Gus squeezed my upper arm and kept walking toward Brooke. I stopped and took a moment to look out of the windows. The view was breathtaking, and the sight of the water did what it always did and calmed me. Suddenly it all hit me. The time spent with Gus, Eric’s questioning by the police, my visits to the Anchorage—they’d all been a little surreal. But the reading of a will? That was very real. Peter Whitehall was dead, and he’d left a new will for his family. I wondered how extraordinary that was. How often did he change his will? Soon enough we’d all know his intentions, even if the reasons behind them were still unclear.
A short burst of sound came from the phone on the wall beside me. Clive picked it up.
“Freddy Sands has arrived.” Clive ignored Brooke and walked over to the table. He pulled out the chair beside him and offered it to me. “Sit here, Ms. Sullivan.”
I thanked him and sat down. Gus had walked over to Emma and was talking to her in a low voice. He turned to sit in the seat beside me, but Eric got there first. He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Gus avoided the chair next to Brooke and sat beside Terry.
Freddy Sands walked into the room, escorted to the door by Super Boy. I smiled when I saw him. Though his two-hundred-dollar suit and loafers didn’t match the décor, it was obvious from his body language that the room and its inhabitants didn’t intimidate him. I hadn’t expected them to. My father always said attorney Freddy Sands was as comfortable with paupers as he was with kings. I watched him work the room while Clive introduced him. He seemed unaware of the palatable animosity. He smiled at each person and treated them like a long-lost relative.
I noticed he spent slightly more time speaking with Gus, and I wondered what he said. Then he reached Eric, who stood to shake the older man’s hand.
“Freddy, this is Peter’s son—” Clive began.
“No need, Clive, no need. Good to see you, son.” Freddy wrapped both of his hands around Eric’s, and then reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
Clive turned to me. I was still sitting, mainly because all of the standing men didn’t allow me a lot of room to maneuver my chair out from the table. “And lastly, this is Edwina Sullivan … ”
“Edwina, what were your parents thinking, God rest their lovely souls. How are you, darlin’?” He gave me a wink. Had we been anywhere else, a hug would have followed, but not there.
“You know each other?” Clive had caught the wink and sounded surprised.
“I’ve known Sully since she was a baby. It’s a small town, Trevorton. We all know each other.”
Of course, there was more to it than that. Much more. Freddy and my father had played poker together. His wife Cathy and my mother were great friends. Freddy was a subscriber and donor to the Cliffside, and had helped more than once with contractual issues. For a moment I questioned the familiar “darlin’,” but then I thought about it and realized that it was his way of providing full disclosure. Clive let it pass and sat down, with Freddy on his other side.
“Shall we begin?” Clive asked, taking the time to look at each face around the table. Taking the silence for assent, he turned toward Freddy Sands.
Freddy donned his reading glasses, opened the portfolio in front of him, and, without pretext, began to read. “I, Peter F. Whitehall, a resident and citizen of Essex County, Massachusetts, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this instrument to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking any and all wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made.
“Item I: Debts, Expenses, and Taxes: I direct my Executor, hereinafter named, to pay all of my matured debts and my funeral expenses, as well as the costs and expenses of the administration of my estate, as soon after my death as practicable. I further direct that all estate, inheritance, transfer, and succession taxes which are payable by reason under this will, be paid out of my residuary estate; and I hereby waive on behalf of my estate any right to recover from any person any part of such taxes so paid. My Executor, in his sole discretion, may pay from my domiciliary estate all or any portion of the costs of ancillary administration and similar proceedings in other jurisdictions … ”
I was in a great location to watch most of the faces around the table, and all of the faces I was interested in: Terry, Brooke, Mrs. Bridges, Amelia … and Gus. I couldn’t tell if people were breathing. I don’t think Terry blinked once. Even Gus was transfixed. I was curious, but since the chance that Peter had left his worldly fortune to me was between slim and none, I was able to observe. I caught Mrs. Bridge’s eye and smiled. She returned a curious smile, something I’d expect to see on the Cheshire cat. She seemed to be the most relaxed person, next to Freddy, at the table.
