a series of gasps and shrieks from the assembled. Invariably, nothing rattled her relatives more than money, most of all the absence of the same. If anything, they would grieve now. 

“For the next six months I expect each and every one of you to investigate my untimely death. Find out who, what, where, when, & why I died. Identify the person who done me in and report your findings to Mr. Pendleton. Whoever can prove I was murdered and who can name the one who done it, shall inherit the entirety of my estate. Should none of you find the culprit or should it, however unlikely this may be, turn out I died of natural causes, the estate will be divided amongst the lot of you at the end of the period. However, some of you may or may not feel particularly fortunate then. As such I encourage you, go on, let greed be your motivation and investigate.”

Great Aunt Tilly put the pen back in its place, aligned the pages of the testament, squared and smoothed them before inserting them into the envelope. She placed the envelope in the center of the table, planning on having both Mr. Pendleton and her secretary cosign them in the morning. Then she leaned back in the chair. Her hands resting on the armrests, she closed her eyes and let her fingers move back and forth on the velvet covering, noticing the spots where the material had broken down. 

In contrast to the tumult in her mind, the room was quiet. The fire had burned down. Only the faint whirr of the electricity powering the desk lamp and the tick, tick, tick of the old grandfather clock performing its timeless duty echoed through the night. Great Aunt Tilly closed her eyes and relaxed into the chair. 

Aunts and uncles, cousins and nephews, sisters and brothers would howl at Mr. Pendleton. They would yell and shout above one another, debating her sanity and plotting to have her declared incompetent, senile, and crazed. 

Yes, the testament would rub them the wrong way. But it would also ensure they would take her death seriously.