The file was slim. On top was a genealogy of Paul Martin, obtained from an ancestry website. It showed that Silas Martin—the town’s first millionaire and owner of the sawmill that once operated on the Shawnee River—died in 1937. Everyone in town now knew the property as The Mill, the fine-dining restaurant, inn, and spa that occupied the site. Silas left two sons, Hector and Joseph. It was well-known local folklore that Joseph, an attorney by trade, had moved away from his autocratic father to practice law in Cleveland, leaving Hector to run the sawmill with his father. Silas had disinherited Joseph and left his home, Rosemont, and his entire fortune to Hector. Hector was a bachelor who lived to the impressive old age of one hundred six. His brother, Joseph, predeceased him. According to the documents Haynes held, Hector left his estate to “his living heirs,” which turned out to be Paul Martin. Nothing new there.
Next came a series of letters, paper-clipped together, from Paul to an attorney in Chicago. Haynes removed the clip, arranged the letters in chronological order and proceeded from the beginning. The attorney represented the estate of Hector Martin. He’d contacted Paul after Hector’s death in 2000 to inform him of his inheritance. What a sweet moment that must have been for that bastard Martin, Haynes thought. The attorney continued that they were still searching for other potential heirs and would be in touch when that search was completed.
Paul wrote back to ask what the search entailed. The attorney replied that the public records of births and deaths could only be accessed in person at the Vital Records Office and that he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Westbury until sometime during the latter part of the following month.
The final letter in the sequence was from another lawyer in the firm, informing Paul that the attorney who had been handling the estate had retired and moved abroad. This attorney was now assigned to Hector’s estate. No other heirs had been uncovered. He concluded by suggesting that Paul schedule a trip to Chicago to sign papers and accept the transfer of assets from the estate.
The final item in the file was a packet of bank statements and spreadsheets, detailing bank accounts, lists of stocks and bonds, and deeds to real property. Haynes almost missed the envelope stuck to the back of one of the bank statements.
He carefully removed it and drew out an old birth certificate that appeared to be an original. Haynes pulled a large magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and placed the document directly under the desk lamp. The certificate was dated June 6, 1938. His mother’s birthday. It recorded the live birth of a female—the name, “Baby Girl”—born in Mercy Hospital.
Haynes gasped at what he read next. The mother was listed as Mary Rose Hawkins and the father as Hector Martin. The marital status box was checked: unmarried. His grandmother’s name was Mary Rose and her maiden name had been Hawkins. And she’d worked at Rosemont as a parlor maid until she’d married his grandfather only a few weeks after his mother was born. He’d always assumed it had been a shotgun wedding.
Haynes slammed back into his chair. Was his mother the illegitimate child of Hector Martin? Had she known? He didn’t think so—she would have told him. He swiveled his chair to look out the window. His mother had worked hard every day of her life, most of the time holding down two jobs, to make up for the profligate ways of his philandering father. A little bit of money might have made things much easier for her. For both of them, for that matter.
He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. Was he Hector’s grandson and the legitimate heir to his fortune? Was he—Frank Haynes—the rightful owner of Rosemont?
Haynes steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them, contemplating his next move. He needed to investigate his possible heirship, and he needed to do it as discretely as possible. Haynes smiled his mirthless smile. What a delicious surprise to drop on the ever-charming Mayor Maggie Martin. He could just picture the look on her face when she learned she’d have to pack up and move out of Rosemont. He’d be magnanimous, of course. Maybe even give her an entire weekend to vacate. He chuckled to himself.
Frank Haynes carefully gathered the papers on his desk and replaced them in the folder. He retrieved the key to his wall safe from under his desk, removed the painting that concealed it and opened the safe. The F.H./Rosemont folder would join the only other item in the safe—the jump drive with evidence incriminating Wheeler and Delgado. One day, he might need this evidence.