Freddy’s tone didn’t change as he got to the meat of the will, but the air in the room did. Emma was named as Trustee of the Will. Gus was named as Coexecutor, along with Clive. Emma didn’t look terribly surprised by this news. I couldn’t tell if Gus was surprised or not. I thought not, but Gus had his game face on, which was a tough one to read.
Terry, on the other hand, looked apoplectic, but kept silent and still. The only movement I noticed was a light tapping of the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair. Brooke kept glancing over at him, but he never took his eyes off Freddy.
My inheritance was listed right away:
“To Edwina Temple Sullivan, I leave the coin collection and silver tea set owned by her namesake, Edwin Temple.” That was it. I looked across at Mrs. Bridges, who smiled back. I couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t nudged this generous gesture in some way.
Mrs. Bridges was next. Her bequest wasn’t nearly as clear as mine—she could stay in the family employ if she wished, for as long as she desired. Upon retirement, she would be awarded a monthly stipend and accommodations mutually agreed upon by herself and Emma, as Trustee of the estate.
Brooke received a generous stipend that would continue for as long as she lived, as long as she and Peter had been married, and not in the process of divorce, at the time of his death. The payments would be monthly, with no possibility of a onetime lump sum. The annuity could not be passed on in the event of her death. Additionally, she got their Boston condo and a second home in the location of her choosing. Though it seemed a little restrictive to me—and I got the distinct impression that she was being kicked out of the Anchorage—Brooke didn’t look at all displeased by her share of the will. Of course, she didn’t look like she’d grasped it all, either. She leaned toward Terry to ask a question, but he shook her hand off his arm and turned his head away. I noticed that Mrs. Bridges leaned in from the other side and explained it again in whispered tones.
There were a few more personal items listed, including a few art pieces and Peter’s gun collection to Clive; some specific jewelry pieces to Emma and Amelia, which I assumed had been their mother’s; Peter’s library books and desk to Eric; and a few other art pieces to Terry.
The Anchorage was bequeathed to Amelia alone. A trust was available for the running of the estate, to pay the taxes in perpetuity. She could do what she wanted with the building, but was encouraged to discuss the future of the Anchorage with her siblings for input and advice. Amelia’s tears, which had been close to the surface, now spilled over. Clive slid a box of tissues across the table. Emma handed one of them to her sister, and then put her arm around her. Amelia buried her head in Emma’s shoulders and sobbed.
The company distribution was the last item outlined in the will. Gus had earlier explained to me that the company was privately owned, with 80 percent of it in Peter’s name and five percent each in Emma, Eric, Amelia, and Terry’s names. Terry had been running the company, and Emma had a lot of say, but Peter had retained control. It didn’t take an MBA to realize that this was the crux of the estate. Peter was calling the shots from the grave. And the shots were more like small grenades.
Terry was given 2.5 percent more of the company sto
ck, and a monetary inheritance equal to 25 percent of net worth of the company at the time of Peter’s death, provided he was still married to Emma and/or not in the process of divorce proceedings. Of Peter’s remaining 77.5 percent of the stock, Emma was given 46 percent, Eric 25 percent, and Clive 6.5 percent. Quick calculations told me that Emma was now in charge, with 51 percent of the company. I looked at her carefully. This time she did seem surprised. But the bombshells didn’t end there.
Terry was assured a position in the company for as long as he was married to Emma, or for as long as she wanted him to remain. If he left the company because of divorce, he would not get a payout. If he left the company by mutual consent, he would receive a payout determined by Emma and approved by the remaining partners. In other words, Terry worked for the company at the pleasure of his wife. He definitely did not look pleased.
