The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

“Don’t you dare! Having you here is intrinsic to my public image.” He smiled and winked. “You know, ‘Who’s that beautiful woman with Norman over there?’”

  “Hmm . . . I’m not sure what to make of that.”

  “Nothing to make of it. In Washington you grab whatever attention you can. So, a couple of steaks?” said Hugh, glancing over the menu. Then he seemed to catch himself. “Oh, sorry,” he added. “No meat, right?”

  “Poultry and fish are okay, just not beef or pork.”

  “What will it be, then?”

  “The Mediterranean spinach salad I had last time was good. I think I’ll ask if they can add grilled salmon to it.”

  A few minutes later, the order placed, their waiter brought the bottle of Merlot Hugh had selected.

  “So did you and Maddy paint the Big Apple red?” asked Hugh as the waiter poured the wine into their glasses.

  “Hardly,” replied Loni. “We shopped, went to a Broadway show, and Maddy treated me to a high tea. Actually I think the Christmas Eve church service may have been the highlight for me.”

  “The two of you went to church?” Hugh leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine.

  “You’re surprised?”

  “I don’t know. I just never thought of you as the religious type.”

  “I don’t know that I am. I just wanted to go to church.”

  “And Maddy?”

  “She’s definitely not the religious type!” laughed Loni. “When I suggested it, she told me she was an atheist. But she was up for a new experience. So we went to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, right in the heart of the city.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Hugh. “Catholic?”

  “Episcopal. The organ was wonderful. I’ve never heard Christmas carols sound so majestic.”

  “What did Maddy think?”

  “She said she enjoyed it. I don’t think she was just being polite either. What about you, Hugh? Are you an atheist?” Loni asked before she realized what she was saying.

  “That’s pretty direct!” he answered. “Actually . . . I don’t know. Probably not. Though I rarely think about religion or God. I just take life as it comes. I suppose I believe there must be some meaning to it all. I don’t know what I’d call it. But you believe in God, I take it?”

  “I do.”

  “Were you raised that way?”

  “I was.”

  “I suppose that’s why you wanted to go to a Christmas Eve service. Meanwhile, I was confined with nothing to do except drink brandied eggnog with my parents the whole evening. I was in bed by eleven.”

  Loni smiled. “Just about the time Maddy and I were heading for church.”

  “My parents wondered why you didn’t come.”

  “Sorry. I just wasn’t ready for it. Maybe next Christmas.”

  “That’s a long time from now, Loni. I still haven’t figured out why you wanted to spend Christmas with Maddy instead of me. A guy could get the wrong idea. I realize she’s your boss, but your whole life seems to revolve around work . . . and around her.”

  “She’s also my friend, Hugh. There’s nothing more to it.”

  “I know. But my parents are anxious to meet you. And I want you to meet them.”

  “What have you told them, Hugh? I hope you’re not building me up too much. They’re bound to be disappointed.”

  “Not a chance! Who could be disappointed in you, Loni? They’ll love you. Why are you putting me off on this?”

  “I’m not necessarily putting you off.”

  “That’s how it seems.”

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know how to explain it, but having no parents to introduce you to . . . well, somehow it adds pressure, an awkwardness, to meeting your parents.”

  “I can be patient. Just don’t wait too long. Oh, here’s Senator McTavish. Let me introduce you. Hello, Senator,” Hugh said, rising and shaking the man’s hand. “Allow me to present Loni Ford.”

  “Charmed, Ms. Ford,” said the senator, smiling with an expression Loni wasn’t sure she liked as he extended his hand across the table.

  A moment later he was gone. Hugh resumed his seat.

  “Well done, Loni,” he said softly. “I’ve been trying to make inroads with him for months. This will definitely help. He has a bit of a reputation, if you know what I mean. He will not forget you! So what kind of a tea was that you said you went to?”

  “A high tea. Actually it has very little to do with tea. They bring you trays of the most interesting cakes and meats and cheeses and crackers and scones to go with your tea or coffee. It’s a Scottish thing . . . or British. Maddy knew about it. She’s Scottish. I had no idea.”

