CHAPTER 5
April 1920
As Aquilino put his spectacles on, he informed me that there had been a previous reading of the will in front of this group three months ago, but he was required to read it again “to avoid any misunderstandings.”
All hushed conversations ended and a tense silence followed.
Aquilino read a long and tedious document which stated that all of my father’s worldly possessions were to be divided in four parts: one for each of his children. But there was one caveat, one small detail I wasn’t expecting.
My father, the man I’d never really known and who, according to the will was “in full possession of his mental faculties,” had left me in charge of his most prized possession: his cacao plantation. As things stood, I held 43 percent of his assets, and the other 57 percent was to be divided among my three siblings, giving each one of them 19 percent. Since Alberto had renounced his part, his portion was to be divided among the three remaining sisters, giving me close to 50 percent of my father’s estate.
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.”