Last Will and Testament

By Ellis Shuman (June 2025)

 

 

We are writing to you on behalf of our client, the Estate of Kevin Gladstone, who passed away on March 2, 2023. Please accept our condolences during this difficult time.

A smile crossed Martin Gladstone’s face. The day had come. Kevin Gladstone, his uncle. The man was filthy rich. Or rather, had been filthy rich. No condolences were necessary. For Martin, this mail was the bearer of excellent news.

A meeting with a probate lawyer acting on behalf of the estate has been scheduled in our offices. Your presence is requested as you may be named as a beneficiary or have a legitimate interest in the estate.

 The estate. The family estate. Martin knew all about estates.

The letter was just a formality. He was familiar with its contents, knew what it would say in advance. He had been waiting for this moment. The Gladstone inheritance would soon be his.

Martin’s father and his uncle had launched their delivery services together back in the seventies. The brothers had worked side by side, setting up their supply network, establishing connections with suppliers and distributors. There had been setbacks along the way, but over time, the company not only took its share of the market but drove the competition into bankruptcy. The profits grew year by year.

And then, Martin’s uncle kicked his brother out. Martin never knew the reason they had fallen apart. Had they quarreled? Argued over finances? Or was it something far more personal? His father had been left with nothing, while Uncle Kevin continued to expand the business. His father went into real estate, while Kevin became quite wealthy. The brothers never reconciled before Martin’s father’s death ten years ago. And now, Uncle Kevin was dead as well.

Martin was amused when reading his uncle’s obituary in the newspaper. ‘Well-respected business leader, pillar of the community, staunch supporter of liberal causes.’ Martin despised the man and what he had done to his father, but nonetheless they had stayed in touch, getting together occasionally for drinks or a meal. Although his uncle never suggested brotherly reconciliation was likely, his efforts to remain close to his nephew did hint at some remorse for what he had done.

Martin knew he’d be included in his uncle’s will because he had prepared it himself.

Martin was a lawyer, an estate lawyer. His signature was at the bottom of the letter he had just received in the mail. The probate meeting to which he had just been invited would take place in his office. As his uncle had never married, there would be no cousins claiming their share of the inheritance.

Martin was the rightful beneficiary of his uncle’s estate. The family business that should have been shared with his father would soon belong to him. He had arranged everything. Justice would be served at last.

***

Police were called to the penthouse apartment of Shannon Tower at 141 Park Avenue shortly before ten p.m. on March 2nd, after a resident on a lower floor reported hearing a gunshot. The apartment door was locked. When officers broke in, they discovered a Beretta 30X Tomcat pistol, the ultra-concealable ‘Just in Case’ model that easily fit in one’s pocket, on the bedroom floor, near the right hand of the dead man’s body. A shot had been fired to the head at close range.

There were no broken windows or signs of a struggle. No note was found in the apartment. All signs pointed to suicide.

“I don’t think this was a suicide,” Detective Morse said to his partner.

“Then how did a perpetrator get in?” his partner asked.

“Maybe the victim knew him, opened the door and let him in,” Morse said. “This was murder.”

The deceased was a well-known member of the community. Reporters were already calling the station, asking for an official statement. Not only did they seek confirmation that the police were investigating a murder, but they also wanted to know if any suspects had been arrested. Morse could already guess what the headline would read in the morning newspaper.

‘Who Killed Kevin Gladstone?’

Nothing appeared to have been stolen from the penthouse apartment. Morse was curious to know to whom the pistol was registered. This was not his first murder investigation, but despite any immediate leads, he had a gut feeling that it would be an easy one to solve.

***

Growing up, during his summer vacations, Martin folded cartons and sorted boxes in the Gladstones’ warehouses. He counted pallets and recorded delivery truck arrivals. He talked to the drivers, pretending to understand their jokes. He brought them coffee from the vending machine, whatever they wanted. They all knew him as his father’s boy, the young lad who would one day run the firm.

