Chapter 8: What Gary Said
The call came at eight forty-seven the following morning.
I was at the solicitor's office — a man named Philip Osei, recommended by Robert, with a calm manner and an organized desk that immediately made me trust him.
He had the copies spread across the table, the letters Robert had brought, and a printed timeline he'd assembled from the dates.
His phone rang.
He glanced at it, then at me.
"It's the other party's solicitor," he said.
"Already?"
"Donna moved quickly." He answered it on speaker.
The voice on the other end was smooth and unhurried.
A man named Carver.
He represented Donna and, he noted, a Mr.
Gary Phelps.
"My clients are prepared to make a statement," Carver said, "clarifying the circumstances of the will signing.
Mr.
Phelps is prepared to testify that the document he witnessed was the only document presented to Mrs.
Eleanor Marsh on that date.
He saw no other document signed."
Philip looked at me.
I gave him a small nod.
"We have a notarized copy of a separate will signed on March 14th," Philip said.
"Witnessed by a different party.
The notary's certificate is intact."
A brief pause.
"We'd want to see that document."
"You'll see it when it's filed," Philip said.
"Which will be this afternoon."
Another pause.
Then: "My clients would like to explore a resolution outside of court.
A partial settlement.
Given the circumstances of Mrs.
Marsh's final months, and the stress a legal challenge would place on the family —"
"What kind of partial settlement?" I asked.
Philip looked at me sharply.
I held up a hand — *let me.*
Carver's tone shifted slightly, recalibrating toward me.
"A contribution toward Mia's medical expenses.
A goodwill gesture.
In exchange for withdrawing the challenge."
"How much?"
"We'd need to discuss figures.
But something meaningful.
Something that acknowledges —"
"The estate is valued at how much?" I asked Philip.
He told me the figure.
He'd already had it assessed.
I did the arithmetic.
"Tell your clients," I said, "that a goodwill gesture is not the same as what my mother intended.
And that I'm not interested in a fraction of what she set aside for her granddaughter."
"Mrs.
—"
"Tell them I'll see them in court if that's what it takes." I paused.
"And tell Gary Phelps that perjury is a serious matter."
Philip ended the call.
He looked at me for a moment.
"That was direct."
"Was it the right call?"
"Yes," he said.
"A settlement offer this early means they know the filing is weak." He capped his pen.
"The notary is the key.
I've already reached out to his office.
He retired last year but he keeps records.
If he confirms the March document, Donna's filed will falls apart."
"How long?"
"The notary will respond within a day or two.
If he confirms, we file immediately.
A hearing could be scheduled within six to eight weeks." He paused.
"There is one complication."
I waited.
"Gary Phelps is prepared to testify.
Even knowing what we have, he'll say he only saw one document." Philip set down his pen.
"That means we need the notary, and we need the neighbor — the other witness on Donna's filed will.
If that neighbor can be shown to have signed under pressure or without full understanding of what they were witnessing —"
"Who is the neighbor?"
Philip checked his notes.
"A Mrs.
Vera Hutchins.
Eighty-one years old.
She lives two doors down from your mother's house."
I knew Vera.
She'd brought soup when Mia came home from the hospital.
She'd sat with my mother in the garden every summer for as long as I could remember.
"I'll talk to her," I said.
"Carefully," Philip said.
"If she's already been approached by Donna —"
"I know how to talk to her," I said.
I drove to Vera's house that afternoon.
She answered the door in her housecoat, a dish towel over her shoulder, and when she saw me her face did something complicated — relief and guilt arriving at the same moment.
"Sarah," she said.
"I wondered when you'd come."
"Can I come in, Vera?"
She stepped back without hesitation.
We sat at her kitchen table, the same table where she and my mother had drunk tea for thirty years.
She poured without asking.
Her hands were steady but her eyes weren't.
"She told me it was a routine document," Vera said, before I'd asked anything.
"Donna.
She said it was just a form for the bank.
Something about direct debits." She set the teapot down.
"Eleanor was in the chair by the window.
She looked tired.
I thought — I thought it was just paperwork."
"Did you read it?"
"Donna said there wasn't time.
That the solicitor needed it back that afternoon." She looked at her hands.
"I should have read it.
I know that."
"You didn't know what it was."
"I should have read it," she said again.
Firm.
Unforgiving of herself.
"Vera." I put my hand over hers.
"Would you be willing to make a statement?
To a solicitor?
About what Donna told you that day?"
May you like
She looked up.
"I've been waiting," she said, "for someone to ask me."
