“Where are the rest of the Hershbergers today?”
Jenny pointed out at the potato field behind the barn. Way out on the back of the property, he could see Jonathan at work with a team of horses and a cultivator.
“Jonathan is weeding the potato rows and Rachel...Rachel left. I think she’s at Daniel King’s place. She said something about a new foal that needed looking after.”
“Are Rachel and Jonathan doing better these days?”
Jenny looked at Bobby as if measuring him and then sighed. “Does that question have anything to do with why you dropped by?”
Bobby smiled. Not much gets past Jenny. “Kind of...but mostly just asking.”
Jenny held the screen door open and they went into the kitchen. She stopped at the cupboard and fetched down two mugs. Bobby pulled up a chair at the kitchen table while Jenny poured the coffee and added just the right amount of cream. Then she sat across from Bobby and pushed the mug toward him. Bobby put his hands around it, feeling the warmth in his aching fingers. Then he looked up at Jenny. “I got a call from Bull yesterday.”
“Bull Halkovich?”
“Yep, Bull Halkovich.”
“And...?”
Bobby loved that about Jenny—no shillyshally, always cut to the chase. “Someone came to his house asking questions about your mother.”
“About Jerusha?”
“No, Jenny. They were looking for Rachel St. Clair or her daughter.”
Jenny’s eyes opened in surprise. “Who even knows about Mama Rachel?”
“Augusta St. Clair.”
Shock passed over Jenny’s face. She looked down at the table for a minute and then up at Bobby. The shock had turned to puzzlement. “Why in the world would Augusta St. Clair be looking for me? From what Mama Rachel wrote about her in her journal, I know that Augusta St. Clair is not a nice person. She was the main reason for my biological mother’s death. She threw her out on the streets of New York and left her homeless there. And now she’s looking for me? This can’t be good.”
Bobby nodded in agreement. “You’re right about that. And after hearing Bull’s description of the messenger, I don’t have a good feeling either.”
“Why, Bobby?”
“Well, the man who came to Bull’s place sounds like a professional. A marine, Special Forces, probably owns his own private investigation company or maybe provides security for the St. Clairs. In other words, he’s a man to be reckoned with. He gave Bull just enough information. When he left there, he knew Bull would call me.”
Jenny took a sip of her coffee. “Why can’t we just ignore it? He doesn’t know where you live.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Jenny. If he’s the pro I think he is, he’ll find me. The St. Clairs have plenty of money, so sooner or later, one of us will be getting a knock on the door.”
“What should I do?”
“Let me handle it, Jenny. I’ll call the guy and see what he wants. If Augusta knows about me, it’s probably because she found Sammy Bender and ‘interviewed’ him. So she’s probably been out to Patterson to see Magdalena Bender. If she follows the same trail we did, eventually she will find out about your grandfather and this farm. It won’t take them long to dig around and find out that Rachel Borntraeger St. Clair’s daughter is now Jenny Hershberger and that you’re living back here.”
“Why do you think she’s looking for us?”
Bobby looked in his cup. The cream had made swirling patterns, dark brown like Guadalcanal mud...
“Bobby?”
“Oh, sorry. It probably has to do with money. Probably something that your grandfather Robert had access to but she doesn’t. That’s just my guess, but people like Augusta St. Clair operate that way. I’ve seen it before. Unless something has happened to stir up the hornet’s nest, I’m sure she would never look for you.”
“So, what does that mean for us?”
“It means that you need to let me do the talking and don’t volunteer anything. Don’t speak to their agent unless I’m in the room. And whatever you do, don’t sign anything. She’s after something, most likely money, and remembering what she did to your mama, she’ll probably do a lot to get it.”
*****
Gordon Randall pulled his black BMW into a parking garage down the street from the address Duvigney had given him. He drove clear to the top level and parked the car overlooking the street below. He checked the rooftops across the street. It was a habit that had been trained into him during his Special Forces’ days, but today he was particularly keyed to his surroundings.
