The Last Will and Testament of Geralda Connors
My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.
I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.
I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.
Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.
I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.
Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.
Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.
Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.
My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!
Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.
It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.
I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'
Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?
'They're all here. I'm about to start.'
We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?
'Can't promise that.'
I'm warning you, Crow!
I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.
I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.
And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.
I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.
"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear."
Are you on the edge of your seat? Do you wonder, who killed Geralda Heather? Welcome to finish the story contest, where any ending is possible. Below, I offer my conclusion to this mystery. Drop in on other writers in this week's contest and you will discover more possibilities. This is the intrinsic charm of finish the story. One writer offers a beginning, throws down a sort of challenge. The rest of us have to come up with a creative conclusion. Sounds interesting? Join us next week! All you need is enthusiasm and imagination.
This week 
My Conclusion:
All in a Day's Work
Why do I hate my job, you ask? Because I spend my days negotiating wills--contracts that bind the living to the dead. I stand on the threshold between Here and There.
Is it any wonder the dead eventually noticed me?
Take this case, for example. Geralda Heather. Died suddenly and left a will, which I am about to read. The folder on my desk, an item of great interest to the gardener, John, and the deceased's sister, Brigitta.
The sickly daughter in the corner, Pearl? She knows there's not likely to be anything in the will for her. She and her mother haven't talked for years.
And why would they? Geralda was a dreadful woman. Bitter and stingy, despite her great wealth. It was wealth that made her a target of the murder plan. You see, John and Brigitta became secret lovers and nurtured an ambition to acquire Geralda's wealth. But in order for that to happen, Geralda had to die.
And so they planned. First Brigitta needed to get back in Geralda's good graces. Grovel, if necessary. Then she had to be named beneficiary, and the daughter cut out of the will.
John's part in the scheme was to supply the poison, aconite, grown in the greenhouse.
It was at this stage, with the aconite ripe and the final testament prepared, that the dead tapped me on the shoulder. Not for the first time, mind you. They'd got into a bad habit of coming to me when things became dull on the other side. We, over here, are like characters in a game of Clue to them. They shuffle us around, rearrange our lives and place bets on the outcome.
I am their factotum. My abilities as a psychic make me useful. When the dead learned of the plot against Geralda they could not resist playing a little trick.
My job? See that the daughter became beneficiary, keep the revised will secret. After that, I was to dose Geralda with aconite, before the conspirators had their plan tied up in a neat knot. Traces of their plot would be lying about, enough to condemn them after her death.
Getting the will amended was easy. Geralda fretted about billable hours. I told her a technical adjustment was necessary, but if it didn't take long there'd be no charge. She signed quickly, without reviewing.
The aconite? How did I manage that? A gift, a small bottle of sherry, which I knew to be her favorite bedtime beverage, spiked discretely with deadly extract.
As I prepare to speak now, to make known Geralda's final wishes, the dead distract me with raucous banter. Wagers are placed, odds laid on: How long before the police come? Will the lovers turn on each other? Will there be a conviction?
You ask why I hate my job? Because I can hope for no release from this limbo between the living and the dead. Not until the day I am offered my own pair of dice there, on the other side.