The Bequest Read Online Free Page B

with newspapers and magazines piled on top, and an
umbrella stand. A lone umbrella rested forlornly inside the stand.
“Hello? Mr. West?”
“Be right there,” a voice came from the recesses of the house. A few
seconds later, a small man, to the point of looking frail, appeared from the
back of the house. He wore creased jeans, a blue button-down dress shirt,
and a dark green bowtie. Teri pegged him as fiftyish, but his thinning hair
might have added ten or fifteen years to his actual age.
“Mr. West?”
He extended his hand. “Spencer West, attorney at aw, at your
service.”
Okay, Teri thought, so he’s got a sense of humor. But if it was
intended to disarm, it failed completely.
“I’m Teri Squire.”
“Of course you are. I recognized you right away. Love your movies.”
He said it almost too glibly, as if he had rehearsed the line.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment then smiled. “Okay, you got me. I never
saw any of them. Then again, I don’t get out much.” He turned toward the
back of the house, gesturing with his hand for her to follow. “Come on in.”
He led her to what had probably once been a den, but now served as
an office. The lighting was poor, but just bright enough to see a gunmetal
gray desk stacked with papers, a row of filing cabinets beside it, and a
worn leather
couch. The
walls were
obscenely
bare, lacking
the
accoutrements every other law office she had ever seen had sported:
diplomas, law licenses, certificates, and pictures of notable clients or
acquaintances. She had once heard what some lawyers call their “me” walls
referred to as the “proof” wall. By hanging law school diplomas and law
licenses on the wall, they proved their legitimacy to clients who sat in
their offices. But Spencer West lacked any such proof; only an attorney at
aw sign on his front door.
West grabbed a few files from the couch and stacked them on the
floor, clearing a spot for Teri. “Have a seat,” he said, but Teri remained
standing, just in case she needed a quick getaway.
“Mr. West, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said. “I’ve been
wracking my brain, and I’ve never heard of Lester Crowell.”
West sat in a wooden chair behind the desk. “It’s Leland Crowell.
And I hardly think you’re the wrong person. Are there any other actresses
in this town named Teri Squire who’ve won two Oscars?”
Her silence provided his answer.
“I didn’t think so.” He swiveled his chair around and picked up a file
folder from a small shelf, then spun back around to face her.
“Please, Ms. Squire, sit.”
She slowly lowered onto the couch as West opened the file folder
and thumbed through its contents. “Leland was a very troubled young
man.
He
had it in his mind to write the
great American novel.
Unfortunately, he got writer’s block on Chapter One. So he tried his hand
at screenwriting. He had a little more luck there. Fewer pages, more
white space, and all that. At least he was able to finish one.”
“Mr. West, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you get to the point?”
“Everyone’s always in a hurry. Yes, of course, the point. The point is
that he thought you’d be perfect for the lead in his screenplay. I can’t say,
myself, whether you are or not, since I haven’t read it. Nor have I seen
your movies. Not my cup of tea—no offense intended.”
He paused in his monologue, as if inviting a rebuttal, or at least a
defense.
“And?” Teri asked.
“And so he left his screenplay to you in his will.” He paused again
then added, “Right before he killed himself.”
If West expected to shock her with that last revelation, it worked.
Her face flushed, the heat rising along with her eyebrows. “That’s crazy,”
she said.
“I’ll admit it sounds a bit off, but nevertheless he did it. You are now
the proud owner of the sole screenwriting accomplishment of my client,
Leland Crowell.”
“I don’t want a screenplay. I can’t even read it