Housekeeper Turns Pale Seeing His Name in Rich Boss's Will — Story of the Day

Christopher was loyal to his boss until the man’s death. Faced with unemployment and bleak prospects, he makes a hasty decision, unaware his boss has already taken care of him.

"Christopher?" Mr. Bill broke off with a hoarse cough. "My medicine."

"Coming, Mr. Bill." The wooden stairs echoed beneath Christopher's feet as he hurried up to his boss's bedroom. He carried a small tray bearing a crowd of medicine bottles, which he set on the bedside table.

"I'm worried about you." Christopher selected a bottle of cough syrup. "Your cough isn't improving."

Mr. Bill chuckled. "You're a good man, Christopher. I appreciate your concern, and everything you do for me."

Christopher shook his head as he poured out a measure of ginger-scented medicine. "I'd still be digging through the trash for food if it weren't for you. I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. Everything I am today is because of you."

"Nonsense." Mr. Bill drank the medicine and smiled at Christopher. "All I've ever done is try to show you your own worth. You shouldn't think so poorly of yourself when you're capable of so much more." Mr. Bill lay back against the pillows. "I need to rest now."

“I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Christopher looked back at Mr. Bill as he exited the room. He resolved to call a doctor if Mr. Bill wasn't better in the morning, but he never got the chance.

Breakfast had turned cold and rubbery, Christopher had cleaned half the townhouse, and Mr. Bill still wasn't up.

"Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise," Christopher muttered as he approached Mr. Bill's bedroom door. "He's always lived by that motto, maybe that's why he's achieved such success in business."

Christopher knocked on the bedroom door. When nobody answered, he gently pushed it open while calling Mr. Bill. The man was still in bed!

"This is a first, Mr. Bill," Christopher said as he opened the curtains. "The sun is up earlier than you for..."

Christopher's words died in his throat as he saw the chalky hue of Mr. Bill's skin. He rushed to the man's bedside.

Mr. Bill's lips were blue, and his skin was cold when Christopher touched his fingers to the man's neck. Tears spilled from Christopher's eyes as he waited in vain to feel the older man's heartbeat.

Christopher collapsed to his knees on the carpet. Time went on without him as he was lost to grief. Then the thoughts started coming one after another: he remembered when he first met Mr. Bill, and how he’d saved Christopher by giving him a job. Christopher’s salary had allowed him to help his bedridden mother these past few years.

A larger problem hit Christopher then. His breath came in rapid gasps as he realized that Mr. Bill's death meant he was now out of a job and no longer had a place to stay.

Christopher paced in the hallway outside Mr. Bill's bedroom. He had his phone in his hand and had typed in the number for the ambulance, but he hesitated to call.

I can't go back to the streets, Christopher thought. How would he pay for the care his bedridden mother needed? Or keep up with the bills her pension didn't cover?

The solution stared Christopher in the face when his pacing brought him to the end of the hallway. An old, leather-bound book in a glass display case stood on a table near the landing. It was one of only two books from Mr. Bill's expensive collection on display in his home.

Christopher glanced up at the attic stairs. "Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of illuminated manuscripts stored in an attic," he muttered. "I doubt Mr. Bill had a will so it will probably go to his son, that ungrateful jerk who never called or visited Mr. Bill. I deserve it more...I need it more."

Christopher put his phone away and pulled down the stairs to the attic. Carefully wrapped and boxed books were stacked against the wall. Christopher carried them downstairs one by one, removed them from their boxes, and placed the illuminated manuscripts inside a duffel bag.

He had to act fast since he couldn't delay reporting Mr. Bill's death indefinitely. Christopher rushed from the house to the one man he knew who could help him sell off Mr. Bill's collection from under his absent son's nose.

Mr. Smith lived in a large house in an upmarket neighborhood. Christopher couldn't help but scowl as he looked at the million-dollar houses lining the street. What a waste to spend so much money on a house when people in the world were going hungry.

Mr. Smith invited Christopher to sit in a lavishly decorated sitting room. Christopher got straight to the point.

"Mr. Bill asked me to come and see you," Christopher said.

"He wants to sell some of his illuminated manuscripts. Let me show you."

Mr. Smith's eyes widened as Christopher removed several thick books from the duffel bag and held them up. "He really wants to sell these?"

Christopher nodded. "How much will you give him, Mr. Smith? Mr. Bill would like cash and asked me to collect it for—"

"Cash?" Mr. Smith spluttered. "You can't be serious. I'll wire the money."

