“Thank you for dropping everything to help me,” Maggie said. “I hope the other people won’t be upset.”
“It’s fine. David’s there now, and we won’t be finished for another week. This didn’t make any difference.”
Maggie scooped up a piece of Styrofoam that escaped his grasp and walked him to his truck.
“We’re going to get these guys, Sam,” she held his gaze. “I can’t tell you anything about the investigation, but I promise you we won’t let them get away with it.”
Sam nodded. “I understand that you’re doing everything you can, Maggie. I don’t think about it much. I never figured I’d retire, anyway. But Joan’s had a hard time with it all.”
“Tell her to hang on,” Maggie said, wondering if they would, indeed, be able to successfully prosecute anyone for the crimes. She stood and watched as Sam’s taillights disappeared from sight down the driveway. She turned to mount the stone steps to Rosemont’s front door when she saw the mail carrier coming up the driveway. She retraced her steps to meet him.
“Afternoon, Mayor Martin,” he called. “Glad you’re home.” He riffled through his bag of mail. “I’ve got a certified letter for you. You need to sign for it.”
Maggie took the letter and pen he offered and signed her name to the green card attached to the letter.
“I hope it’s good news. Maybe a big, fat check,” he said as he released the brake and pulled away.
Maggie turned the heavy envelop over in her hands. The return address showed Hirim & Wilkens, Attorneys at Law, with an address in Manhattan. Why in the world were they sending her a certified letter? She didn’t think the letter carrier was right. This couldn’t be good news.
Maggie shut the front door and felt—just like she did the very first time she entered the house and the door closed behind her—that she was home. She leaned against the closed door, supported by its strength, and pulled in a deep breath. Whatever was in this letter, she needed to know.
Maggie stepped into the library and picked up a letter opener from her desk by the window overlooking the back garden. She carefully slit the envelope and extracted its contents, smoothed the thick stack of papers on the desktop, and began to read. Before she got to the end of the first page, she pulled out the desk chair and sat.
The letter was from an attorney named Simon Wilkens, who represented Frank Haynes. He then recited a litany of facts that he said proved her late husband, Paul Martin, had tampered with evidence and willfully concealed the fact that Frank Haynes was a legitimate heir of Hector Martin and that Haynes was, legally, owner of a half-interest in Rosemont.
Maggie slammed the papers into her lap and moaned. Was this even possible? Surely Paul would not have done such a thing. She knew, however, that Paul was capable of everything the attorney had accused him of and more. After all, hadn’t Paul embezzled money from Windsor College, while he was president of the college, for years? Hadn’t he secretly maintained a second family—with Loretta Nash—in Scottsdale while they were married? Stealing recorded documents seemed mild in comparison.
Maggie lifted the papers and re-read them. Frank Haynes was asserting his half-interest in Rosemont.
She examined the attachments to the letter: a copy of a birth certificate and the affidavit of a recently deceased attorney who had aided Paul in carrying out his crime. These attachments would have to be authenticated, but she knew instinctively that they were valid.
Maggie carefully folded the letter, replaced it in its envelope, and propped it against the lamp on the desk. Once more, that bastard Paul Martin was messing up her life. His evil grip reached out from the grave.
She pushed her chair back and rose purposely. She’d be damned if she’d turn Rosemont over to Frank Haynes. She retraced her steps to the living room and stood looking at the new painting ensconced over the fireplace. It was a symbol of her new beginning with John and of their commitment to create their own legacy at Rosemont. Paul had taken a lot of good things from her, but she wouldn’t let him take this.
What was it the lawyer had suggested? That they have Rosemont appraised and either party would have sixty days after the appraisal to make a cash offer to buy out the other? If she knew Frank Haynes, he’d already researched the value of Rosemont and had a cash reserve set aside, ready to make his move. He was counting on the fact that Maggie and John wouldn’t be able to lay their hands on the necessary cash to buy him out. And on the surface, he was right. Buying out a half-interest in Rosemont would require several million dollars.
What Frank Haynes didn’t know was that Rosemont had presented Maggie with a fortune in silver from its attic. She’d planned to auction the vast majority of it off, anyway, including the staggeringly valuable tea set by renowned eighteenth-century silversmith Martin-Guillaume Biennais. She had the means to raise the money. She just needed the time to do so.
Maggie headed to her laundry room and the big calendar that hung on the wall. The attorney demanded her response to his letter in two weeks’ time or he would be forced to file suit. Filing suit and serving her would eat up another month beyond that, maybe more. She’d have twenty days to file her answer and the process of litigating the matter could take years. The lawsuit, however, would be front-page news in Westbury—probably the entire state. She had to avoid the notoriety it would bring.
Maggie ran her finger along the calendar. An auction sale of the silver would need to be advertised for at least ninety days. If she acted quickly, she’d be able to liquidate the silver and have the proceeds in hand by the end of the year. She’d hire an attorney to respond to Wilkens and request an open extension of time to authenticate the documents. Maggie prayed Wilkens would grant it. While her attorney investigated the facts laid out in Wilkens’ letter, she’d get the silver auctioned off. If the auction could be completed in time, she might have enough money in hand to outbid Frank Haynes for Rosemont.