The last part of the reading had to do with contesting the will itself. If anyone contested the will and lost, they would only receive $2,978. $2,978? I wonder what the significance of that number was.
Freddy finished reading the last part of the will and turned over the last page. He looked up at the clock and then around at the other people in the room.
“Per Mr. Whitehall’s instructions, all company identification cards, pin numbers, and security codes were voided an hour ago. The Coexecutor of the will, Gus Knight, will oversee the distribution of the new codes and clearances pursuant to the terms outlined in this will. I’ve made copies of the will for each of you. Should you desire to challenge the contents of the will, you will have forty-eight hours in which to do so, otherwise the terms will go into effect as outlined. For these next forty-eight hours the company will be effectively closed .”
“But, I have clients who—”
“You can’t mean—”
“What am I supposed to tell—”
The cacophony of voices rang out clearly and quickly. Freddy’s voice rang out just as clearly, and with more tenor.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is not open for debate. The company is closed for forty-eight hours. You do not have access to computers, to email, to phones, to anything having to do with company business. The founder of your company has died. Your clients will have to understand. Mr. Knight’s office will send out an email to clients explaining the situation. Gus, maybe you can work with these folks on the wording, and on who should receive the email?”
Gus nodded his head and opened his mouth to say something.
“Why should he be telling us what to do? Why should you? What the hell is going on here … are we supposed to believe that Peter Whitehall changed his will, cut us all out of … why should we listen to you? Or to Gus?” Terry’s face had gone from pale to pink. He looked as if he was going to blow.
“Mr. Holmes, I will provide whatever documentation you need to prove that these are the wishes of Mr. Whitehall.”
Terry looked as if he was going to say something else, but the words didn’t come. Finally Amelia stepped toward him and took his hand in hers.
“Let’s go home, Terry,” she said, pulling him toward the door. Brooke followed closely behind. “Emma, are you coming?”
“No, Amelia, you all go on. I’ll work with Gus on this email … ” Emma spoke in low tones to both Eric and Gus. They looked at me a couple of times, then back to the huddle. Terry took a step toward the group.
“Emma, maybe I should stay,” Terry said.
“No, Terry, you go on back to the Anchorage,” she said curtly. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Life had become much more complicated for Terry Holmes than it had been an hour earlier.
• Fourteen •
Gus walked over to me as my cell phone rang. I’d silenced it for the reading and had only just turned it back on. I looked at the caller ID. The call was from Connie.
“Sully, where the hell are you?”
“In Boston, at a will reading.”
“A will reading? Well, that’s a hell of a thing during tech week. You okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Is Patrick behaving?”
“For the most part,” Connie said. “It’s turned into a bit of a pissing contest—Patrick keeps throwing Shakespearean quotes at Stewart, Stewart tosses them back. They’re sharing war stories from road tours. Patrick’s actually sober. Oh, yeah, and Stewart’s stepping in as the Ghost of Christmas Future.”
“What?”
“Everything’s fine. It’s only that … ”
“It’s too fine, isn’t it?” Stewart Tracy was a fine actor and a great guy. But he was not without ego. Being willing to step in as the Ghost of Christmas Future, donning a cloak with a masked face, relegated to pointing for emoting—that was too much for an actor of Stewart’s stature and ego. Something was up.
“It is a little calm for my taste, yes.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I turned back toward Gus.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Too okay.”
“Is there such a thing as too okay?”
“Oh yes.” He looked confused, so I elaborated. “Friday we have our first preview, and next week we open the show. Too calm now might meant something’s going to blow later this week.”
“The calm before the storm,” Gus said. “I need to stay in town for a bit to help Emma. I was hoping you’d be able to hang in there for a while. We could have a late lunch.”
“I’d love to, I really would, but I need to get back. I can take a train from North Station, that’s fine. There won’t be heated seats, but I’ll live.”