Michel Duvigney or “Mr. M,” as he preferred to be called, had never called him for a face-to-face meeting, and Randall didn’t feel good about it. All of Randall’s clients were either very wealthy or very crooked, most of them both. He had developed his clientele with the utmost care. He only took on those with impeccable financial references. Duvigney was one of those, as was Augusta St. Clair. Of the two, Duvigney was the one he could not read. Augusta St. Clair was an obvious gold-digging female who had clawed her way into a very wealthy family. Her agenda was patently obvious—get money and power at any cost. Duvigney, on the other hand, was like mist in a graveyard. Randall couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him, so he just raised his antennae and stayed alert.
Randall went down the stairwell to the ground floor and exited the garage. The address was not on the main street, but up where Avenue of Americas started before it merged with Sixth Avenue. There was a little park on the right and a smattering of foot traffic.
He saw the address. The sign above the double glass door read “Trans-European Trading Company.” He pushed through the doors and walked in. There was a foyer with a large reception counter. A couple of worn couches were pushed against the wall, and there was a table with magazines on it. The titles were in Cyrillic script. Behind the counter lounged a seedy-looking character with a mustache and a green fedora. He looked up as he stubbed out a cigarette.
“Vat you vant?”
Randall noted that the man’s accent was either Russian or Yugoslavian. “I’m here to see Mr. M.”
The man stared at Randall and then got up and walked toward a hallway to the right of the foyer, motioning Randall to follow him. They walked down to a green metal door. The door was very new and very strong. Randall noticed the red flash of a tiny camera that was mounted above the door and had an unobstructed view of anyone who entered the hallway. His guide pressed a keypad by the door. There was a click and the door swung open.
“Mr. M is vaiting for you in da room at ze end of za hall.”
He waited until Randall stepped through the door and then closed it. Randall turned and noticed that there was no handle on his side. He continued down the hall until he came to a wall. He stood there wondering what was next, and then the wall opened to reveal an elevator. Randall stepped in and the doors closed behind him. He felt motion but there were no floor markers or buttons, so he wasn’t sure just how far he traveled. The car stopped, the door opened, and he stepped into another short hallway with a door at the end. He walked up to the door and knocked. A quiet buzzer sounded and there was another click as the lock moved. There was a handle on this door, and he pulled it open and stepped into a small room.
A thin, old man with white hair and sharp features sat behind a desk. The room was on the upper floors of the building and the window commanded a view of most of uptown Manhattan. The old man motioned to a chair across the desk from where he was sitting. Randall sat.
“So, Gordon, we meet at last.”
Randall recognized the sibilant voice, and even face-to-face, it still put his teeth on edge. He also knew the protocol. “Mr... ah...M, I presume?”
Duvigney smiled. “Yes.”
Randall leaned forward. “Why the secrecy and why the rush...?”
Duvigney fidgeted for a moment and Randall sensed that the old man was under a great deal of pressure.
“Gordon, some things have occurred that have accelerated
events concerning the St. Clair woman and her pursuit of the inheritance. I can’t tell you more than that except to say that I felt it was very important that we meet face-to-face so that I could impress you with the absolute necessity of finding the heir to the St. Clair fortune.”
“Well, Mr. M, I think I understand the importance you place on this matter, but I can also tell you that you will have to raise the stakes. Suddenly the money you’re offering doesn’t seem like it’s quite enough.”
The old man looked at Randall and then began to sputter. He stood up and shook his finger at Randall. “Why you...”
“Sit down, Michel!”
Randall’s voice was cold and quiet, but Michel Duvigney sat down like he had been shoved.
“That is your name, isn’t it?”
Duvigney looked like a fish on land as his mouth gaped open and then shut. Randall took the black notebook out of his pocket.
“Michael Duvigney, President of the Board of Trustees of Rosslyn Foundation, the group that manages the fortunes of the American branch of the St. Clair family.”