What was it that the appraiser Gordon Mortimer had told her? That he’d worked for Sotheby’s and still had connections there? Maggie went into the kitchen and retrieved her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she found him. It was time to take Mr. Mortimer up on his offer to help her liquidate the silver.
***
Gordon Mortimer cut his eyes to his cell phone in irritation. He should have set it to vibrate. The constant interruptions by telemarketers were driving him crazy. The “do not call” list was a joke. He looked at the number on his screen and there was something vaguely familiar about it. He hesitated, then answered the call.
“Mr. Mortimer, Maggie Martin here.”
“Mayor Martin. I’m delighted to hear from you. Are you ready for me to come see the furniture?”
“I am, actually, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’d like to liquidate the silver. In the next four months at the latest.”
Gordon Mortimer gasped. “That can’t be done, madam. Not if you want to realize its full value. It takes time to properly catalog the items and advertise the sale. Putting the silver in the right sale at the right time is supremely important.”
“I understand, but something’s come up, and I must have it sold within the next four months.”
“Surely not the Martin-Guillaume Biennais? That simply can’t be done.”
“That too. All of it.”
“You’ll be sacrificing price for speed. I recommend a much longer time frame to allow the auction company to solicit interest.”
“I understand that this isn’t ideal. It can’t be helped. Do I remember correctly that you have ties to Sotheby’s? I was hoping you could pull some strings and get us into one of their upcoming auctions in New York.”
Gordon Mortimer sensed she was not going to be dissuaded. Ordinarily, he distanced himself from reckless ventures such as this hurried sale, but something in the tone of her voice made him change his mind. “If you insist on going through with this—against my advice—I can help you get placement in an auction. And I’ll notify my collector clients and d
ealer network as well. The presence of such a large number of Martin-Guillaume Biennais pieces in pristine condition should drive significant interest to the sale. The big auction houses will like that. Maybe we can even get The New York Times to do an article on Rosemont and how you found the silver. Give it extra provenance.”
“No,” Maggie cut in sharply. “No one can know where the silver came from. We must remain completely anonymous, and Rosemont can never be mentioned.” If Haynes suspected Maggie might have money, he would have the resources—and she was certain he had the desire—to offer her double the appraised amount. She couldn’t risk losing Rosemont by tipping her hand. “I’m sorry if I was short with you. I need to insist on total anonymity.”
“As you wish, madam.”
“I knew I could rely on you. And I’m sure you’ll do everything in your power to maximize my proceeds. I believe you will also receive a commission on the sale?”
“I will. You can count on me. I’ll ring my contacts immediately and get back to you within the week with the details of the sale. I can’t promise you that we can make this happen so quickly, but I shall do my best.”
Chapter 26
John Allen tossed the thick envelope bearing the return address of Hirim & Wilkens, Attorneys at Law, onto the coffee table and turned to stare at the new painting above the mantel.
“What do you think?” Maggie asked, stepping in front of the fireplace.
“It’s absolutely perfect. I’m so glad we indulged ourselves and bought it.”
“I mean about this letter—about Frank’s owning half of Rosemont?”
“I trust your instincts. If you think Paul was capable of this, you’re probably right.”
“But what about my idea of selling the silver? We don’t know how much we can get for it, but it’s our only way to raise the money.”
John put both his hands on her arms and looked into her eyes. “I don’t think it’s our silver to sell, sweetheart.”
“What do you mean it’s ‘not ours’?”
“It’s part of Rosemont, part of Hector Martin’s estate. If Frank owns half of this house, he owns half of that silver, too.”
A guttural moan escaped her lips, and she brought her forehead to his chest.
“I never thought of that. You’re right, of course.” Tears slid silently down her cheeks. “We can’t sell the silver.”
“We could take out a mortgage on the place,” John suggested.
Maggie shook her head. “We can’t afford the payments on an almost three million dollar mortgage. I’ve got to come to grips with this, John. There’s no way out. We’re going to lose Rosemont.”
***
Maggie clipped the leashes on Eve and Roman early the next morning. She’d slept fitfully, if at all, but couldn’t stand to stay in bed any longer. She’d re-read Simon Wilkens’ letter a thousand times in her mind and rehashed their situation from a dozen different angles. All with the same result—they would lose Rosemont. She and John had to look for a new home, and she must force herself to be excited about the prospect. The dogs pranced and circled, excited over the unaccustomed early morning walk, tangling themselves and Maggie in their leashes.
“Settle down, you two,” she said as she unwound them. “And don’t get used to this on a workday. I’ve got a lot on my mind and need to stretch my legs before I head into the office.” She looked at the unlikely pair sitting obediently at her feet, waiting for her command.
“Heel,” she said. “We’re going to go once around the square and then come home.”
They set off at a brisk pace through the early morning sunshine. Maggie needed to think. Could she sell the silver and not tell Frank? Would that be so wrong?
