The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Give me the envelope, Liam. He was my father.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t do it.”

  He reached for the envelope again and I grabbed his wrist. “Sit down, Conor. I didn’t ask to be appointed, I haven’t seen the document, I don’t know what’s in it, and this is a surprise to me as well. But Uncle Fergus trusted me and I’m not going to go against his wishes. Not now, anyway. I’m going to take the envelope back to the hotel, read it and then decide what to do.”

  Conor didn’t move. He was a big guy, but I was pretty sure I could take him. Maybe he thought so too, because he took a step back. Standing over me, he said, “At least open it here and read it. Maybe it gives you permission to tell us more.”

  Again I shook my head. “I’m going to take this trust document with me and read it in private. Now back off.”

  Conor was trying to control his rage. He was breathing in and out of his nose like a bull. “Then go back and read it and do it quickly!” He raised his voice to a thundering decibel and slapped the table. “I want a report tomorrow! Understand?” He turned and headed for the door, then stopped. “And you better watch your ass, Liam. You’re in my territory now.”

  After the door slammed, Riley let out a low whistle. “My brother has a low flash point and he can be a tough adversary. I’m sorry my dad put you in this uncomfortable position.”

  Riley was no sorrier than I. Now it became clear why Fergus didn’t appoint Riley. At the very least, he didn’t want a war between the brothers. I didn’t know what I was ultimately going to do, but I was going to read the trust first. In private.

  “Can you let us know something after you’ve had a chance to go through the document?” Riley added. “Like I said, my dad and I had some investments together. There are decisions that need to be made. I’d kind of like to know what I can do, sooner rather than later.”

  That was certainly understandable and stated in a civil way. Contrast that with Conor’s “I want a report tomorrow!” But I had always known Riley to be calm, thoughtful and polite. He was a good friend.

  The meeting ended, I took the envelope and walked back to my hotel. This being Conor’s territory, I kept a close watch on my ass.

  SIX

  THE FERGUS TAGGART TESTAMENTARY Trust ran twenty-two pages with numerous arcane and esoteric references, far beyond the comprehension of America’s finest private investigator. I was in way over my head and reading through this document was giving me a headache. Besides, it was time to call Catherine anyway.

  “What did you get yourself into?” she said.

  “Get myself? I didn’t volunteer. Uncle Fergus named me as the trustee of his estate. I don’t know why he did that.”

  “It’s pretty obvious, Liam.”

  “He could have just as easily named Aunt Deirdre, she’s been his wife, sort of, for the past forty years. Or Riley. Or Uncle Eamon or Uncle Robert. They’re all loyal and responsible.”

  “Somebody killed Fergus or had him killed. What’s more, Fergus anticipated his own murder. Maybe he didn’t want to involve Deirdre or Riley, or put them at risk, or maybe, heaven forbid, they’re not beyond suspicion. What does the instrument provide for distribution to the heirs?”

  “I know you’re going to think me stupid, but I’m not sure. It’s so convoluted, with words like ‘hereinbefore’ and ‘whomsoever.’ I need you to come out here and help me.”

  “Come out there? I can’t just pick up, leave my practice and fly to Ireland. Did you forget, Ben is only seven months old? I can’t imagine sitting on a plane with him in my lap all the way to Europe.”

  “I’ll buy him a seat. Please.”

  “If you’re going to be there a long time, we’ll talk about it. For now, just scan the instrument and email it to me. I’ll try to figure it out. Meanwhile, why don’t you sit down with Mr. O’Neill and discuss it with him? He can explain all the terms to you. He’s certainly in a position to advise you.”

  “I can’t. It’s because of Fergus’s letter, the one in the wooden box. He told me not to trust anyone.”

  “Not even his lawyer?”

  “He underlined anyone.”

  “I’m someone.”

  “In my trustee’s discretion, I hereby determine that he didn’t mean you. Why don’t you come on out here?”

  “Stop it. Send me the instrument and I’ll give it my once-over.”

