I have endeavored to prepare my estate in order to benefit the ones I love. Malcolm O’Neill has the signed and notarized instruments. But here is my last request to you, my dear nephew—before my estate is closed, before anyone inherits anything, the circumstances of my death must be clear and certain. If I died of natural causes, then I guess it was my time. But, if the cause of my death is suspicious or the result of a homicide, then the person(s) responsible must be identified and brought to justice before my estate is distributed. I have given you the honor (or the burden—call it what you will) of seeing that my estate is properly handled. Liam, my legacy is in your hands. Take care, my son. You’re the only one I can trust.
My warning to you: be careful and do not trust anyone!
With love,
Your Uncle Fergus
P.S. I have followed your career (including your recent jaunt to Israel to catch that evil jihadist). I’ve learned that you are married and have a child. I wish I could have met them. Know this: I am mighty proud of you.
I sat on the bed, read and reread the letter, and wept until it was time to meet Janie. What was he digging into? What was so dangerous that in Fergus’s words, “threatens everything I value”? Why couldn’t he have called me and brought me into this mystery weeks ago?
* * *
I MET JANIE AT the Emerald Inn, just up the block from O’Neill’s office. She stared at me and scrunched her nose. “You don’t look so good. Are you all right?”
“Thanks a lot, Janie. But flattery will get you nowhere.”
“No, I’m serious. Your eyes are bloodshot, you have wrinkles on your wrinkles. You looked like you had a hard night in the Belfast pubs. You got drinker’s remorse?”
“Something like that. Did Uncle Fergus ever say anything to you about death threats?”
She shook her head. “No. When men get to drinking, they talk about the Brits, the Ulster Volunteers, the paramilitary groups. They talk about their past involvement in the Troubles and we all know it’s one part fact and three parts fiction. Back then death was knocking on the door, but things are different now. You think he was killed by an old enemy, the UVF or an Ulster Freedom Fighter?”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
Fergus’s letter wasn’t exactly informative. “Alarmed by certain things” could surely refer to a holdover from the sectarian war. Maybe an Ulster Volunteer or a Loyalist Volunteer who sought revenge for an IRA attack and held Fergus responsible. There could be plenty of them out there. But Fergus didn’t say who he suspected. I suppose he could have been killed by a radical member of his own IRA, a staunch Provo seeking retaliation because Fergus wouldn’t go along with or support a failed attack. Or was he killed by someone close to him, maybe a good friend or even a member of the family, perish the thought? Still, the thought has merit, otherwise, why postpone the inheritance until the killer is prosecuted? That would justify the comment, “God help this family if I fail.”
Janie took a bite of her salad, dabbed at her mouth. “Well, who then?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell her about what I had read.
“Did you go out to the house last night?” she asked.
I nodded. “You were right. It’s all cordoned off.”
She looked up from her salad. “Deirdre was there, wasn’t she?”
I nodded again.
Janie gave me that all-knowing smile. “She doesn’t want to leave. As long as she stays there, she’s still with Uncle Fergus. She can come and go every day as she has for the past forty or so years, and dwell in the essence of their relationship. There’s still a lot of Fergus left in the house, if you know what I mean. When she moves away, that connection will be lost and she’ll be conceding he’s really gone, it’s over. She’s got quite a history, you know? As a young woman, she was a leader in the women’s movement to break the Falls Road curfew, what they called the ‘Rape of the Falls.’”
“She told me.”
Janie nodded. “After Margaret died, Uncle Fergus found himself widowed with two young children. Conor was five and Riley was two. I can only imagine the chaos of a five-year-old Conor and Riley as a toddler. Uncle Fergus must have been a fish out of water trying to take care of those two wild boys. Deirdre stepped in to help him out.”
“That was generous of her. She’s always been that kind of a woman.”