  “Yet she sent you over to Scotland.”

  “I don’t think she’s particularly into her heritage, though she did say she might like to visit Scotland someday.”

  “What about you? Are you interested in your heritage?”

  “I would if I knew how and where to find out more. My grandparents have told me very little about their side of the family, and my mother’s side is a complete mystery. I’ve resigned myself to never knowing much beyond what I do now.”

  “Well, you know what they say—live in the present and all that. I suppose I’ve never cared much about my ancestry.”

  “You’re right about the present, of course,” said Loni a little wistfully. “Still, I would love to know more.”

  The waiter came with Hugh’s steak platter and Loni’s salad. When it resumed, their conversation veered into other channels.

  “Do you have any hobbies, Hugh?” Loni asked.

  “My, but we are being random this evening! High tea, religion, and now hobbies.”

  “Just curious,” said Loni.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of hobbies?”

  “Anything . . . you know, reading, model cars, cycling?”

  “Who has time for any of that? You don’t either, do you?”

  “No, but I work sixty hours a week, not thirty-five like you.”

  “Ah yes, what can I say? The easy life of the congressional aide. So what do you do in your spare time?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “And now I’m asking you second?”

  Loni thought a moment.

  “I read when I can,” she said. “I love historical novels and the occasional mystery. Maybe that’s what made me think of hobbies . . . a book I’m reading. And I would love to get back into woodworking.”

  “Back into it,” repeated Hugh. “Did you used to be into it?”

  “Not really. But I grew up surrounded by handmade furniture. I helped my grandfather design and make a few things. I suppose someday I would like to have my own woodshop where I could be creative. For me it’s a form of art. I can’t draw, but I am fairly good with a band saw and circular sander.”

  “I have no idea what those even are!”

  “I was in an antique furniture shop a few months ago, not far from here, and it reminded me—”

  “Oh, there’s the vice-president himself!” interrupted Hugh.

  “Do you know him?” asked Loni, following Hugh’s gaze across the room.

  “Nothing like that. I’m about twenty-seven levels lower on the food chain. But one never knows when an opportunity will arise.”

  The vice-president joined his wife, and slowly Hugh brought his gaze back across the table. He reached for Loni’s hand. “Forgive me,” he said apologetically. “What were you saying?”

  “Nothing,” Loni said and smiled. “Just reminiscing about my grandfather and family, about oils and stains on the hands . . . just random, as you say.”

  40

  The Heir Hunter

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  The visitor to Whales Reef sat at the table in the corner of the Whales Fin Inn he had commandeered as his own since his arrival.

  By late afternoon the pub would be filled with those fishermen who could afford its special draft beer. At this hour of the morning, however, it
served as breakfast room to the inn’s guests. On this day that guest list was a list of one. It consisted solely of Clement Ardmore, recently arrived from Edinburgh.

  He had just filled his cup with tea when Audney Kerr came across the floor bearing a plate filled with eggs, sausage, tomato, haggis, mushrooms, and baked beans—standard fare for a Scottish cooked breakfast.

  “Here ye be, Mr. Ardmore,” she said.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “It smells delicious.”

  Half an hour later, as Audney was clearing the table, their guest glanced up at her. “So, Miss Kerr, what can you tell me about these two men I am to interview this morning—the Tulloch boys, Hardar and David, I believe are their names?” He studied the papers he had set on the table in front of him.

  “Hardy and David, ye’re meaning,” replied Audney. “Ye make it sound like they’re brithers, speakin’ o’ them as the Tulloch boys.”

  “They are cousins, correct?”

  “Aye, but there couldna’ be two more unlike men on the island.”

  “Unlike . . . in what way?”

  “In every way. Ye’ll ken weel enough what I mean when ye meet them.”

  Audney continued back to the kitchen with the tray. When she appeared with a fresh pot of tea, Ardmore spoke again.

  “What can you tell me about the two?” he asked again.

  “I’m the last one ye should ask!” laughed Audney.

  “Why is that?”

  She lowered her voice and smiled. “On account o’ my fallin’ head over heels for the one, an’ the ither’d marry me next week if I’d let him.”

