This is an excerpt from my short story, Picture Postcards

Though slightly rewritten, the story first appeared in Twisted Tails: An Anthology to Surprise and Delight

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Phineas T. Farmington’s bank accounts and rather extensive collection of extremely rare, unusually high quality artifacts had been squandered and pilfered by certain predaceous elements of the remaining Farmington family as he approached the end of the line.

By the time old Phineas stepped off the planet, there was not much left to talk about, thus the reading of his final will and testament moved along briskly. That is, it went quickly in terms of actual time. In subjective time it was quite a different matter. The reader, a junior partner in the firm of Twigg, Tyler, and Twimble, spoke in a particularly boring, droning voice that was more mesmerizing than the slow, silent swing of a hypnotist’s pendulum.

The reading was being done in the dark, dingy, and stuffy library of the not-too-long-departed Phineas T. Farmington where the old man spent his last days on this orb working out the details of what would be his final utterance from beyond the grave. The atmosphere of the room made things all the worse.

“…and to my niece, Francine Farmington, I bequeath this magnificent old house and all the wonderful treasures it contains—that is, those that are not specifically excluded herein or have not yet been stolen from me. Although I am aware it is in need of minor repairs, I also know that her imagination, all consuming greed—”

“What?” Francine said as she stood to lean over the desk and glare at the reader. “He didn’t say that. He couldn’t. You added it. You—”

“No, Miss Farmington, I didn’t. I am merely relaying what Mr. Farmington has written. Now, may I continue?”

“Yes. Yes, damn it. But make it fast. I…I have important things to do.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am sure you do. So, continuing—…all consuming greed, and her rather stingy way—I know, dear, you like to call it the Farmington frugal bent—will bring it back to near its original luster, thereby enhancing the price she will be able to retrieve from its quick sale. Yes, my dear, I know you plan to sell it. You have always planned to sell it and could hardly wait for this day to come. You must, we all know, keep up appearances for your conniving little uptown friends.”

She was on her feet again and quaking visibly. “That old sonofa—”

“Miss Farmington, please. I am almost finished here.”

“Oh, go ahead. Finish it.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Continuing then—…To my somewhat flamboyant, often flippant, and always indolent slug of a nephew, Franklin, I leave my first car. A 1941 Ford station wagon in perfect showroom condition—I believe they are now called Woodies—that he has always coveted.”

Franklin’s hands went to his cellular phone and he began texting all his friends to tell them about his good fortune. Francine stifled a laugh and squirmed in her chair.

“Last, but not least, I bequeath to my errant and adventurous son, Frederick Farmington, my collection of rare—indeed unique—picture postcards.”

“Whoa. What?” Frederick said. “Um, read that last part again. The part about—”

“Never mind reading it again,” Francine injected. Her voice, as screechy and as nasty as her personality, made Frederick wince. “Uncle Phineas said that you get his collection of picture postcards. I dare say, that was plain enough even for the dull of wit to understand, and I must also say, it is much more than you deserve, Freddy.”