“She’s all good. A heart as big as the Connemara. Eventually they moved in together.” Janie smiled. “But it wasn’t all charity. I don’t know if you remember your uncle as a young man, but when he was in his twenties, he was dashing. I’ve seen the pictures. And Deirdre was quite a looker herself. They made a handsome couple. Still, not to take anything away from her, she did move in and raise those boys. She never had any children of her own. Riley and Conor became her children.”
“She raised me too. When did she marry Fergus?”
She shook her head. “They never married. I guess they were the modern type—ahead of their time.”
I tried to think of Uncle Fergus as the modern type. It didn’t work. “I have no memories of Margaret, I was too young. I only remember Uncle Fergus with Aunt Deirdre and I always assumed they were married.”
“Nope. Maybe they didn’t want to spoil a good thing.”
“Maybe, but they were living in a Catholic community forty years ago. It couldn’t have been easy.” I shook my head. “Meanwhile, Janie, what’s going on in your life? The last time I saw you…”
She smiled. “I was in secondary school, a gangly teenager.”
I tilted my head this way and that. “Not so gangly, as I recall.”
“Liam!”
“You got a beau?”
She blushed a bit with a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “He’s on the continent this week, otherwise he’d have been at the funeral. I talk to him every day.”
“Tell me about him.”
“His name is Charles. He’s tall, taller than you, and very handsome. He was a Gaelic football player.”
“The rugged type?”
“Sort of, but he’s very polished. He owns a company that sells linen. Fine Irish linen. He ships to the continent, the EU, Russia, Croatia, I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“How did you meet?”
She bit her lip. “In a bar. Six months ago I was with my girlfriends at Robinson’s.”
“In Belfast?”
She nodded.
I smiled. “I love that bar. Still have great music?”
“Every night. Well, six months ago Charles walked in the door, beelined right up to me and bought me a drink. Just like that. We’ve been dating ever since.”
“That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
“He was on the continent at some business conference when Uncle Fergus died. When I told him, he offered to cut his conference short and come back, but I told him not to. He should attend to his company, I’d be okay.”
“What’s the name of Charles’s company?”
“Northern Exports.” She gave me a mocking glare of disapproval. “Are you going to check him out, Mr. Private Investigator?”
“Of course not,” I said with a laugh, but I thought I might if I had the chance.
“Well, I really don’t know all that much about what Charles does. His company buys linen from local mills and farms. He ships it to foreign markets.”
“Just as long as he treats you well.”
“That he does.” Janie checked the time on her watch, folded her napkin and placed it on the table. “We have to go to Solicitor O’Neill’s. This should be interesting.”
* * *
I’VE WORKED FOR A lot of giant law firms—hundreds of lawyers, paralegals, secretaries and administrative staffers occupying multiple floors with winding staircases and marble reception areas. I didn’t expect that in Antrim, but O’Neill’s office was positively Dickensian. Dark, old and filled with antique furniture. The walls of the waiting area were covered in deep maroon wallpaper bo
rdered by ornate wainscoting. A gray-haired receptionist in a dress with padded shoulders sat behind a large wooden desk. She was thin and stern and wore her hair in a bun. She didn’t have an upright typewriter or a telephone switchboard with wires to pull in and out, but I sure had the feeling that we weren’t too far away from those days.
Mrs. O’Donohue, the humorless receptionist, rose up from her chair as we came in. Her posture was as perpendicular as a fence post. She led us back to a conference room, where a dozen chairs were set around an oblong table. Deirdre, Robert, Riley and Eamon were already seated when Janie and I arrived. Conor entered a few minutes later.
Malcolm O’Neill, a gaunt man with wavy hair the color of tree bark, entered precisely at 2 p.m. His frameless reading spectacles hung on a chain around his neck. He carried a brown cardboard file at least six inches thick, which he set on the table. Mrs. O’Donohue silently took a seat at the far end with her pen and steno pad.
