PART 2
I folded the ticket and put it in my pocket.
“Hey, Petey,” I said. “How about a brothers’ night tonight? Just you and me. Pizza and the Braves replay at my hotel.”
His face lit up. Then he looked at Rhiannon.
“No,” she snapped. “He’s my husband. He stays with me.”
“Petey can decide for himself,” I said. “That’s what you told me, right? He’s an adult.”
She didn’t have an answer for that in front of forty guests.
Petey picked pizza. Of course he did.
At the hotel, while he watched baseball, I called my father’s estate attorney, Mr. Whitcomb. Then I called the police.
By eight the next morning, Mr. Whitcomb had an emergency hearing in probate court. A judge reviewed the guardianship order and signed a temporary order. Petey could not leave the state. Any document he’d signed without his guardians’ approval was frozen.
Two detectives went to my mother’s house with a warrant for Rhiannon’s purse.
There were eleven documents inside.
A power of attorney giving Rhiannon control over Petey’s finances.
A new will leaving everything to “my beloved wife.”
A request to the trust to release $400,000 for “a home for the newlyweds.”
And an application for a life insurance policy on Petey. $750,000. Beneficiary: Rhiannon Tully.
The detectives ran her name.
She’d been married before.
In 2019, in Florida, to a 31-year-old man with an intellectual disability. He had a settlement from a car accident.
He drowned in Mexico. On their honeymoon. She came home alone and collected his life insurance.
Florida investigators had always had doubts. They’d never had enough to charge her.
