by Cathy Ace
I wondered if he was treating Amelia as well as he was – and even indulging her wishes for me to remain in the room – because he knew she was about to become a very wealthy woman. But, as he opened a large leather document folder on his desk, I could see that his previously joyous expression had shifted; I also noted that he was repeatedly pushing his glasses up his nose despite the fact they weren’t slipping down. I told myself that might be a habit for the man, rather than an indication of any psychological discomfort on his part, but his opening gambit suggested my concerns were warranted.
“As the executor of many estates over the years, it sometimes falls to me to give difficult news to those who are grieving the passing of a loved one.” Mellifluous tone; almost-English accent.
Amelia was sitting bolt upright in an elaborately carved chair beside me; she grasped her handbag on her knees. Her only response to Cooperman’s words was to slightly tilt her head.
Cooperman took her silence as a sign to continue. “Mr. Burkinshaw was well known on this island, and he lived large, as the saying goes. Of late I know his hospitality has been tempered somewhat by his increasing age, and a natural desire to live a more private life. At least, that is what he would tell those of us who continued to mix with him socially when he wanted to explain his diminished involvement with local charities and so forth.”
I had a horrible feeling I knew where this was going.
Amelia still said nothing.
“Mr. Burkinshaw often spoke of you with great warmth and affection, Mrs. LaBadie. You’ve been more than a loyal employee to him over the past – what is it now, thirty years or so?”
“I been with him over forty-five years, all told. An’ you can call me Amelia, everyone does. My mother was Mrs. LaBadie. I ain’t her. An’ you right, I been more than an employee to Mr. Freddie. Him say this to me many times. Him say he take care of me and Tarone when him gone.” She bristled with confidence.
Cooperman nodded and smiled. “Indeed. Indeed. And he has made good on that promise. I can tell you that he has left a considerable percentage of his estate to you and your grandson – by name – in his will. But there’s a slight problem I need to make you aware of.”
“Tell me what him done,” said Amelia.
Cooperman closed the leather folder. “Upon gathering the facts as I have been able, in such a short period of time, it is clear that Mr. Burkinshaw had taken out a good number of loans, using the Captain’s Lookout estate as collateral. The nature of my role as his executor behoves me to make good those debts before I can make any bequests to beneficiaries. You, Amelia LaBadie, and your grandson, Tarone Thomas, are due to receive all of Mr. Burkinshaw’s estate – with the exception of the Captain’s Lookout tower itself, and a small parcel of land upon which it sits. Mr. Burkinshaw legally subdivided that parcel from the rest of the estate some years ago. But it is my duty to tell you that, unfortunately, it is unlikely there will be much residual money, if any, from the sale of the remainder of the estate, once his creditors have been paid.”
I noticed Amelia’s hands grasp her handbag tighter. I didn’t know how she was managing to hold her emotions in check; the detail with which she’d described her dream home during our journey told me she’d been – quite literally – banking on Freddie’s bequest to set her up for the rest of her life.
“What will happen to the tower?” she asked simply.
“The tower?” Cooperman seemed surprised. “Ah, well Mr. Burkinshaw has gifted that to the parish. There are a great number of caveats attached to allow them to take ownership, but Mr. Burkinshaw’s main aim was to have the tower protected, maintained, and made available to the public. The local authorities will be able to do that.”
Amelia nodded. “So, we don’t get nothing then. I understand.”
Her eyes were glassy. She licked her dry lips. I reached forward to the tray on Cooperman’s side table and poured a glass of water, which I handed to her.
As she sipped, I couldn’t help but speak. “Does this mean you’ll be arranging for the sale of the estate, excluding the tower, Mr. Cooperman?”
The man seemed relieved to be able to turn his attention to me, though he looked at Amelia as he replied. “Indeed. And as soon as possible. The debts Mr. Burkinshaw incurred will continue to grow until they are paid off. It is imperative that I manage to arrange a swift, and fair, sale.”
“And how long do you think that might take? It can’t be easy to sell such an expensive piece of property.” I couldn’t imagine there were thousands of people just waiting to snap up a private Jamaican estate – well, there might be thousands who’d like to, but not too many who could.
Cooperman adopted the sort of expression I suspected would be used by kindergarten teachers when a child in their charge isn’t yet able to count to five. “It is a prime location, with direct access to an extensive private beach, with no historically protected structures – other than the tower, which will be preserved. It would be an extremely attractive investment for any developer.”
I could see that it would be. “But isn’t there a movement afoot to prevent large construction projects that might impact the ecology of the island?” I’d been reading as much in the local newspaper during our stay.
“Indeed,” replied Cooperman with what I was beginning to feel was an irritatingly indulgent smile. “But I have no doubt that all the appropriate measures will be observed by whomever purchases the property. We have strict guidelines for such reasons.”
That was me put in my place.
Amelia was still sipping her water.
“Can Amelia and Tarone continue to live in their bungalow until any sale is finalized?” I asked.
“I have already spoken to a representative of the company I feel will do a good job of presenting the estate to the market, and he assures me this is the case. They would be paid for their services and would be expected to maintain the estate in a way that makes it as appealing as possible to prospective purchasers.”