Randall flipped over a couple of pages.
“The St. Clair family’s lineage can be traced back to the Normandy area of France and earlier to the Scandinavian Viking days when they were known as the Sinclairs. The family’s history is closely intertwined with the crowns of France, England, and Scotland, and ancestors have been involved in many of the pivotal events in western civilization. Throughout the history of the last one thousand years, there are places and events where Sinclairs or St. Clairs have left an indelible mark in the history books. For that same one thousand years the Duvigneys have always played a role in this family as counselors, administrators and, might I add, assassins.”
Randall closed the pad and put it back in his breast pocket. Duvigney sat back in his chair, looking like someone had struck him. Randall smiled. “Really, Michel, you don’t think I would take on the mysterious ‘Mr. M’ without thoroughly checking you out. Now, let’s get down to business. There’s something amiss in the St. Clair kingdom or we wouldn’t be meeting face-to-face, am I right?”
“How did you find out about me?”
“Your money bought you the best in the business. I am not a man who likes surprises, and I am the very best at what I do. When I work for someone, I do my homework. I have many friends in very well-placed positions. My sources are deep and impeccable. What I know about you is that you are the trustee for the American branch of the St. Clair Enterprises. I also know that the actual bulk of their fortune is almost limitless, but you personally are merely a middleman. So your, shall we say, need to bring this matter to a close probably involves something that will affect your position and perhaps your life. My guess is that you have made some unwise and unauthorized investments and have taken some big hits.”
Duvigney stared at Randall and then slumped down in his chair. “What do you propose, Mr. Randall?”
Randall smiled, but the expression on his face was far from merry. “Ah, I seem to have struck the nail on the head. I’m going to lay out a plan and you just nod in agreement as I speak. First of all, you have lost a great deal of money that does not belong to you.”
Duvigney nodded.
“Second, if these losses are discovered, you will lose your position which has afforded you a luxurious lifestyle and your masters might even consider you expendable.”
Duvigney nodded.
“Third, the only way this malfeasance can be discovered is if Augusta St. Clair puts in a legitimate claim for the inheritance.”
Duvigney nodded.
Randall stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I am very close to locating Robert St. Clair’s daughter. At that point, I will put a plan in motion that will bring all of the principals together so that we can deal with them in a judicious manner, so that the threat to you can be eliminated.”
“You mean...”
Randall smiled again. “You needn’t bother yourself with what I mean, Michel. All you need to do is get your checkbook ready. Now, please buzz the door so I can leave.”
Randall turned to go. “And one more thing, Michel. Don’t think about taking any action against me. I am your only hope.”
The door clicked open and Randall was gone.
Chapter Eleven
The Connection
Bobby Halverson stood at the gate, watching the new black BMW pull up the lane to the Hershberger farm. He waved and the driver, who had started to pull in at the farmhouse, continued on up the hill and pulled in behind Bobby’s old Ford truck. Bobby watched as the driver climbed out. He was exactly as Bull had described: clean-cut, well dressed, and very professional looking. The way his coat fit tightly around his shoulders told Bobby that the man was in good shape and, given what Bobby knew about him, would probably be a deadly opponent in a fight. He carried a leather briefcase. Bobby noticed there was no telltale bulge under his coat.
Carries himself like a pro and he considers us harmless enough to leave his gun in the car.
Bobby opened the gate and motioned the man inside. He walked up to Bobby and stopped. Bobby could tell he was getting the once-over, and for a moment, he regretted that the sessions at the gym had somehow gotten onto his drop-off list.
“Sheriff Halverson?”
Bobby chuckled. The only one who still called him that was Bull. “Ex-sheriff. I haven’t been on active duty for almost ten years. Call me Bobby.”
The two men shook hands and Bobby could feel strength in Gordon Randall’s grip. Randall looked at Bobby in surprise at the return strength he felt from Bobby.