“My name is Malcolm O’Neill. I was solicitor and friend to Fergus Taggart for the last twenty-five years.” Mrs. O’Donohue dutifully took down every word in shorthand. She never looked up. “We are here today for the formal reading of the last will and testament of Fergus Taggart. Would each of you please state your name loud and clear so that we may make a record of this proceeding.”
As each of us stated our names loud and clear, Mrs. O’Donohue wrote them down.
O’Neill continued, “Are there any prefatory questions relative to the nature or propriety of our gathering this afternoon?”
Conor leaned back in his chair, checked his watch and said, “Yeah. Can we just get on with the reading and not take all day? I’ve got a business to run.”
With his pointy nose in the air, O’Neill responded, “There are legal formalities to which we must adhere. You, of course, are free to leave at any time you wish. Your presence here is not compulsory.”
Making sure to get in the last word, Conor added, “Okay, okay, let’s just get on with it. Just read the damn will, let us know who gets what and then we’ll each be on our way.” Conor spoke fast, but not too fast for Mrs. O’Donohue.
O’Neill distributed a stapled set of papers, entitled Last Will and Testament to each of us. Then he laid a large manila envelope in front of me. It was sealed shut.
In sonorous tones, O’Neill said, “You’ll see from the document before you, that Mr. Taggart instructed his executor, that is me, to first discharge the expenses of his final illness, ambulance and hospital care, which were minimal, given the tragic circumstances of his demise. Next, I am instructed to pay the expenses of his funeral, which I have done. Next, I am instructed to pay any outstanding debts and obligations. I have not yet been informed of any lingering debts but there is a statutory period of six months during which creditors may file a claim.
“Finally, the rest and residue of Mr. Taggart’s estate is left to a testamentary trust. The designated trustee in whose hands the considerable estate is placed, is Mr. Taggart’s nephew, Liam Taggart.”
There was a general and immediate consensus of shock. Everyone sat with a stunned expression, except yours truly.
“Liam?” Conor said.
“Quite so,” O’Neill said flatly. “The terms concerning the maintenance of the trust assets and the method, means and times of distribution to the named beneficiaries are set out in great detail in the trust document itself, which lays inside the envelope I have placed in front of Liam Taggart. Mr. Fergus Taggart has instructed that the trust itself must remain sealed to all but the trustee, pending the occurrence of a certain condition set forth in the instrument. Any questions?”
The family members all looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neill,” Robert said, “but I don’t think I understand. Who inherits my brother’s property? His house, his money, his stocks and bonds?”
“At this particular time, no individual inherits anything. Your brother’s property is to be held by the trustee in trust until a time in the future when all of the assets will be disbursed to named beneficiaries. It’s all in the trust document. Quite simple.”
“What beneficiaries and what times?”
O’Neill rose. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose those details. The trust is sealed.”
“What?!” yelled Conor. “What is this shit? What trust? Who are you kidding here? What do you mean, ‘sealed’?”
O’Neill looked at Conor as though he didn’t understand English. “I mean until the occurrence of the specified event, the terms of this instrument are private, confidential, sealed, secret—how else can I say this?—not open to anyone other than Mr. Liam Taggart and myself.”
“What specified event, Mr. O’Neill?” Eamon said. “When will we know the contents of this envelope?”
O’Neill raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Fair question. Mr. Fergus Taggart specified that all assets were to remain in trust and not given to any beneficiary until the circumstances of his death were established. Mr. Taggart instructed that if he were to have died in any way other than by natural causes, then the assets were to be held and remain in trust until the person or persons responsible for his death were apprehended and suitably prosecuted.” He smiled and nodded. “That is all. You are all discharged and free to go.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Solicitor,” Conor said. “You mean that until my father’s killer is caught and prosecuted, nobody gets anything? All his property just sits in limbo?”
“No, sir. It sits in trust. Liam Taggart, as trustee, will decide how the property is to be maintained until the final distribution. He has total authority until the condition is satisfied and the property is then distributed to the named beneficiaries.”