“This isn’t the time, I know, but we have some things to talk about. I want to tell you—”
“Gus, do we need Eric for this afternoon?” Emma said. “Oh, sorry, I’m so rude … hello, Sully, how are you?” She leaned in toward my face and air kissed below my left ear. She looked tired but jazzed. Happy, almost. Happier than I’d seen her for a long time. “Gus, Eric would like to get back to Trevorton and see Harry,” she went on. “Do you think we need him this afternoon?” Eric had come up and was standing next to her.
“No, probably not. If you have access to a computer, Eric, we can forward a draft to you in an hour or so. As a matter of fact, Sully needs to get back as well.”
“I’ll trade you time on the computer for a ride home,” I said to Eric.
“Deal.”
We said our goodbyes and Eric and I walked to the garage, the same one where Gus and I had parked earlier. I was right; it cost an arm and a leg to free Eric’s car from the concrete underground. Happily, given that the walk back had been a brisk one, Eric’s car had heated seats as well. A girl could get used to this kind of ride, but it was probably best not to.
We crossed the Tobin Bridge and headed up Route 1 toward home. As per usual, this old road was more of a bumper-car ride waiting to happen than a fast-moving highway. It beckoned to shoppers of varying tastes with a huge number and variety of stores directly off the road, enticing new shoppers while others waited for a half-car-length gap in the traffic flow to squeeze back onto the roadway. It was not a route to be taken lightly, or to be taken quickly. But Eric was a pro. He moved to the right lane to let those determined to bust the speed limit by, and paced himself, braking slightly to let drivers in. Being a Massachusetts driver born and bred, it went against my grain to let too many drivers in without a challenge. It could brand you a sissy in the unwritten rulebook of the roads.
“Sorry. It’s from driving with Harry so much,” he said.
“What is?”
Eric smiled and looked over at me. “Letting all the drivers in. Harry’s from Maryland—his road etiquette has rubbed off.”
“Probably not a bad thing, I guess. How did you know that was what I was thinking?”
“You’ve been a million miles away since we left Clive’s office, and you don’t look particularly happy. I figu
red it could be my driving. Or maybe it’s something else?”
“A lot of things. And nothing. Nothing compared to what you’re dealing with. How are you holding up?”
“This has been a bitch of a week, don’t get me wrong. But it’s also had its upsides.”
“Such as?” I couldn’t imagine how his father’s murder and his encounters with the police could have any upsides. Eric was usually a fellow arbiter of gloom and doom, so this burst of optimism was confusing.
“For one, Harry’s been a brick. I’ve come to appreciate him more and more. For two, you’re on my side, and I don’t think there could be anyone better to get me out of this mess.”
“Thanks, Eric. I don’t know that.”
“I do. You’re going to fix this situation. You and Gus. I have faith.” He waited for a reply, but I didn’t have one. I was hoping we’d be able to get him off the suspect list, but I wasn’t sure how. Eric waited a minute longer, and then went on with his enumeration of blessings. “Such as, from the grave my father did the right thing by his family. He gave Amelia the house, which she loves. And he essentially kicked Brooke out of said house, but took care of her at the same time. He also gave Emma the credit she deserves for running the company, and he put Terry in his place. He did none of these things in life. It would have meant more then, but this is better than nothing.”
“It is much better than nothing,” I said, as Harry let another driver merge in from one of the strip malls. “Are you happy with the way things went this morning?”
“I am. I was so afraid he was going to leave me the business.”
“’Cause that would have been terrible,” I said.
“It would have been, because he would have done it for the wrong reasons. He was big into the male heir crap … part of the reason I’d always been such a disappointment to him is that I didn’t step up to the plate the way he wanted me to. I didn’t have his killer business instinct. Emma inherited that. I’m too soft, too willing to negotiate … they finally let me run a part of the company geared to nonprofits, let me work without the abstraction of a profit margin. Clive helped with that—showed Dad about the tax benefits of running part of the company at a loss. Thank God for Clive.”
A Christmas Peril Page 14