He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair, set the alarm, and locked the door to Haynes Enterprises. He’d contact the prominent New York City estate firm of Hirim & Wilkens first thing Monday morning.
Haynes frequently detoured to drive by Rosemont on his way home, and he followed the familiar practice this afternoon, slipping into the clearing along the berm of the road that ran below the back of the property. He’d spied on Maggie on previous occasions—watching figures moving in front of the windows, and always with a longing that was palpable. Whether it was for the house itself or the life being lived in it, he didn’t know.
Tonight, however, was different. The house against the late afternoon sky stood dark and quiet and beautiful. Haynes turned off the engine and sat, staring at the home without seeing. What would his life have been like if he’d been raised there? If life had afforded his long-suffering mother a little comfort and security? Maybe she wouldn’t have worked herself into an early grave. Maybe she would have been there to buffer the effects of his abusive father. Maybe she even would have divorced the bastard, and they could have lived a peaceful life in this glorious home.
Frank Haynes pounded his fist on his dashboard. “Damn all of you,” he yelled, the words reverberating in the silent car. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and tears coursed down his cheeks.
Chapter 31
Frank Haynes waved to David Wheeler when he arrived at the dog park late one Saturday afternoon. Despite his best efforts to work with Sally in the past three weeks, he and his border collie remained in the remedial group. At the bottom of the remedial group, he reminded himself wryly. Dodger loped along contentedly with David.
David handed Frank Haynes a Ziploc bag full of tiny pieces of cut-up hot dogs. “I’ve got training treats,” Haynes said, pulling a bag of expensive tidbits from his jacket pocket.
“She’ll like these better. Trust me,” David replied.
Haynes looked at David. He’s in his element, he thought. The shy boy—the one who mumbled, head down, contemplating his shoes—was nowhere to be found when he was talking about dogs. I can relate to that.
“Put a piece of hot dog in your hand and tell her to sit.”
“Sit,” Haynes commanded. Sally stood and wagged her tail. Dodger sat and Haynes gave him a treat.
“Okay. Give me your hand,” David said. Frank stretched out his palm and David placed another piece of hot dog in it. “This time, when you tell her to sit, move this hand over her head and along her back. She’ll try to follow the treat, and she’ll sit automatically.”
Haynes followed David’s direction and, after squirming to try to follow his hand, Sally sat. “Good girl,” Haynes praised as he gave her the piece of hot dog. Dodger thumped his tail from his seated position, and David laughed. Haynes reached over and gave him another treat.
“I think Dodger’s milking the system. I’m going to run him on the course while you two work on this. Repeat until you’re out of hot dogs,” he said, signaling Dodger to follow him. “Holler when you’re done, and we’ll work on stay.”
Haynes and Sally proceeded as instructed while Dodger flew around the agility course in perfect alignment with his master’s commands. Things didn’t go as smoothly when Haynes and Sally were on their own, but they were making progress in the right direction. Haynes was reaching into the bag for the last piece of hot dog when he heard David call to him from the agility course.
Haynes turned to see David running toward him. “Something’s really wrong with Dodger,” he said. “Can you come see?”
Haynes followed David on the ru
n.
Something was, indeed, very wrong with Dodger. He lay motionless on the track on his right side, his one good eye moving wildly about. His breathing was short and shallow. Haynes bent on one knee, and Dodger turned his eye to him, keeping his head flat on the ground.
“That’s a good boy,” Haynes said softly. He touched Dodger’s back and the dog yipped. “What happened?”
“He was weaving through those stakes,” David said, gesturing in the direction of the track. “Going really fast, keeping close to them. It looked like he clipped one with his shoulder on his way out.”
Haynes nodded. “His left leg’s hanging here at an awkward angle. I’ll bet he’s torn something or dislocated it.”
“Will he be all right?” David couldn’t conceal the fear in his voice. “Can they fix it? They won’t have to put him down, will they?” His voice quivered.
“No. Of course not. Don’t even think that. We’ll get him to Dr. Allen.”