Things changed when Martin left for college, studying at an out-of-state university. He was in touch with his parents, of course, but lost his connection with the family business. He wasn’t aware that the company ran into financial problems, that the Gladstone brothers could barely make payroll. Nor did he follow the business’s turnaround when it became an enormous success. When his uncle took full control, and his father was left with nothing, Martin was heartbroken, but there was nothing he could do.

Martin had first considered a career in management but instead studied estate law and landed a job at one of the city’s biggest law firms as a junior estate planning attorney. He assisted the firm’s clients, both individuals and families, managed their assets, plan for inheritance, and minimize their taxes after death. His careful attention to detail led to one promotion after another, and after years of effort, he became a partner in the firm.

Hard work and late hours, with little time for a social life. He never married, never considered raising a family. He had a good job, a salary sufficient for covering his modest lifestyle. His apartment wasn’t large or luxurious, yet it suited his needs. He couldn’t ask for more.

Yet, he did. After the brothers broke up, Martin watched his father’s spirit die. A career in real estate? That was not what his father deserved. Things weren’t supposed to turn out like this. Martin’s father died a broken man, yet what there had been nothing he could do to reverse this injustice.

As the years went by, Martin continued to work long hours at his firm. The one break he allowed himself was to sit down for a weekly poker game with his colleagues. Six of them gathered religiously, playing low stakes Texas Hold’em with an occasional hand of Omaha thrown in. They took turns meeting in each other’s homes. Martin owned a collapsible poker table which he set up on the nights he served as host. The clink of poker chips was like music to his ears, and he enjoyed the camaraderie. Poker, a game at which he was quite skilled.

One night after a game of cards, Martin was walking back to his car when he was accosted by a tall, masked man, threatening him with a gun.

“Give me your wallet!” the man shouted. “And your watch and phone!”

“Take it easy,” Martin begged him. He reached into his pocket and reluctantly pulled out the bills he had won at the table. He took off his watch, gave away his iPhone. Fortunately, the thief hadn’t demanded his keys. Martin hurried to his car and drove home.

After the mugging, he realized he needed to protect himself. He went to a gun shop and purchased a small pistol, the kind that could easily fit in one’s pocket. He went to a target range and learned how to handle the gun, how to shoot it and clean it. A pistol to protect himself. For defensive purposes only, of course.

One morning, Martin picked up the newspaper and saw the headline. ‘Kevin Gladstone Expands Business into Flower Deliveries’. His uncle. More success, and his father should have been part of the move. Once again, his uncle was moving forward while dancing on his father’s grave.

This had to stop!

***

“Where were you on the night of March 2nd, just before 10 p.m.?” Detective Morse asked the man sitting across the table from him.

“I don’t remember,” Martin Gladstone replied. “What night of the week was that?”

“It was a Thursday night.”

“Ah, Thursday! That’s my weekly poker night.”

“Poker?”

“Yes, I play cards with my colleagues from the office.”

“Can they vouch for you?”

“Of course they can. We play every week. In fact, I was quite lucky that night. A Royal Flush! Imagine that.”

“So, you do remember where you were on March 2nd?”

“Of course. That’s the night my uncle committed suicide.”

“Suicide? How can you be so sure?”

“It wasn’t suicide? Do you think it was murder?”

“We’re checking all angles,” Morse’s partner said, speaking up for the first time.

“Were you and your uncle on good terms?” Morse asked.

“Of course we were on good terms,” Martin said. “Okay, my father and uncle had a falling out over who would run the family business or some other sort of nonsense, which was a long, long time ago, but I got along just fine with Uncle Kevin. Why are you asking all these questions? Am I a suspect? Should I call my lawyer?”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Morse asked. “Was it the night your uncle died?”

“No, of course not. I only learned he died the next day.”

“Do you own a Beretta 30X Tomcat pistol?”

“No, I don’t own one of those.”