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH I READ AND reread it, I gave up trying to make sense out of the trust agreement. I would just wait for Catherine’s explanation. In the meantime, Janie called and asked that I join her and her boyfriend at Conway’s Pub. That sounded like the best idea I’d heard since I arrived in Northern Ireland. I headed right over. I was familiar with Conway’s. I had frequented the neighborhood bar on more than one occasion with Annie, back when I was on assignment in the nineties. One could always find a friendly face at Conway’s.

  Perched on a corner in a residential neighborhood, Conway’s was a traditional public house. A huge stone fireplace dominated the long southern wall of the tavern. When I was here in the nineties there were comfortable sitting areas in front of the fireplace where pipes, cigarettes and other smoking materials were indulged along with one’s pint of Guinness, which they would refer to as “a pint of Gat.” Back then, the air would get quite smoky, enough to irritate your eyes and stink up your clothes. But not anymore. Northern Ireland’s pubs were smoke free. On the opposite wall there were several wooden booths, and in the center, a smattering of tables and chairs were set about on the weathered floor. The tarnished brass chandeliers hanging from wooden beams gave a warm glow to the room. At the far end, a raised platform served as a stage where an Irish group was knocking out traditional tunes.

  Janie stood and waved her hand wildly when I walked into the room, though she didn’t need to wave, her smile was a beacon of light. She was sitting next to a guy who smiled as well and she wasn’t wrong about his looks.

  “Charles Dalton,” he said with a firm handshake. He stood six-three, with broad shoulders, a slender waist and powerful forearms. He appeared to be a few years older than Janie. He had a full head of raven black hair combed back from his forehead and was dressed in expensive casual clothes. To top it off, he had brilliant white teeth. It was easy for a guy to dislike Charles. “And you’re Janie’s cousin from Chicago, the one she raves about?” he said.

  “Be careful,” I said. “Janie’s given to rash hyperbole.”

  “Really?” He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “What does she say about me?”

  That was a loaded question that could not possibly have a good response. I begged off. “I cannot reveal a confidence.”

  “Awfully sorry to hear about your uncle,” he said. “I was in Istanbul at a marketing conference when Janie called me. I told her I’d fly right back, but…” He shrugged.

  “I understand you’re in the export business.”

  He smiled with a bit of arrogance. “Oh, that and a wee bit more, I suppose. Northern sells a fair amount of linen to the EU, but I have a large personal portfolio, which I insist on managing myself. I enjoy trading. You know, looking for small inefficiencies in the market where I might make a play for few bucks, as you Yanks would say.”

  I had the impression that his definition of a few bucks and my definition of a few bucks might vary by more than a few bucks. “I heard you guys met at Robinson’s?”

  He flashed that broad smile, reached over, put his arm around Janie’s shoulder and pulled her close. He was three times her size. “Best bar in the six counties. I go there quite often. It was just a lucky happenstance to meet Janie that night. I was supposed to meet another girl. I waited and waited but she stood me up, and there was Janie, just as cute as she could be.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Lucky I was jilted, wasn’t I?”

  Just then the band finished a number and Janie grabbed my hand and pulled me up to the stage. “C’mon, Liam, I’ve heard that you sing a mean ‘Roddy McCorley.’ G
et up there!”

  I hesitated. “No, no, Janie. Don’t do this to me.” But she was forceful. “Who told you that? It was Deidre, wasn’t it? Janie!”

  The bartender ran up with a shot of whiskey and handed it to me. “The stage is yours, Liam. We’re waitin’.” The fiddle player nodded to his companions who picked up their instruments. “‘Roddy McCorley,’ gents.”

  I hadn’t done this in years. I downed the shot, looked at Janie and said, “I’ll get you for this.” She laughed and was joined by others in the bar who smiled and prodded me on. I took a deep breath, grabbed the mic and started slowly.

  “O-oh, see the fleet-foot host of men who come with faces wan…”

  My weak beginning to the anthem brought polite smiles and nods from the gathering at Conway’s, but in for a dime, in for a dollar and I plowed ahead.