"No! You can't do that." Christopher leaned forward. "Mr. Bill was very specific; he only wants cash, and I must deliver it to him."

Mr. Smith narrowed his eyes. "This is a very strange arrangement, Christopher. I get the feeling there's something you aren't telling me. Spit it out, or I'll call Bill and ask him myself."

“If you aren’t interested in buying them then I’ll take them to the next collector.” Christopher started packing the collection away.

“I don’t think so!” Mr. Smith snatched up one of the illuminated manuscripts and placed it on his knee. “I have good instincts, Christopher. Moreover, anyone with good vision can see how much your hands are shaking, and how the sweat is beading on your forehead. You’re hiding something, and I’ll call the police if you don’t tell me what’s going on right now.”

Christopher panicked at the mention of the police. He tried to take the book from Mr. Smith and leave, but the man was determined to get the truth out of him. Eventually, Christopher caved and told him everything.

"I have to do this," Christopher said.

"I understand." Mr. Smith nodded thoughtfully as he admired the intricate artwork in the books. "I won't turn you in since you're offering me many books I've dreamed of adding to my collection, but I can't be an accomplice to theft."

Mr. Smith sighed. "There's a good chance the police will come to me when they discover the manuscripts have been stolen, and I can't risk the damage that would do to my reputation."

"But I've got nowhere else to turn. I need your help," Christopher pleaded.

"I'm sorry. I dearly wish I could assist, but it's not possible under these circumstances. You'll be caught the instant someone realizes Bill's collection is missing."

Christopher headed back to Mr. Bill's house. He'd bet everything on Mr. Smith's help, and now he didn't know what to do next. Mr. Smith was right: the police would investigate once someone reported the art collection as stolen.

The answer came to Christopher in a flash of inspiration. All he needed to do was ensure nobody realized the manuscripts were missing in the first place! Christopher grinned as he thought of the perfect way to cover his tracks.

First, Christopher safely hid the duffel bag containing the illuminated manuscripts in the garden shed. He returned to the house with a bottle of paint thinners.

"It needs to be done, it needs to be done," Christopher muttered as he manipulated Mr. Bill's stiff fingers. He'd already cut the end off one of Mr. Bill's expensive cigars and soaked the entire thing in the paint thinners. Now, he needed it to stay in Mr. Bill's hand.

Christopher avoided looking at his dead boss as he grasped the man's shoulders. The body let out a wheeze when Christopher moved it, and Christopher leaped backward in a panic.

"It's just the last breath trapped in his lungs," Christopher muttered as he dried the tears from his cheeks. "God, I'm so sorry Mr. Bill. I wouldn't do this if I had any other choice."

Eventually, Christopher got the body into a seated position on the bed. He placed Mr. Bill's favorite ashtray on the bedside table and then closed his fingers around the cigar.

The fire would ensure that nobody questioned the disappearance of Mr. Bill's illuminated manuscripts. Everyone would assume the books were destroyed, and since Mr. Bill had smoked cigars in bed for as long as Christopher worked for him, nobody would question the fire's origin.

Christopher let out a sigh and smiled. It was a genius plan, and what did it matter if Mr. Bill's body had to be burned in the process? He'd moved on now, after all.

"This is the last thing I need you to do for me, Mr, Bill," Christopher said as he struck a match and touched it to the end of the cigar.

"I already told you I can't help you," Mr. Smith said when Christopher appeared on his doorstep the next day.

"But you can." Christopher grinned. "I figured out the perfect solution to both our problems. These illuminated manuscripts are worth even more now because everyone will think they were destroyed." Christopher raised the bag. "And the police will never look for them."

Mr. Smith looked skeptical, but he invited Christopher in nonetheless. Mr. Smith’s jaw dropped when Christopher explained about the fire, but after a few minutes, his gaze moved to the duffel bag and turned thoughtful.

"This is very unexpected, Christopher, but it changes everything. You're right; the manuscripts are more valuable now and it seems unlikely anyone will search for them. I can give your offer more serious consideration now."

Christopher smiled. He'd be set for the rest of his life after Mr. Smith paid him the hundreds of thousands of dollars the collection was worth. He wouldn't have to worry about Mom's bills anymore, either. After all the hardships he'd endured, he would finally have some security.

"Let's see." Mr. Smith pulled out his checkbook and tapped his fountain pen against his chin. "I think seven thousand dollars will do."

