Making The Drop (Miami Jones Private Investigator Mystery Book 17) by A.J. Stewart

Author:A.J. Stewart [Stewart, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jacaranda Drive
Published: 2023-07-02T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The history of DeLand, Florida, was the history of Florida itself. According to Ron, it was originally a small settlement along the St. Johns River, but it flourished when a northerner named Henry Addison DeLand bought up tracts of land to create a center for agriculture and tourism. DeLand, who had made his fortune in, of all things, baking soda, named the town after himself, naturally. After developing a town surrounded by orange groves and establishing the state’s first private college—aptly named DeLand Academy—the whole thing went belly-up after a freeze destroyed Florida’s orange crops in 1885.

DeLand returned north, like so many rich guys who went bust in Florida, but the town thrived and eventually became the county seat for Volusia County. John Stetson took over the college, and in proper Florida tradition they renamed it Stetson University. Stetson was the hat magnate, a term that would never pass my lips, and the college’s sports teams were known as the Stetson University Hatters. It just didn’t get any more Florida than that.

DeLand was a quaint town a half hour from the coast, and I felt the temperature climb with each mile I went inland. By the time I reached the county courthouse, it was baking. There wasn’t a wisp of breeze, and the humidity was rising from the grass.

I walked into the courthouse looking for air-conditioning more than anything. It had been renovated a few years earlier and had that same new-build feel that many public buildings had in the state—lots of white prefabricated concrete to minimize cost and a small dose of red bricks to maximize gravitas.

Probate court seemed busier than family court in Palm Beach, but dying was one of Florida’s primary industries. And many people did it without a will. Cases were announced, and lawyers and judges chitchatted, and cases were dealt with. The hearings were lightning fast, but the process was glacial.

Eric Edwards entered the court thirty minutes after me dressed like a Boston banker despite the heat. He nodded to me but found a seat in the front row of the gallery.

When the matter of the estate of Amanda Rahm was called, Eric stepped in past the gate and settled at the table.

The judge was an old guy with glasses he looked over rather than through. “Representative Edwards, what brings you to our little courtroom? I wasn’t aware you were into probate matters.”

“Your Honor, I wish to petition the court on behalf of Nora Rahm, daughter of the deceased.”

“How so?”

“There is no known last will and testament at this time, so no executor is detailed. I’m willing to nominate myself as person of responsibility in this matter.”

“What is your connection to the estate?”

“None, Your Honor. The current foster parents are associates of mine, and they brought the matter to my attention. My firm is willing to take on this matter pro bono to ensure the child’s financial interests are looked after.”

“Is the child the sole heir?”

“Yes, Your Honor. There is no known father, and the only kin we have located is a grandmother in California.

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