“But he’s not moving. Is he paralyzed?”
“He’s lying still because he’s in pain. He’s not paralyzed.” And as if he could understand them, Dodger wagged his tail.
David stared at Dodger. “What do you think it’ll cost?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure I can work something out with Dr. Allen.”
“I’ll pay it, but it might take some time.”
Haynes nodded. “I’m sure you will.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get him to Westbury Animal Hospital before they close for the day. I’ve got a sturdy blanket in my car. We’ll make a stretcher and lay him in the back.”
***
John Allen had a full schedule that afternoon, but told his assistant that he’d be happy to work Dodger in between patients.
“I won’t ever turn away Frank Haynes, Juan. He’s done more good for animals than anyone I know. I’ll always make time for him.”
“That’s what I thought,” Juan replied. “They’re in Exam Room 3. Dodger is really uncomfortable.”
John Allen opened the door to Exam Room 3 and was no more than a foot inside the door when he’d made a tentative diagnosis. He bent down and carefully approached the suffering animal. Dodger thumped his tail in greeting in spite of his obvious misery. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“We think he hurt his shoulder weaving through the stakes on the agility track.”
John Allen nodded.
“Can you fix him?” David asked anxiously.
“Let me take some x-rays,” he replied calmly. “We can wheel this table right back to our machine. That’s a good boy, Dodger,” he praised. “We’ll be back.”
The exam confirmed John’s worst fears. Dodger had a messy shoulder dislocation, complicated by ligament tears and a hairline fracture. Dodger needed to be seen by a canine orthopedic surgeon. A specialist could perform the new surgical techniques that would be best. The nearest one was in Chicago and was extremely expensive. John sighed. He felt sorry for this boy, still grieving the death of his father. He’d treat Dodger for free, but knew that the specialist would not.
John returned to the room where David and Frank Haynes waited. “Dodger’s suffered a very serious injury to his shoulder. I can treat his pain—we’ve already given him a shot, and he’s happily asleep—and we can immobilize the shoulder until it heals, but he needs orthopedic surgery to really repair the damage.”
“So do the surgery,” Haynes said.
“I don’t have the necessary equipment here, Frank,” John replied. “You’d have to take him to a specialist in Chicago.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. Can you refer someone?”
“I can’t afford that,” David said quietly.
“I’m going to pay for it, David. You don’t have to worry about that.” John clapped Haynes on the back and squeezed his shoulder. David beamed. Frank Haynes turned aside. “Can you set it up for us, John?”
“Yes, but you’ll need to get him there tomorrow. And I’m guessing you’ll have to leave Dodger there for a few days. The surgery will probably cost four or five thousand dollars.”
Frank Haynes waved his hand in dismissal. “Just let me know when and where. We’ll have to leave very early tomorrow morning,” he said to David. “Can you miss school? Your mother will have to approve.”
“She will,” he said, turning grateful eyes to Haynes.
“Good,” John said. “This is the best thing for him. And I’ll talk to the surgeon—I should be able to handle all of the follow-up care. I’ll keep him sedated here tonight.” He turned to Haynes. “You can pick him up as early as you want tomorrow. I’ll help you get him loaded into your car. If you can drive him in a van or an SUV, that would be best. We’ll lay him down in the back.”
“I’ll rent one,” Haynes replied.
“Can I see him before we go?” David asked and his voice cracked.
“Sure,” John said. “Juan can take you back.” He summoned Juan on the intercom.
“That’s a really kind thing you’re doing for that boy, Frank,” John said after David and Juan departed from the exam room.
Haynes flushed. “Thanks for seeing us without an appointment. I’ll let you know how it goes in Chicago.”
***
While John Allen was busy that afternoon at Westbury Animal Hospital, Maggie Martin found a thirty-minute break in her schedule to attend to a personal errand of her own. She was buzzed in to Burman Jewelers clutching a full-page ad she’d torn out of a magazine. The ad was for a classic Rolex watch that John had admired one Sunday afternoon when she’d been snuggled next to him, reading her magazine, while he watched a football game on television.