Maggie paused to let Roman and Eve sniff a fire hydrant. She looked at the storefronts of the shops facing this side of the square. Maggie knew the owners of every single establishment in front of her. What would they think of me if they found out where I got the silver and that I used the money from the sale to buy out Frank’s share of Rosemont? Wouldn’t she be cheating him?
The door to Candy Alley opened and Charla stepped out, broom in hand. Maggie watched as she swept the sidewalk in front of her shop and the print store next door. She pinched the dead blossoms from the vivid pink petunias spilling out of the urn between their entrances. The shopkeeper took a rag out of her apron pocket and ran it over the plate glass windows of both entryways. She looked up and waved at Maggie. “Ellen’s gone to help her niece with the new baby,” she called. “I’m lookin’ after things for her.”
Maggie returned her greeting. Charla was looking out for her neighbor. That’s what the people of Westbury did for each other. The people of Westbury would expect her to be honest. She advised her children and grandchildren to do the right thing and tell the truth. Maggie was ashamed of herself for even thinking about the alternative.
She tugged on the leashes and turned toward Rosemont. Frank Haynes owned half of that silver. She’d never have enough money to outbid him. Rosemont would, inevitably, go to him. She put her head down and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
She was almost at the end of the block when she realized someone had been calling her name. She drew a deep breath to compose herself and turned in the direction the voice had come from.
“Maggie,” Judy Young called, motioning to her from the open door of Celebrations.
“Morning, Judy,” Maggie said, waving and attempting to continue on her way.
Judy approached her. “Do you have a minute?’ she asked. “I’ve got something I want to show you. I did some research while you and John were away on your honeymoon.”
Maggie sighed. She might as well get it over with. Judy was not a person to be denied. “Sure,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“That’s all we’ll need,” Judy said, studying Maggie closely. “You look like you’ve just lost your best friend. What’s up?”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Everything okay between you and John?” Judy probed. “Sometimes getting remarried after many years on your own can make for a difficult adjustment.”
“I guess you’d have to ask John about that, but from my perspective, everything’s wonderful. What have you got to show me?” she asked, following Judy through the shop to her back room.
“I’ve been curious about your silver,” Judy began. “It didn’t make sense that all of that gorgeous stuff was in the attic when more ordinary pieces were carefully stored in the butler’s pantry.”
“Why would that concern you?” Maggie asked. “Maybe they put it up there for safekeeping.”
“That’s not how you would handle something precious you wanted to preserve, now is it? Put it in a drafty old attic to become tarnished from decades of nonuse while you used the more mundane items when you entertained? I don’t think so,” she stated firmly. “I kept thinking about it over and over again.”
“And?” Maggie asked, anxious to be on her way.
“I dug a little deeper into the newspaper archives, looking for stories about the Donaldsons. Do you remember the rumors I told you about them?”
Maggie racked her brain. “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said.
“They were the Martins’ best friends. They made their money in banking and lost everything in the Great Depression.”
Maggie nodded slowly. “Now I remember. They committed suicide together by jumping off the roof of their home.” She shuddered. “A pretty gruesome way to get away from your creditors.”
“That’s right,” Judy said. “I confirmed that they jumped the night before they were to lose their home to foreclosure.”
“You thought some of that silver must have been theirs, didn’t you?” Maggie said, turning to stare at Judy.
“Yes. The flatware was engraved with their coat of arms. I feel certain that the rest of it in the attic was the Donaldsons’, too. They’d concealed their silver from their cre
ditors by hiding it at Rosemont. By the time they were to lose their house, they’d lost everything else and decided to kill themselves.”
Judy leaned in to Maggie. “Have you searched that secretary in the attic where all of it was stored? You might find something that indicates it belonged to them. I’m guessing the Martins never used it—even after the Donaldsons died—because it didn’t belong to them, and they didn’t want anyone to know that they’d been hiding assets for the Donaldsons.”
“Does it now belong to the heirs of the Donaldsons?” Maggie asked.
Judy shook her head. “That’s what I was researching. They didn’t have a will, so I was trying to find out if they had any heirs. They never had any children and neither of them had siblings. Their line died out on that horrible day when they jumped.”
“So who does it belong to, do you think?” Maggie asked, trying to conceal the seed of hope that was taking root. “Would the Martins have inherited it?”
“Not unless the Donaldsons left it to them in a will,” Judy stated. “According to what I found, it would legally be considered ‘treasure trove.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Judy squared her shoulders, “that the silver in that attic belongs to whoever found it. In this case, you,” she stated.
Judy rattled on, missing the relief that washed over Maggie, leaving her weak in the knees. “Maybe it doesn’t make any difference, but I thought you should know,” she concluded proudly. “That silver is your treasure trove.”
Maggie thanked Judy profusely and tore out of Celebrations, breaking into a jog on the way back to Rosemont. She unhooked the dogs’ leashes and dropped them on the hall table. Retrieving the attic key and a flashlight from the desk on the landing, she raced down the hallway. Maggie took the attic stairs two at a time and wove her way through the piled-up furniture to the secretary that remained along the back wall.
Drawing Close: The Fourth Novel in the Rosemont Series Page 11