I was the majority holder and the one who would run the plantation.
My shoulders were so tense I had to make a conscious effort to relax them. Why had my father left me in charge when he hadn’t seen me since I was two? Why not leave it to Angélica, the eldest of the Ecuadorian children, or Alberto, the only male in the family?
As Aquilino continued reading, in that monotone he used every time he opened his mouth, Angélica fanned herself faster. I resisted the urge to turn in her direction. I could only imagine the resentment that a woman like Angélica might feel about not being her father’s primary beneficiary.
“Don Cristóbal,” Aquilino said, lifting his head from the paper. “Ecuadorian law is specific when it comes to inheritances. With Do?a Purificación’s passing, her portion of the will is to be divided among her siblings.” He watched each one of us over the rim of his glasses. “Heirs are only allowed to leave twenty-five percent of their assets to whoever they choose, but the rest, I’m afraid, must stay in the family.”
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. The news, undoubtedly, sat well with all of them. With Puri gone, they all benefitted.
My mind was racing. Nobody in this room seemed overjoyed with the idea that Puri had inherited half of the Lafont estate. My eyes darted to the bulk in Martin’s belt. If I exposed my true self right now, I would be in imminent danger. Whoever had plotted my death aboard the Andes would likely try again. However, if I continued to play my husband’s role, I would be safe. I could freely investigate these people and find out who had set out to kill me. This descendant’s clause might be advantageous. It could buy me time to find the proof I needed and then, I would expose my true identity and reclaim my inheritance.
One thought stopped me: If my husband didn’t inherit anything, what excuse did he have to stay?
I set my glass on the coffee table. “Don Aquilino, you said that Puri could leave twenty-five percent of her inheritance to whoever she wanted, correct?”
“Yes.” Aquilino was already putting his papers away, returning the envelope to his briefcase. “But her wishes must be expressed in writing to be valid.”
I pulled my shoulders back. “Puri left her last wishes on a piece of paper. She wrote there that she wanted me to have whatever she inherited.”
My sisters exchanged a quiet glance. Martin kept his gaze focused outside the window—he’d never managed to sit or open the bottle of jerez—and Laurent loosened his tie a notch. The cockatoo flew toward Angélica and rested on her shoulder. The bird’s presence didn’t seem to faze her.
“But that only entitles Don Cristóbal to twenty-five percent, right, Don Aquilino?” Angélica said.
“Correct. Do?a Purificación’s seventy-five percent has to be divided between you and Do?a Catalina since Don Alberto renounced the will.” The lawyer set his briefcase on the floor and turned to me. “Don Cristóbal, I would need to see this paper your wife signed, and of course, compare the signature to her passport. In addition, I’ll need your marriage certificate and Do?a Purificación’s death certificate.”
I wiped the sweat off my forehead. “I don’t have my wife’s death certificate at the moment. The ship’s captain promised to send it to me from Panama after all the paperwork is completed. It should only take a week or so.” I was amazed at my own ability to lie. I supposed it had to do with my self-preservation instinct. “Of course, I have no interest in staying. I know nothing about the business. In fact, I’d be glad to sell my twenty-five percent to anyone who wants it and then I can be on my way back to Spain.”
Angélica sat back, petting her bird.
“I’m not a man of great ambitions,” I continued. “My one and only dream has always been to write a novel. It’s truly the only reason I agreed to accompany my wife on this odyssey.”
Angélica smiled for the first time. “How wonderful. Laurent is also artistic. At one point, he had literary ambitions himself. Didn’t you, querido?”
“Oui, chérie,” Laurent said.
Martin folded his arms across his chest, as though this was the most boring subject in the world.
Even though I was lying when I told them I would sell my portion of the estate, I considered the possibility for a moment. Did I really want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by these vultures? Wouldn’t it be better to go back to my country, where I still had friends who loved me, where I could see the magnificent Giralda bell tower from my window every morning, and where I could start a new business with my father’s money? But if I returned to Spain, I would be going back without my husband, thanks to someone in this room.
This was a matter of justice, not ambition. My sisters had my father to themselves their entire lives and it was apparent that they didn’t want to embrace me as one of their own, but instead, intended to wipe me off the face of the earth.
Tomás Aquilino stood. “In that case, Don Cristóbal, we can go back to town now and I can find you accommodations there.”
“Nonsense,” Catalina spoke in a firm voice. “Don Cristóbal is our late sister’s husband and the proper thing would be for him to stay here, with family. Don’t you think, Angélica?”
Angélica seemed taken aback, but remained silent.
I was torn. The only way I could find out more about these people and who was capable of murder was to stay nearby, but at the same time, I hated to admit—even to myself—I was nervous about the prospect of being so close to my potential killer, or to be discovered as an imposter.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I said. “But I do find this place most inspirational for my writing.”
I was going against all my instincts, but as much as I disliked the idea of staying, I had to do it. If I boarded in town, how would I discover the truth?
“Of course you’re not imposing, Don Cristóbal,” Angélica stuttered a bit. “We’d be delighted to have you.”