Evers brightened. “Right. The foundations like it a lot better than money left in a will. Wills can be challenged. A man can do anything he wants with his money while he’s still alive.”
Jackman looked incredulous. “Hannaford did this with all his money? Every cent of it?”
“Almost,” Evers said. “Also the house, some other property he’s got scattered here and there, whatever. He put about ten million dollars into trusts for his sons—”
“Just his sons?” Gregor asked.
“Just his sons,” Evers said. “Not a dime to any of the girls. And not much for the sons, either, if you want to know the truth. Robert, the oldest son, got a fair amount—I think it comes to about a hundred thousand a year. The other two got less, much less. You don’t make all that much money on ten million, if ten million is all you’ve got—”
“I’d make plenty of money on ten million,” Jackman said.
“You might not think so if you’d been used to all this,” Evers said. “And Hannaford’s children were definitely used to it. Horses, schools, fifty-thousand-dollar birthday parties. He brought them up like heirs to an Arab sheikdom. They didn’t like this one bit, let me tell you.”
“They didn’t see it coming?” Gregor said. “He’d given no indication, beforehand—”
“Hell, no. That’s why it made the papers.” Evers grinned. “That’s why I can talk like this and not have to worry about confidentiality. With the Hannafords, there’s no such thing as confidentiality. Before 1980, old Robert H. was the typical rich old man. First he loved them, then he hated them. First he made a will one way, then he made it the other. And since Hannaford Financial was a privately owned company at the time—”
“What happened to it?” Jackman said.
“It went public, also in 1980. But you see how it was. Hannaford’s nuttiness was business news, not just society news. It made its way into the tabloids and the straight papers. Once in a while, it even made it onto local television. That was why it was such a big deal when he decided to settle the situation once and for all.”
Gregor closed his eyes, thinking. “Were you Hannaford’s lawyer at the time?” he asked.
“I wasn’t any kind of lawyer at the time,” Floyd Evers said. “I hadn’t passed the bar exam. I took the Hannafords over after Tom Wanderman died. He was the founder of my firm. He and Hannaford had known each other forever.”
“Why you?” Gregor said.
“I was Wanderman’s assistant. And Robert Hannaford liked me, don’t ask me why.”
Jackman stirred uneasily. “I don’t get this. Nobody benefits from Robert Hannaford’s death? Nobody?”
“Cordelia Day Hannaford has right of survivorship,” Evers said. “She goes on getting the annuities as long as she lives. And the foundations benefit a little. The contents of this house, for instance. Technically, they belong to Yale University, to be sold at auction when both the senior Hannafords are dead. And, of course, there’s the insurance policy.”
“One million dollars,” Jackman said.
“Two, in case of murder. To Cordelia Day Hannaford.” Evers nodded.
Jackman was persistent—or persistently obtuse. “But none of the children benefit. None of them gets anything because their father’s dead.”
“Right.” Evers nodded again.
“I wonder why the girls were cut off so completely.” Gregor had been silent for so long, they’d forgotten he was there. They turned to stare at him. He shrugged at their incomprehension. “It’s not that strange a question. Rich old men tend to get on better with their daughters than their sons. You’d think he’d have gotten on with at least one of them. And Cordelia Day Hannaford must have been already ill in 1980.”
“So?” Jackman said.
“So, Anne Marie Hannaford has given up her life to take care of her mother, a woman Robert Hannaford was supposed to have loved. You’d think he’d make some provision for Anne Marie, at least, in gratitude if nothing else.”
“You’d think he’d make better provision for the boys,” Floyd Evers said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Hannafords, especially old Robert Hannaford, it’s that they’re family proud. Family nuts, if you ask me.”
Gregor thought about the portraits in the upstairs hall. “Yes, there is that. I wonder what happened in 1980.”
“Why would anything have to have happened?” Jackman said. “Maybe he just got tired of making wills and unmaking them again.”