“And we don’t know who they are? And you’re not going to tell us?”
“Correct.”
“So we don’t even know who will inherit what? We can’t even find out the terms of his trust because you say it’s a secret?”
“That is correct. You do understand it, after all.”
Conor stood up and knocked his chair backward. “That’s freakin’ nonsense. I demand to know who inherits my father’s property. You can’t tell me it’s left to some blind trust and I’m not entitled to see it.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can. Those were your father’s wishes.”
Riley put his hand on Conor’s arm and gestured for him to be seated. He spoke more calmly. “Why do we have to wait to learn who the beneficiaries will be? Even though you say the property must remain in trust, the ultimate division of the property is quite important. Who will inherit my father’s farm? Who will inherit his investments? These assets need to be preserved. My father and I had certain investments together. What will become of them?”
“Damn right!” Conor said. “We have a right to know.”
“Must I say this again?” O’Neill said in an annoyed monotone. “Because those were your father’s wishes.” Despite the growing tension in the room, O’Neill stood his ground. “It’s all specified in the body of the trust. The trustee will know, as you say, who gets what, and the trustee is charged with the responsibility of preserving those assets for the ultimate beneficiaries.”
Conor rose and slammed the table with his open palm. “I don’t accept that. Some American we haven’t seen in twenty years is going to tell me what will and won’t happen with my father’s estate? That’s horseshit. This can’t be legal. I’m going to head straight over to my lawyer. We’ll blow this trust to hell.”
“Before you go running off, young man, I must tell you that the trust has an in terrorem clause.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Whomsoever should contest the provisions of the will or the testamentary trust, will be immediately disinherited, eliminated as a beneficiary, will forfeit his share and will be forever barred from receiving any distributions.”
“That’s not legal.”
Malcolm smugly tilted his head back and raised hi
s pointy nose in the air. “If you wish to test the legality, sir, you do so at considerable risk.”
Conor sneered. “Test it? You’re damn right we do. Everyone in this room is going to test it and defeat it. We’re going to hire a lawyer and we’re going to throw this thing out. And you too.” He looked around the room. “I’m going to make an appointment with Michael Cooney as soon as I can. He’s a tough lawyer. He’ll get this bullshit trust thrown out. Who’s with me here?” One by one, the relatives turned their heads or lowered their eyes.
“What’s the matter with all of you?” Conor said. “Are you all that timid? O’Neill can’t write some voodoo trust and turn over all our family’s property to an estranged cousin and then keep it all secret. If those were my father’s wishes, then maybe he was losing his mind. But I’m going to tell you right now, my lawyer will get this trust nullified and send Liam back where he belongs.”
“Let’s not be hasty, Conor,” Robert said. “If you contest the will or the trust and some court determines that this terrorizing clause is valid, you’ll lose your entire inheritance. Do you want to take that chance? Speaking for myself only, I trust Liam to do the right thing. If that’s what my brother wanted, we should respect his wishes.”
Conor’s face was getting red. He looked for support among the other family members but he wasn’t getting it. He started to storm out, but then reconsidered, made a U-turn and sat down with a snort. “I just can’t believe you’re letting this go, Uncle Robert. What if the killer is never found? Did you ever think of that? What if the freakin’ police don’t want to arrest him or prosecute him? Then what?”
O’Neill nodded. “You raise a valid point, Mr. Taggart. There is an end date. If the conditions do not occur within ten years, there are provisions for distribution of the assets at that time.”
“Ten years? Are you kidding me?”
“No, sir. Ten years. And I am not disposed to kidding.” O’Neill raised his eyebrows. “If there are no further questions, I have other matters that require my attention. Good day.” With that, Solicitor Malcolm O’Neill left the room, followed by Mrs. O’Donohue. When the door was closed, Conor quickly stepped toward me and reached out to take the envelope. I put my hand on it.
The Trust Page 5