  “From farmstead and from Fisher’s cot, along the banks of Ban…”

  Thank God for the band behind me setting the beat. The crowd started clapping and keeping time with their feet. I got a little louder. And a little bolder.

  “They come with vengeance in their eyes, too late, too late are they,

  For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.”

  I started to hand the mic back to the guitar player, but the banjo picked up the tempo, a man ran up with another shot, and someone shouted, “You can’t quit now. On to the second verse. You’re doing splendidly.”

  I shrugged, downed the shot and continued to embarrass myself. While I sang and looked out over the crowd, most of whom had come here, to their local watering hole, to nurse a pint and enjoy a peaceful evening of music and neighborhood camaraderie, it occurred to me that these were my people, my Irish roots, my DNA. For the men and women, especially the older ones, the words to the traditional tunes came to their lips as natural as breathing. And when I got to the third line of the third verse, “For Antrim town, For Antrim town, he led them to the fray,” many stood and belted the line boldly, raising their beer glasses in salute.

  I finished all four verses to a rousing round of applause for which I bowed deeply. “Another,” someone yelled, but I shook my head.

  “The honor was all mine, believe me, but I’m not going to press my luck. You’ve heard enough from me.”

  “Well done, cousin,” Janie said, as I retook my seat at the table. Glasses of beer and shots of whiskey were sent over and for the rest of the night we didn’t pay for a drink.

  SEVEN

  THE SUN SLICED THROUGH the hotel curtains and woke me far earlier than I had planned. My cell phone buzzed and I rolled over to pick it up. There was a text message from Catherine. “I’m awake for Ben’s midnight feeding. If you’re not sleeping, give me a call. Love you.” Ireland was six hours ahead of Chicago, so it was indeed midnight back home.

  “Hi, Cat. How’s my honey and the world’s most talented little tyke?”

  “We’re great, but a little sleepy. Your little tyke still gets hungry in the middle of the night. Liam, have you read this trust agreement?”

  “Not really, I spent the night making a fool of myself in a pub.”

  “That’s my Liam!”

  “Cat, I started to read it, but it’s too damn confusing.”

  She laughed. “I agree. They still use Old English phrases in their legal documents. But wow, Liam! Your uncle Fergus was certainly a distrustful person.”

  “With good reason, given the circumstances of his death. What does the trust say?”

  “He starts off by appointing you as his trustee. If you refuse or are unable to act, then the Bank of Antrim is next in line as successor trustee. After the payment of his last expenses, he describes how he wants his estate divided. He has this strange condition precedent before the beneficiaries can receive their distributions…”

  “I know. We have to catch his killer.”

  “Exactly. His will was what we call a ‘pour-over will,’ which means that everything Fergus owned poured into his testamentary trust at his death. So really, as trustee, you’re in charge of the whole estate. You’ll have to manage it as you see fit. And Liam, one of the first provisions of the trust is to immediately establish an account for Ben Taggart in the amount of ten thousand pounds, “for all the good times we had and to make up for all the good times we missed.” That’s almost fifteen thousand dollars! How did he even know about our child? Did you write to him?”

  “No, you know I didn’t. I haven’t communicated with Uncle Fergus in sixteen years. I don’t know how he knew about Ben. I can’t believe he did that.”

  “Well, he did. Additionally, the instrument provides for a salary for the trustee of one thousand pounds per week and reimbursement for all expenses.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t accept money for something I should do out of love.

  “I can’t accept that salary, Cat. And I don’t think we should accept the gift for Ben either. That’s a hefty sum of money that by rights should go to his family. He wasn’t all that wealthy.”

  “Of course, the decision to accept or reject the distribution is entirely up to you. As to the extent of his assets and his wealth, I can’t tell from the trust agreement or the will. Some of his property, specifically the farm and his investment in a corporation known as Global Investments, Inc., are listed on an attached Schedule A. His real property included a house, farmlands, fixtures and farm equipment.”