“Well...Bobby. Thanks for seeing me. Is Mrs. Hershberger joining us?”
“Yes, Mr. Randall, she’s waiting inside.”
The two men walked up the steps and into Bobby’s bungalow. Jenny was sitting at the table. Bobby had arranged extra chairs, one beside Jenny and one across from her. He moved ahead of Randall and took the seat next to Jenny as he motioned Randall into the other chair. Randall got right down to business.
“I’m here on behalf of Augusta St. Clair.”
“Concerning?” Bobby asked.
“The estate of Robert St. Clair.”
“And what does that have to do with Mrs. Hershberger?”
Randall shifted in his seat and looked at Jenny. “You are the daughter of Robert St. Clair—?”
Bobby smiled. “Mr. Randall, you can direct your statements to me.”
Randall frowned. “I’m not exactly sure how you got in the middle of this, Bobby, but—”
Bobby interrupted him. “Since her adoptive parents’ deaths, I have been Mrs. Hershberger’s guardian and advocate. She is here to listen to this conversation, but she is reluctant to make any comments at this time.”
Jenny looked at Bobby. “It’s all right, Bobby. I just want to say one thing. Mr. Randall, I will hear what you have to say, but I will make no comment on it, nor am I prepared to enter into dialogue with the St. Clair family or their representatives. Please give us the specifics of your request, and we will consider it after you have gone.”
Randall frowned again. He obviously did not like to be told how he had to conduct his business. He nodded to Jenny. “Fine, Mrs. Hershberger.”
He turned his gaze back to Bobby.
“Mrs. Hershberger is the daughter of Robert St. Clair and Rachel Borntraeger St. Clair. The American St. Clairs are a branch of the St. Clairs of Europe, one of the wealthiest families in the world, and Robert St. Clair was one of the main heirs to that fortune. When he died in a car wreck in 1949, he left Rachel St. Clair a widow and their small child, Jennifer Constance St. Clair—Mrs. Hershberger—without a father. In a normal course of probate, Robert’s fortune should have passed to his wife. But the St. Clairs set up specific rules of inheritance several hundred years ago that ensure the bulk of the estate will remain in the family’s control.”
“And just what does that mean?”
“Rachel St. Clair could
not have inherited the fortune, but her daughter could have, provided—”
“Provided what, Mr. Randall?”
“Provided she has the Key.”
Bobby looked over at Jenny, who was staring at Randall with an expression on her face that Bobby had never seen before. “And just what is the Key?”
Randall reached down, picked up the briefcase, and put it on the table. The latches made a sharp click, click.
Bobby winced.
Like the bolt of my old M1903 being pulled back to load in a shell when I was waiting up on the ridge, just before the fight on Guadalcanal.
“Sheriff?”
Bobby shook his head and refocused. “Sorry. What were you saying about the Key?”
Randall pulled a document from the briefcase and laid it on the table. It was obviously old and it had been covered with a clear plastic shield. The border was a filigree of gold, surrounding the illustration of what appeared to be a knight. Only instead of an armored breastplate, the man was wearing a loose garment that was pulled back over his chest to reveal a red, key-shaped mark right above his left breast.
“This is a picture of Reynaud de Sinclair, Mrs. Hershberger’s ancestor. It dates back to around AD 1200. That red mark is the Key. It’s the St. Clair birthmark. Normally, it’s found on the chest of the oldest son. Don’t ask me how, but this has been true since the first St. Clair came to England with William the Conqueror in 1066. The Key has always determined the heir.”
“But Jenny is a woman, so how can she be of interest to you?”
Randall smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “I’m getting to that. The daughter or granddaughter of a direct heir who dies can inherit, provided she meets two conditions: first, she must hold the Key and, yes, from time to time this birthmark has occurred in a female child. In fact, there are three known occasions when that has happened. If she does hold the Key, then the estate is put into trust until she meets the second condition.”
The Amish Heiress (The Paradise Chronicles Book 1) Page 8