"Seven thousand!" Christopher leaped to his feet. "No way. Just one of these books is worth more than seven thousand. You need to give me far more than that if you want these paintings."

"Do I?" Mr. Smith gave Christopher a predatory grin. He rose from his seat and strode around Christopher like a circling shark.

"You hid the fact that Bill died, stole his book collection, and committed arson to cover your tracks," Mr. Smith said. "If I told the police about this, they might even suspect you of murder."

Christopher's outrage turned to an icy fear. "I would never hurt Mr. Bill."

"Oh, but the police don't know that. It would be so easy for them to assume you were after his collection all along, and were willing to kill to get it." Mr. Smith stopped in front of Christopher and smiled. "You don't want such troubles in your life, do you?"

“You liar!” Christopher balled his hands into fists. “You no-good cheat! How could you—"

"Just take the money I'm offering you and disappear, loser! Seven thousand dollars is better than sitting in jail with zero, don't you agree?" Mr. Smith smirked as he waved his checkbook. "This is the only offer you'll get from me, so make the smart choice, Christopher."

Christopher had never been so angry in all his life, but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped.

Christopher immediately cashed Mr. Smith's check and headed for his mother's house. Now that Mr. Bill and his house were gone, there was nowhere else Christopher could go. He kicked a soda can lying on the sidewalk. He should never have trusted Mr. Smith!

When Christopher approached his mother's house, the first thing he noticed was the police car parked outside. An officer climbed out of the car as he watched and headed for Mom’s front door.

Horror gripped his heart and drove the breath from his lungs. Smith had called the cops, after all!

Christopher ran until his legs cramped and a stitch stabbed at his side. He panted as he scanned his surroundings. There was a cheap motel nearby, the type that offered an hourly rate. He could hole up there for a while.

Christopher collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. What was he going to do now? The police were after him, and there was no way he was going to jail. He had to leave the state, or better yet, the country.

Christopher's heart ached as he thought of his mother. All he'd wanted was to secure a future for both of them and now he'd have to abandon her. He could send her money later, but he first needed to get to safety.

After walking the streets for an hour, Christopher entered a bar with a heavily-graffitied facade and scanned the dimly lit interior. Although he'd lived with Mr. Bill for several years, Christopher hadn't forgotten his street smarts. He soon closed in on a heavily tattooed man with a patchy beard who looked likely to help him.

Christopher sat down beside the bearded man and eyed a sun tattoo on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. "I'd like to go south for a holiday. Do you know someone who can help me with that?"

The man side-eyed Christopher and sipped from his drink. "Plenty of travel agents in town, mister, why don't you speak to them?"

Christopher shook his head. "They don't offer the type of services I need."

"What makes you think I do?"

"I've been around long enough to be able to pick out the most important man in a room." Christopher looked at the man. "I need to go south, man, and I can pay on short notice."

The bearded man grinned. "Oh? Maybe we should talk outside. Now I think about it, I have some friends who work in travel."

"Not many people want to travel this way. Are you running from something?" The bearded man, who called himself Lobo, glanced at Christopher.

Christopher shook his head and held tight to the car's passenger seat. Lobo was driving far too fast over the bumpy dirt road. Christopher was afraid to speak in case he bit his tongue by accident.

"Not a talkative man, huh?" Lobo laughed. "It's fine, we all know the code, right? Never trust anyone more than you need to."

Christopher scowled out the window. They were headed into the desert, and he was starting to get anxious about the ordeal that lay ahead of him.

Lobo had charged him five thousand dollars to guide him to the border, and equip him with water and food for the journey. It seemed expensive, but Christopher wasn't in a position to argue.

They arrived at a ramshackle collection of buildings near sunset. Lobo left his pickup truck in a shed and headed off into the desert almost immediately.

"Come on," Lobo called over his shoulder. "We have a long way to go and it only gets more dangerous at night."

The desert was filled with short, scrubby plants that Christopher tripped over more frequently the darker it got. Lobo had a dim flashlight and walked confidently through the tall cacti, but Christopher was slower and more cautious. He definitely didn't want to trip and land on a cactus.

Once night fell, Christopher was amazed to see the milky way arcing overhead. He'd never seen it so clearly before in real life. He stopped to stare up at it for a moment, but Lobo soon hurried him onwards.

"This isn't the time for stargazing," Lobo said. "You need to keep your focus on what's in front of you. The desert is filled with dangerous animals, including border patrols."