“But you know what type of gun that is, right? You’ve been to a target range, haven’t you?”

“A man has to protect himself. Can I go now?”

“Yes, but first write down the names of your poker buddies and how we can contact them.” Morse slid a pad of paper and a pen across the table.

After Martin Gladstone left the room, Morse’s partner asked him if he thought the man was capable of murder.

“He’s pretty sure of himself,” Morse said. “My gut says he did it.”

“But the gun. It was registered to the deceased.”

“So what? He admits knowing how to fire a gun,” Morse said. “You don’t think he could have used his uncle’s gun to kill him?”

Morse was convinced this was an open and shut case. Was Gladstone capable of murder? Of course he was, but what was his motive? Did it have something to do with the family business? Kevin Gladstone was a wealthy man. His nephew probably stood to benefit substantially by the man’s death. Maybe he was the primary beneficiary in the will?

All that Morse needed were a few more pieces to complete this puzzle, and then he’d make the arrest.

***

“Thank you all for coming. My name is Martin Gladstone and I’m representing the estate of Kevin Gladstone.”

“You can cut the bullshit, Martin,” his Aunt Thelma said. “We’re the only ones here.”

It was true. There were only the two of them in the conference room at Martin’s law firm. And Shirley. Martin’s secretary sat in the corner, typing up the minutes of the meeting on her laptop. Martin and Thelma were the sole beneficiaries in the distribution of Uncle Kevin’s assets.

“We’re doing this according to proper procedures,” he said, grinning at his aunt. He had little patience for the woman, but in these circumstances, he needed to keep the procedures civil.

Thelma was the younger sister of Martin’s father and Uncle Kevin. While the two brothers had grown apart, Thelma continued to be on good terms with both of them. She played no role in the family business, but now was entitled to her share of Uncle Kevin’s estate.

Her share. Martin smiled to himself, knowing what Thelma’s share was worth. Practically nothing! His uncle allotted $10,000 in cash and a portfolio of nearly worthless stocks and bonds to his aunt. He would get everything else. The business, the penthouse apartment, his uncle’s Jaguar. His uncle had agreed to these terms and signed the will. Aunt Thelma would be shocked to learn this, but execution of the will was only a formality.

“Shall we continue?” he asked, staring at his aunt while Shirley looked up from her typing.

 

I, Kevin Gladstone, residing at Shannon Tower, Apartment 24, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all prior wills and codicils.

 

Martin could recite the entire will from memory. As an estate lawyer, he had prepared many such wills and other documents relating to the division of a deceased’s assets. Yet, as he read the will, he felt there was something strange about the wording. At points, it seemed almost unfamiliar.

 

I direct that all my just debts, funeral expenses, and the expenses of last illness be paid as soon as practical after my death.

 

That was not how Martin normally phrased that clause. His standard format mentioned his clients’ debts and expenses, of course, but he was certain it read ‘I direct that any and all debts related to the expenses incurred in last illness care and any and all funeral expenses be paid as soon as practical after my death.’

He paused and glanced at Shirley. His secretary’s hands were posed over the laptop, ready to continue her transcription of the meeting. Had she edited the will? He turned to his aunt. The woman appeared nearly ecstatic.

“Let me check something,” he said, riffling through the subsequent pages of his uncle’s will. “This doesn’t appear to be the final version.”

“Read the will, Martin,” his aunt directed him.

 

I bequeath my property as follows:

* Cash assets totaling $10,000 to my nephew, Martin Gladstone.

* Various stocks and bonds to my nephew, Martin Gladstone.

* My penthouse apartment at Shannon Tower to my sister, Thema Gladstone.

* My 2020 Jaguar to my sister, Thelma Gladstone.

 

“This can’t be right,” Martin said, sweat forming on his forehead. He had prepared the will for his uncle three years ago, but the date stamped on the document he held in his hands was recent. The distribution of assets had been switched around. He had listed himself as the primary beneficiary. The apartment, the Jaguar−they were his! Despite his meticulous planning, his aunt had manipulated the final version of her brother’s will.