“And have you any sense about how long a sale might take?” He didn’t answer when I first asked him.
Cooperman looked at Amelia with concern, but capitulated. “I understand there is considerable interest. A sale might be almost immediate. Maybe within weeks. Or days, even.”
Amelia put down the glass of water. It was almost empty.
“So, we moving out fast, with not a thing,” she said quietly. “No home, no money, no pension, nothing. Soon. Mr. Freddie always say him not pay us much for our work because him see us right. Him not see us right at all.” Her voice was thick with emotion.
I started to scrabble in my tiny shoulder bag for a paper tissue, but there wasn’t anything lurking in there that was fit to be used. I reached toward the poor woman, and touched her arm. She was shaking. “I’m so sorry, Amelia.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“All for nothing, then. All for nothing,” she said. She pushed herself up out of her seat then stood, swaying slightly.
“Are you okay?” I asked, as the swaying intensified and became a definite wobble.
“I thought I could save my Tarone, you see,” she said, staring at me, tears streaming down her face. “It wasn’t for me, it was for him. Him a good boy, but the gangs try to get at him. If we have money, him safe. I did it for him.”
With that, she went down. I heard the thud of her head hitting the edge of the desk, and she bounced off it, landing in a heap at my feet.
Both Cooperman and I leaped out of our chairs in an instant. “Call the emergency services,” I screamed, but Cooperman was already prodding at his cellphone’s screen.
There was blood trickling from a wound on Amelia’s head. Her eyelids fluttered above her rolling eyes. I moved her into the recovery position, hoping I was doing the right thing. Not daring to look away from her I asked Cooperman, “How long until help arrives?”
“I don’t know,” he screamed. “This never happen to me before. I don’t know how
long them take.” His smooth lawyer-talk had evaporated, and he’d reverted to his local accent. He ran to the door of his office and ripped it open – for a large man he moved quite nimbly. “I go to reception, so them know where to come when them arrive.”
I was alone with Amelia. She was on the edge of consciousness, and unable to speak, but she could groan alright and even kept on crying, in a way. I couldn’t tell if that was because she was in pain, or whether it was a continuation of her previous anguish. Not that it mattered.
As I stroked her arm, and said a few “there, there’s”, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d simply fainted or if she’d maybe suffered a heart attack. I knew nothing of her medical history, and realized I had no idea about how to get hold of Tarone, who might at least know the name of his grandmother’s doctor. Then I worried about her head wound, which – if all she’d done was faint – could turn out to be more significant than the original reason for her collapse. I also toyed with the idea of phoning Bud to find out from him if there was anything more I could be doing for the poor woman; he’s not trained as a paramedic, of course, but he’s had a lot more experience of helping injured people over the years than I have, and I knew he’d received training in what to do in such circumstances, even if he hadn’t refreshed that training since his retirement.
The next few minutes felt like an hour, and I was immensely grateful to be able to pass Amelia’s care to a professional at that point. It turned out there’d been a false alarm on another floor of the same building, so the EMTs had been able to come to us before even leaving the premises.
Knowing that Amelia was being taken care of, and with Mr. Cooperman hovering behind his desk, I asked if he had any contact information for Tarone. He didn’t. I had the bright idea to call Amelia’s bungalow at the estate on the off-chance the young man might be there; there was no reply. The EMTs were proposing to take Amelia to the nearest hospital, and all Cooperman and I could do was agree. It was at that point I decided to phone Bud, hoping he might be able to come up with some way for us to reach Tarone.
Bud answered on the third ring. I explained the situation as succinctly as possible, and finally got to the point of saying, “…so I really need to get hold of Tarone…”
“He’s with me now. I’ll put him on,” said Bud.
I heard him give Tarone the briefest of explanations of what was happening, then heard Tarone himself. “She okay? Is Granny okay?”
“The EMTs are going to take her to the local hospital,” I said.
“Good, get her seen fast. She got a bad heart. She never say anything to anyone, but I know it.” The poor boy sounded distraught.
“Do you know her doctor’s name? Any medications she takes?”
Tarone gave me the information I’d asked for, I scribbled it down and handed the note to the hovering EMT, who dashed off with it, following his colleagues who were pushing Amelia along the corridor on a gurney.
When it was finally just me and Cooperman in his office, I plopped down on the chair Amelia had been using and poured myself a glass of water. Cooperman accepted one too. We sat opposite each other quietly for a few moments, both looking a bit dazed, sipping cool water.
“She’s in good hands now,” observed Cooperman, eventually.
I nodded.
“I feel…I wonder if…I hope it wasn’t the news I gave her that caused her to…” His face told me he was grappling with guilt, and deep concern. What I couldn’t work out was whether all that concern was for Amelia, or whether some of it might be for himself.
Knowing the best thing I could do was try to somehow achieve my overall goals for Bud, I took my chance.
“Amelia had been expecting to inherit the entire estate, unencumbered by debt. Freddie Burkinshaw had told her that would happen. She’d planned to sell half the land, secure the safety of the tower, and build a private home for herself and her grandson. The news you gave her must have come as a great shock; her dreams were destroyed. Her final words suggest to me she fears for her grandson’s safety if they don’t have a future at the estate.”
