Chapter 12 - The Woman in the Recording
Three women in the family had plausible reasons to confront Isaiah that night.
Monica.
Danielle.
Vivian.
All three denied saying the words.
I came for what belongs to me.
Audio enhancement produced little.
The speaker sounded between thirty-five and sixty.
Educated.
Controlled.
Nothing distinctive enough for identification.
Preston played it for Monica.
She shook her head.
“Not me.”
For Vivian.
She laughed.
“I never speak that softly when I’m angry.”
For Danielle.
She looked offended.
“I was home.”
Security footage from Danielle’s apartment building supported her claim.
Vivian had been at Bennett House but said she left Isaiah’s room at 8:15 p.m.
Monica admitted arguing with Isaiah later, around nine.
The recording timestamp showed 10:42.
Ella spoke with him near eleven.
So a woman had visited Isaiah shortly before Ella arrived.
Preston began wondering whether they had overlooked household staff.
Isaiah had employed the same house manager for twenty-two years.
Marjorie Ellis.
A sixty-year-old Black woman who had remained almost invisible during the family chaos.
She was not a blood relative.
But she had been present at the will reading.
The video premise’s “person hiding it is sitting in this room” never required the culprit to be family.
Preston found Marjorie supervising kitchen inventory.
“Were you in Isaiah’s room the night before he died?”
Her hands stopped.
“No.”
He played the recording.
Marjorie’s face changed.
Preston saw recognition.
“You know who it is.”
She looked away.
“Ms. Ellis.”
“I promised Mr. Bennett.”
“That promise may be obstructing a criminal investigation.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m not.”
“Sounds like it.”
Preston softened his tone.
“What did Isaiah ask you to protect?”
Marjorie stared toward the kitchen doors.
“Ella.”
That answer surprised him.
“From whom?”
“Whoever needed protecting from.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Preston understood suddenly why Isaiah trusted Marjorie.
She could be extraordinarily stubborn.
“Did you hide his will?”
“No.”
“Did you know where it was?”
“I knew there was a place.”
“The promise box.”
She nodded.
“Did you enter it after his death?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Marjorie looked at him.
“No.”
It sounded true.
“Then who is the woman?”
Marjorie sat down.
“Her name is Rebecca Shaw.”
Preston knew no Rebecca Shaw.
“Family?”
“Not exactly.”
Marjorie explained.
Rebecca was fifty-one.
White.
A commercial real-estate attorney in Baltimore.
Thirty years earlier, she had been Evelyn Bennett’s legal assistant.
Later, she became counsel to Caleb Bennett during his bankruptcy.
Preston felt the past reopening.
“Why did she visit Isaiah?”
“She believed he had something belonging to Caleb’s estate.”
“Vivian’s husband.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
Preston remembered the promise box.
Old letters.
Old partnership agreements.
Perhaps Caleb’s claim against Isaiah had more substance than anyone knew.
“Was Rebecca at the will reading?”
Marjorie shook her head.
Then Isaiah’s statement seemed contradictory.
The person hiding the real will had been sitting in the room.
Rebecca had not.
Unless Rebecca gave it to someone who was.
“Did she leave with anything?”
Marjorie hesitated.
“I saw her carrying a brown envelope.”
“What size?”
“Large.”
“Legal documents?”
“Could’ve been.”
“Did you see where she went?”
“She left through the side entrance.”
Preston immediately called Ortiz.
Rebecca Shaw became a person of interest.
They located her at her Baltimore office that afternoon.
She agreed to speak only with counsel present.
Rebecca was elegant and reserved, with silver-blond hair and a voice Preston recognized instantly from the recording.
“I did go to Isaiah Bennett’s house,” she said.
“Why?”
“To obtain a letter written by Caleb Bennett.”
“Did Isaiah give it to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“That is privileged.”
“Caleb has been dead twenty-three years.”
“My duty isn’t erased because time inconveniences you.”
Preston leaned forward.
“Did you take Isaiah’s will?”
“No.”
“Did you see it?”
“No.”
“Did Isaiah discuss it?”
Rebecca paused.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me someone had created a false version.”
Preston’s pulse quickened.
“Did he identify that person?”
“No.”
“But?”
“He told me he had made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
Rebecca looked at him carefully.
“He said he spent too much time watching the person stealing from him.”
“And?”
“He failed to notice the person who believed she was rescuing the family.”
Preston felt a chill.
A woman.
Someone who thought hiding the will was protection, not theft.
Rebecca added:
“Isaiah also said one thing I found strange.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Tomorrow, Monica will hate me. Someday she may understand why.’”
That suggested the real will contained something worse for Monica than reduced inheritance.
May you like
Something Isaiah expected to wound her deeply.
The answer might be inside the sealed letter that disappeared with it.