  “And I’m to be in charge of it all? What am I supposed to do with it? I’m no farmer. How am I to manage a house, a farm and his investments? You know I have a hard enough time managing my little office.”

  “Well, as far as the house is concerned, the trust provides that Deirdre may stay there as long as she likes. Maybe she’s a capable manager. Since Fergus and Deirdre had no children together, the trust dictates that the property is to be sold and the proceeds distributed to Fergus’s heirs when Deirdre dies.”

  “And the rest of it? His bank accounts? His stock?”

  “All the rest, the balance of everything Fergus owned, is in your hands as trustee until you distribute to the beneficiaries, which, as you know, is deferred until the murderer is apprehended and brought to justice. Pretty close to the same language that’s in your letter.”

  “So that’s the whole thing?”

  “Well, there’s one other unusual provision that you should know about. Since I don’t practice in Northern Ireland, I’m not sure what’s commonplace there. In the U.S., when property is left to an heir and the heir dies before the distribution, the property usually passes to the heir’s descendants, you know, his children. In Uncle Fergus’s trust, if an heir dies before distribution, his share is split up among the other beneficiaries.”

  “And that’s all the details I need to know?”

  “Probably, but that’s just a summary description. The language is more convoluted. There are several pages that refer to the powers of the trustee, that’s you. It says what you can and cannot do with the assets while they are still in trust.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, you can do pretty much anything. It’s up to you how the property will be maintained or what expenses will be paid. That’s a serious responsibility and that’s why there is a thousand-pound payment per week as trustee’s compensation.”

  My thoughts immediately turned to Conor. He’s going to blow his top. “My cousin Conor, who is a nasty guy to begin with, is going to go insane over this. Little Ben gets ten thousand pounds, I get a thousand a week and Conor’s inheritance stays in purgatory? That’s not going to make me a very popular cousin.”

  “True. But Fergus was no fool. I’m sure he contemplated the dilemma. He made the trust secret, so you don’t have to disclose anything about you or Ben at this time.”

  “Let’s suppose we find the bastard or bastards who murdered Fergus. And let’s suppose it’s some Ulster Volunteer who’s been holding a grudge against my uncle for thirty years. What if the guy dies before he can be indicted?”r />
  “That would render the condition satisfied and you could distribute.”

  “So if he’s dead or indicted, even though he’s not convicted, I can distribute the assets to the beneficiaries?”

  “Yes. The instrument provides that all investments—stocks, bonds, partnership interests—are to be liquidated and reduced to cash. The cash is to be divided into seven equal shares, one each for Deirdre, Conor, Riley, Robert, Eamon, Janie and the Bridget McGregor Trust. The house will be held in trust until Deirdre dies, at which time it will be sold and the proceeds distributed equally to the remaining six beneficiaries.”

  “What is the Bridget McGregor Trust?”

  “I don’t know. It’s obviously a separate trust or a foundation. Apparently, Uncle Fergus established it to benefit a person named Bridget McGregor. At the time of distribution, a one-seventh share will be added to the existing principal of the Bridget McGregor Trust and paid out to Bridget McGregor as the terms of her trust dictate.”

  “Do I have a copy of that trust?”

  “No. Perhaps Mr. O’Neill has a copy. Presumably you are not the trustee of the Bridget McGregor Trust, but you do have minimal responsibilities.”

  “What responsibilities? I don’t know anything about Bridget McGregor.”

  “You have a duty to make sure monthly deductions from Fergus’s account are sent to a Dublin bank for the account of Bridget McGregor. Did you read through the trust document?”

  “Well, sort of. Not really. Who the hell is Bridget McGregor?”

  “A child? A charity? A secret love perhaps? We only have the address of a bank in Dublin where the payments are sent. But Liam, the whole thing is very secretive. Fergus directs that no one is to know anything about the terms of his trust or the Bridget McGregor Trust.”

  “Oh, that’s dandy. One more secret trust. So Bridget gets monthly payments?”

  “Yes, she does. Or it does.”