Cooperman’s face was a picture; his eyes bulged, his chin quivered, and, despite the significant air conditioning in the room, I could see sweat beading along what would have been his hairline. He looked truly panicked. Interesting.
I thought through what I’d heard from Lottie about Freddie’s potential source of questionable income, the loans the lawyer had mentioned, and racked my brain about the possible reason why a dying man – Wilson Thomas – might throw out Cooperman’s name.
“It’s a terrible shame that Freddie chose to leave Amelia and Tarone in such a dreadful situation. Do you think he had any intention, or ability, to pay back the loans he’d taken out, had he not died?” I asked.
Cooperman mopped his brow. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
I knew I had to take my chance to get out of him whatever I could while he was sufficiently flummoxed to not realize he probably shouldn’t be telling me anything at all. I took a bit of a flyer, based on what Amelia had told me about Freddie trusting Cooperman.
“You’ve known Freddie for a long time, and he chose you – of all the lawyers available to him – to be his executor. You must have known the man better than most. Do you think he intended to leave such a mess behind him?”
Cooperman shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. He did his best to guide that boy toward his goals. Supported him and his grandmother. He’d have wanted to provide for him, I believe.”
Interesting.
“And what about Mr. Wilson Thomas?”
Cooperman didn’t even look at me. He waved his handkerchief in the air as he replied, “Freddie wouldn’t have him anywhere near the estate anymore. Said he’d have him arrested if he ever set foot on his property. Oh no, Freddie was done with him.”
“But Wilson Thomas used you for legal services too, didn’t he? In fact, I believe he entrusted you with something he sent you in the mail.”
Finally, Cooperman lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes narrowed behind his round, friendly-looking glasses. “You know Wilson Thomas?”
I made sure I didn’t nod or shake my head, I just tilted it, and raised my multipurpose eyebrow.
Cooperman scratched his chin. “You are a guest at the estate? That’s what Amelia said, correct?”
I felt I was losing him. “I’m with a group of guests, some of whom have a significant history on the island.” I hoped that might be a nebulous enough statement for him to infer any number of things.
He said nothing for a moment, then snapped his eyes shut, and opened them again. His corporate expression was restored. “I’m afraid I cannot discuss a client’s business with anyone but the client in question. Now, since we have no business to conduct, I’ll let our receptionist know you’ll be on your way to sign out as you leave.”
I stood; I dared just one more attempt. “What do you think the estate will sell for? A good price? Millions?”
I’d done what every holidaymaker does, and had taken the odd squint in the windows of the real estate agents on the island, so I knew that the twenty-acre estate, with masses of beachfront, as well as the original house, pool, and bungalows must be worth a pretty penny.
Cooperman gave the matter no more than a second or two of thought. “Hopefully somewhere around the ten-million-dollar mark.”
“Jamaican dollars?”
Cooperman finally cracked a smile. “No, most definitely American dollars.” He reached across the desk and extended his hand. My terribly polite brush-off was complete.
As I exited the office with thoughts of real estate deals swirling in my mind, I had a sudden flashback to the day Bud and I had enjoyed sucking on the contents of a coconut each, while picking out our dream home in a realtor’s window. That was where I’d seen Niall Jackson; he’d been leaving the real estate office, whistling. He’d jumped into a red Range Rover parked nearby. The name on the window of th
e office, and emblazoned on the side of the vehicle, had been Jackson Realty. I recalled how very good the photos had been in the Jackson Realty storefront – not just your average front-on shot of a property, but scenic shots from above, showing how the property sat in the landscape, what the views were like from the decks, and so forth. I felt relieved. It’s not like me to have to wait for inspiration to recall something – usually I can do it at will, though I decided to be kind to myself because I’d been a bit preoccupied since I’d seen Niall at the restaurant the night before.
As I plodded along the winding corridors I wondered what on earth Freddie had spent ten million dollars on…because if the repayment of his debts wouldn’t leave anything in the pot for Amelia and Tarone, he must have borrowed about that much – allowing for taxes, which I suspected the lawyer would have to sort out too, before anyone else got a penny. And Freddie had spent it all, somehow. Or else…maybe he’d borrowed at an extortionate interest rate? Either way, it was a fascinating question to ponder as I made my way to the Suburban to head back to the estate.
Hands Free on the Highway
The Jamaican sun had transformed the Suburban into a large oven on wheels. I cranked up the air conditioning, shut all the doors, and waited in the shade of a nearby tree until I felt more confident that sitting on the driver’s seat wasn’t going to give me third-degree burns.
I phoned Bud to bring him up to date with Amelia’s situation. He informed me that Tarone had headed back to his bungalow to make some calls. At Bud’s suggestion we then discussed the usefulness of me pairing my phone with the hands-free system in the Suburban; Bud walked me through the process, reading me the instructions off the Internet. Fifteen minutes later I was on the road, nice and cool, and able to chat to Bud as I headed along the A1.
“You first,” said Bud. “Sounds like you’ve had an eventful morning. And it’s only just gone eleven.”