“Please continue,” Thelma instructed him.

It was at that moment that the door swung open, and two police detectives entered the conference room, confronting Martin with the accusation that he had murdered his uncle.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

Aunt Thelma began to laugh.

***

“I didn’t do it! I was playing poker,” he insisted, as the police drove him away in the squad car.

“Poker, hey?” Morse said from the front seat. “You didn’t mention that you were playing poker in the Shannon Tower, three floors below your uncle’s penthouse.”

It was not just the card game that had convinced Morse that Martin Gladstone was guilty of murdering his uncle. Admittedly, there was a lot of circumstantial evidence, but the pieces of the puzzle all fit together. First, there was motive. Kevin Gladstone was a wealthy man. The fancy apartment and the Jaguar were just the tip of the iceberg of his riches. Morse knew the man was childless. It could be assumed that Martin would directly benefit from his uncle’s death.

Then there was opportunity. One of Martin’s poker buddies had stated that Gladstone was very edgy on the night in question, as if something was distracting him from the game. Another of the players stated he had disappeared from the table for an extended absence, maybe as much as half an hour. Martin claimed his asthma was bothering him, he told his coworkers, that he just needed fresh air. Morse wondered if the man actually suffered from asthma. Thirty minutes was plenty of time to go up three floors, confront his uncle, and kill him in cold blood. In Morse’s opinion, the man’s alibi didn’t hold up.

Then there was the murder weapon. Martin Gladstone, like his uncle, had a gun license and owned a pistol. The Beretta was registered to Kevin Gladstone, but his nephew would certainly know how to handle such a weapon. Martin Gladstone would also be smart enough to wear gloves when doing so and then plant the gun on the floor to suggest that Kevin Gladstone had taken his own life. Again, circumstantial evidence, but it all added up.

For Morse, it had been an open and shut case from the very beginning. Now they had enough evidence, both circumstantial and the testimonies of Gladstone’s poker buddies, to tie him to the crime.

***

In the conference room, Shirley stopped typing the minutes when the police arrested her boss. She picked up her laptop, wondering what she should do next. Should she print the transcription and place it on Martin Gladstone’s desk? Or wait until he got back to the office?

As she was about to turn off the lights, she heard a snicker behind her. A woman remained seated at the table. What was her name? Selma? The deceased’s sister.

“Can I help you with anything?” Shirley asked.

“No, I’m just fine,” Thelma Gladstone said, rising from her chair. “I’m just amused at how everything turned out.”

It had all gone better than the plan Thelma had concocted. Convincing Kevin to alter his will and then finalizing it with the assistance of a lawyer at another law firm had been easy. Hiring the gunman to kill her brother was more of a challenge.

There were skeletons in Thelma’s closet, events and circumstances her brothers and her nephew Martin knew nothing about. Thelma had been married once; her husband was a grubby, disreputable man she always suspected of being connected to one of the city’s more powerful crime families. Shortly before he died mysteriously while on a business trip, her husband had hired a shady character to care for their garden. Now, years later, that man had assisted her with the necessary arrangements. “Make it look like a suicide,” was the instruction the gardener relayed to the gunman she never met.

The police had no reason to suspect her of anything. It was frosting on the cake that her nephew had been arrested for a crime he did not commit.

The penthouse. The Jaguar. The Gladstone inheritance. It was all hers.

 

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Ellis Shumanis an American-born Israeli author, travel writer, and book reviewer. His writing has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, The Times of Israel, World Literature Today, and The Huffington Post. His short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in Isele Magazine, Vagabond, The Write Launch, Esoterica, Jewish Literary Journal, San Antonio Review, and other literary publications. He is the author of The Virtual Kibbutz, Valley of Thracians, The Burgas Affair, and Rakiya – Stories of Bulgaria. https://ellisshuman.blogspot.com/

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