Lobo chuckled at his own joke, but Christopher was sobered by the man's words. He hurried to walk closer to Lobo, and kept his eyes peeled for signs of scorpions or snakes.

He was so busy looking down that he almost didn't notice when Lobo stopped walking. Christopher turned back to ask his guide what was wrong, but Lobo was running away. Christopher started to follow him, but then a bright light shone down on him.

"Stop right there! This is the US border patrol and we're taking you in."

Flashlight beams carved crazy patterns across the desert landscape as Christopher ran from the border patrol. His breath was like razors in his throat, and his heart felt like a broken piston in his chest, but he couldn't stop.

He glanced back when he heard dogs barking. His foot came down on loose rocks and sand, and he tumbled down the side of a hill. Spiky plants tore at his skin. He screamed when he landed with his back against one of the tall cacti.

"Over there!"

Christopher scrambled to his feet, but he'd gotten hurt in his fall. He couldn't manage anything faster than a limping jog. He couldn't hide either because of the dogs.

A rocky outcrop stood out against the stars ahead. Christopher kept low to the ground, staggering from one scrubby tree to the next. The officers chasing him sounded distant, like they'd lost him somehow. Christopher put the last of his strength into a final burst of speed.

His injured leg soon gave out. Christopher fell and landed on a sharp rock. He started crawling then, but an unexpected sound stopped him in his tracks.

Christopher didn't dare to move as he listened to the unmistakable sound of a rattlesnake somewhere in front of him. He hoped that if he lay still for long enough, the snake would slither on its own way, and he could continue his race for the border.

However, the sound of a dog whining and footsteps approaching killed that dream. A spotlight shone down on him, and Christopher saw the rattlesnake a foot in front of him. Its head was raised, ready to strike.

"Don't move," a woman called out. "You're dead if that rattler bites you."

Christopher had no option but to surrender. The bright light and commotion must’ve startled the snake because it slithered off on its own. Christopher lay still and let the officers handcuff him. They then escorted him to a truck, where Lobo was already sitting in handcuffs, and drove him into town.

Christopher was admitted to the hospital while doctors treated his wounds, but by morning, he was seated in an interrogation room at the police station.

The detective across from him sipped coffee from her mug as she casually read through the folder in front of her. After a long while, she looked up at Christopher and folded her hands together.

"You're in a lot of trouble," the detective said.

"The list of charges against you are: failure to report a death, theft of a valuable book collection, arson, attempting to cross the border illegally, and attempting to evade capture." The detective shook her head. "That adds up to a lot of jail time."

"I want a lawyer," Christopher said.

"Of course you do." The detective smiled.

"And I want to know what happened to the books you stole. Perhaps we can find a compromise."

A brisk knock on the door interrupted the interrogation. The detective left the room without another word.

Christopher was determined to do anything it took to decrease his charges. He'd seen how this worked in movies and TV series and had decided to tell the police all about Mr. Smith's involvement. Hopefully, that would be enough to save him.

The instant the detective walked through the door, Christopher told her about how Mr. Smith had tricked and threatened to blackmail him.

"You should arrest him too," Christopher added.

"Actually, the theft charges have been dropped. It turns out your employer left those books to you in his will so, technically, they were yours already when you sold them to this man." The detective smiled. "He might've cheated you, but not nearly as badly as you cheated yourself."

Christopher stared down at his handcuffed wrists. Mr. Bill had left the paintings to him?

He was so sure Mr. Bill’s son would get everything after he died. He hadn’t even known Mr. Bill had a will. And yet, it was precisely like Mr. Bill to ensure Christopher could care for himself even after his death.

If only he hadn't jumped to conclusions! He would've now owned a very valuable collection of antique manuscripts instead of being a criminal with only two thousand dollars left from the pittance Mr. Smith paid him.

"I've been such a fool," Christopher moaned.

"Seems like it," the detective replied. "Now, let's see if you're just as eager to talk about the remaining charges against you."

What can we learn from this story?

• Don’t give in to greed. If Christopher had done the right thing, he would’ve been able to fulfil his desire to care for his mother. Instead, he panicked and acted out of fear and greed.
• You can’t fix one bad choice by making another. Everyone makes bad choices sometimes, but the only way to set things right afterward is to do the right thing.

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If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a man who desperately searches for his son after his car is stolen with the child inside it.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life. If you would like to share your story, please send it to info@amomama.com.