  “A proposal in waiting, so to speak.”

  “Ye might call it that. But it’s no aboot tae happen.”

  “So you could be the next laird’s wife, the Lady of Whales Reef, depending on which way this inheritance turns out.”

  “If I cared aboot bein’ a lady, as ye say, what ye say may be true. But I dinna. An’ the time for the one’s done an’ past.”

  “But you could marry the other, I take it.”

  “I’d sooner die a spinster!”

  “Why didn’t you marry the first of the two?”

  “That’s between me an’ him, Mr. Ardmore, an’ no one else.”

  “You probably wouldn’t tell me which was which, if I were to ask?”

  “I would not.”

  “I won’t ask then.”

  “Why do ye need tae talk tae them at all, Mr. Ardmore?” asked Audney. “Whiche’er o’ the two’s auld Macgregor’s rightful heir canna hae naethin’ tae du wi’ what either o’ them might tell ye.”

  “That is true, Miss Kerr,” replied Ardmore, nodding. “The probate courts are very thorough in these matters. In all truth I am here more for the purpose of taking stock of the deceased’s holdings, do a preliminary evaluation of value, take photographs, and so on. My interview of the prospective heirs is purely routine. Mostly, I suppose, it is to satisfy my own curiosity. On the other hand, such interviews can be useful. Fraudulent claims are more common than you might think. So we assess the subjective data as well as the hard, cold facts.”

  Whatever further questions Clement Ardmore might have had on his mind were to be answered soon enough on their own.

  As if on cue, the door of the inn swung open. A gust of wintry air blew in, followed by a giant of a man. His thick mass of unkempt black hair was half covered by a tan wool cap. An unshaven face showed the month of black beard he grew annually for Up Helly-Aa. He had only been back from the celebration in Lerwick a few days and had not yet shaved. A brown-and-yellow wool plaid shirt was covered by an unbuttoned light-green mackintosh. He tossed the door shut behind him with a bang and strode across the room with a heavy-booted step. Hardy was obviously feeling the prowess of his Viking blood from the raucous festival just past. He was all the more puffed up from having been chosen to march in the front row of the procession behind the Guizer Jarl himself.

  “There’s Hardy noo,” whispered Audney. She turned and hurried toward the kitchen.

  With several quick steps, however, Hardy blocked her way.

  “Where are ye off til in sich a hurry, Audney?” he said with a grin. “I came to see ye.” He reached out and set a large hand on her shoulder.

  “Ye came tae see Mr. Ardmore,” retorted Audney. “Noo git oot ’o my way, Hardy.”

  She brushed past him and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Hardy let out a great laugh and turned toward the corner table. “Ye’re Ardmore, I take it,” he said as he lumbered toward him.

  “I am,” said the heir hunter, rising.

  A little tentatively he offered his hand, wondering if such a gesture was wise. He hoped the hulking fisherman did not crush it. “You are Mr. Tulloch . . . Mr. Hardar Tulloch.”

  “At yer service,” replied Hardy, shaking the man’s hand with surprising gentleness. Both men sat down on opposite sides of the table.

  “Audney!” bawled Hardy over his shoulder. “Bring me a pint o’ dark ale! Noo then, Mr. Ardmore, hoo can I be o’ service to ye?”

  Intimidated by the sheer physical presence and overpowering personality of Hardy Tulloch, Clement Ardmore did his best to gather his wits by shuffling the papers on the table. Mostly, as he had said to Audney, his purpose was to get a sense of those involved. Hunches carried no weight in probate court. He was, however, an investigator. Hunches sometimes led to facts. If someone was trying to pull a fast one, his nose usually picked up hints of it before the facts revealed it.

  “You have, I believe,” began Ardmore, “filed certain papers through your solicitors in Edinburgh in the matter of probate proceedings concerning the estate of Macgregor Tulloch, now deceased.”

  “If ye’re meanin’ that I’m auld Macgregor’s rightful heir an’ that we’ve got the papers tae prove it,” said Hardy, “then ye’ll be in the right.”