Harriet greeted her warmly. “Are you here to visit your ring? It’s not quite ready yet.”
Maggie laughed. “I hadn’t even thought of visiting it. Does anyone do that?”
“You bet they do. Would you like to see it?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. Not until John’s with me and it’s time to put it on.”
“It’ll only be a few more days,” Harriet assured her. “What have you got there?”
Maggie held out the Rolex advertisement. “John admired this watch, and I’d like to give it to him. As a surprise for him when I get the ring.”
“This is stunning. And we carry Rolex.”
“Do you have it?”
Harriet shook her head. “No. But we can order it. I’ll have our distributor overnight it to us.” She looked at Maggie over the top of her glasses. “This costs almost as much as your diamond. You know that, don’t you?”
Maggie beamed. “That’s the plan. I’m a modern woman, after all.”
Harriet laughed. “I sure hope you’re starting a trend. We’d double our revenue.”
“When you get the watch, will you wrap it for me?”
“Of course. I’ll put the two of you in that private viewing room in back when you come in to get your ring. I’ll have it sitting on the bottom shelf of the case that sits right inside the door. It’ll be all set.”
“Perfect,” Maggie said, handing Harriet her credit card. “And don’t breathe a word about this. I want it to be a surprise.”
“No worries there,” Harriet replied. “Jewelers keep more secrets than you can imagine.”
Chapter 32
“No, don’t interrupt him if he’s in surgery,” Maggie sighed. “But ask him to call me as soon as he gets out, okay? Before he starts seeing patients. It’s vitally important that I talk to him.” She hung up the receiver after Juan promised to do as she requested. She’d declined to tell him why she was calling. Juan might think that her ring being ready to be picked up was not “vitally important.”
Maggie pulled up her calendar for the day on her computer screen. Her morning was uncharacteristically free, but she had a Transit Department meeting. Tonya Holmes would be at that meeting. Maggie hoped that John could get away for a few minutes to meet her at the jewelers this morning. Tonya was one of the first people she’d like to see h
er ring.
Maggie forced her attention on the report they’d be discussing at the transit meeting. The prospect of curtailing bus service was unappealing. It disproportionately affected low-income earners. Wasn’t this the group that needed their assistance the most? The method the department used to set the schedule was archaic, to say the least. She rifled through the papers and found the table she was seeking. Surely there was a computer program that municipalities used to match bus routes with rider usage.
Maggie became engrossed in a detailed Internet search of the subject and almost let an incoming call go to voice mail. She caught herself at the last minute and answered in a breathless rush. “Maggie Martin.”
“Hey there, good lookin’,” John said. “Juan insisted that I call you as soon as I finished surgery. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Maggie paused. “The ring is ready,” she continued sheepishly.
John laughed. “Well, I guess that qualifies as ‘vitally important.’ Do you want to pick it up tonight after work?”
“No. I’d like to pick it up now,” Maggie said, unable to keep the note of pleading out of her voice.
“What’s the rush?”
“You have to ask? There’s a four-carat diamond sitting in a box less than a mile from me, and it’s got my name on it. That’s the rush! Plus, I have a meeting this afternoon, and Tonya Holmes will be there.”
“And you’d like to show off your ring.”
“I’m not sure I’d put it that way, but … yes.” She heard John typing on a keyboard.
“I’ve had a cancellation, so if you can leave right now, I’ll meet you over there.”
Maggie squealed. “On my way. Thank you, John.”
***
“You look frozen,” Harriet said, ushering Maggie into the private room in the back.
“It wasn’t too bad. When John said he could meet me here, I was so excited I tore out of Town Hall like the place was on fire and made a beeline for the shop. I didn’t even stop to get my car.”
Uncovering Secrets: The Third Novel in the Rosemont Series Page 12