  Audney appeared and set a tall dark glass in front of Hardy. Again she made a quick retreat. Not that she wasn’t curious about what gist the conversation would take. But Hardy’s voice carried like a foghorn. She could listen just as well from behind the bar.

  “Yes, well we shall see about that,” rejoined Ardmore. “That is, of course, why I am here. And when you say we have the papers to prove it, you are referring to your solicitors?”

  “Aye, they’ve got the papers tae prove it.”

  “And the basis for your . . . uh, your claim, as I understand it, since you are not in direct line of descent from Macgregor Tulloch—”

  “Nae body’s in direct line, Mr. Ardmore,” interrupted Hardy. “Ye must ken that yersel’—auld Macgregor had nae children o’ his own.”

  As if drawn by the desire to listen in on the interview in progress as much as by the approach of the luncheon hour, the pub quickly began to fill with the midday regulars, and a good number who were not. No one in the village had remained unaware of Ardmore’s arrival. The moment Hardy was seen on his way from the harbor to the pub, as if by common design, cottages began to empty.

  The pub was soon as full as it would be later in the day. Among the curious was David’s uncle Fergus Gunn, ensuring that whatever took place would be reported back to his wife, Rinda, and thence to every other woman in the village.

  In the kitchen, Evanna and Keith scrambled to see what other offerings they could add to the lunch menu. Before another ten minutes had passed, Audney found herself scurrying behind the bar to keep up with the orders for coffee and beer.

  “Yes, that is being investigated as well,” Ardmore was saying. “The late Mr. Tulloch was, as I am sure you are aware, married many years before to a Norwegian woman.”

  “A’ body kens it well enouch. But she disappeared, an’ there were nae children tae come o’ it. There was a rumor that when she left the island she was with child. It’s jist naethin’ but common gossip, ye ken. She was ne’er heard o’ again.”

  “Yes, well nothing has been ascertained with any degree of certitude,” said Ardmore. “It is of co
urse being looked into, as are other avenues of inquiry including the attempt to trace the movements of a certain uncle of Macgregor Tulloch’s by the name of Brogan, who left Whales Reef as a young man.”

  “There’s naethin’ in that vein to be found. A’ body kens that fact weel enough.”

  “I’m afraid facts in a case such as this must be substantiated with something more than village hearsay.”

  “He wasna heard o’ again till he returned for his father’s funeral, an’ there were those that said by then it was too late tae make amends. Naethin’ mair was kenned o’ him after that.”

  “If that proves to be the case, and there was no progeny, then that perhaps strengthens your position, though I would want to give no indication one way or the other. Your claim, as I understand it, then extends back to the man’s aunt, I believe.”

  “I’m in direct line, as ye say, to the Auld Tulloch himsel’,” said Hardy forcefully. “Noo that auld Macgregor’s deid, ’tis the direct line that matters, an’ I’m the only one in that line. Ye can prove it weel enough by the birth certificates at Lerwick an’ the papers wi’ my solicitors in Edinburgh.”

  “We have those certificates on file, Mr. Tulloch. And when you refer to the ‘auld Tulloch,’ whom do you mean?”

  “The Auld Tulloch—auld Ernest Tulloch, Macgregor’s gran’father an’ my ain grit-grit-granfather through his daughter Delynn.”

  “Ah yes, Ernest Tulloch.” Ardmore nodded. “The last chief and laird, before his eldest son left Scotland.”

  In truth, Ardmore was a little surprised to find Hardar Tulloch, to all appearances a man whose bluster outran his intellectual prowess by several leagues, so knowledgeable and articulate in making his case.

  “And that brings us to the other individual involved in the case,” he went on slowly, “your, let me see here . . .” Again he glanced through his papers. “That would be your third cousin, one David Tulloch, the current chief.”

  Hardy laughed disdainfully. “He calls himsel’ the chief,” he said.

  “You doubt the legitimacy of the title?”

  “There’s naethin’ legitimate aboot it,” said Hardy with obvious emphasis. “If ye’re getting’ my meanin’.”

  “I don’t think I do, Mr. Tulloch.”