“But they’re just phone calls. And they don’t scare me. They’re having more effect on you than me. I can’t leave just yet. I have a petition to present next week. I’m knee-deep in a very contentious case and I can’t run out on clients who have been paying me to litigate their cases. Maybe when this month’s hearings are finished, I’ll go out to Carol’s or come to see you. In the meantime, I need to stay here. I’ll be extra careful.”
“I don’t like it, Cat. Double-lock the doors. Be careful going to and from the car.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Love you, Cat.”
“Love you too.”
* * *
I HAD BARELY HUNG up with Catherine when there was a knock on my hotel room door. The first thought that came to mind: I wish I had my gun. I walked quietly to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Janie and she didn’t look good.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said. “I … I mean on your privacy.” Her bottom lip was quivering and her eyes were watery.
I shook my head. “Of course not, don’t be silly.” I swung back the door to let her in. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing really.” Her voice was strained. “I just wondered if maybe … you weren’t doing anything important and wanted … wanted to get a beer or something.” Then she broke into tears. I held her while she buried her head in my chest and cried for an uncomfortably long period of time. Finally she backed up, wiped her eyes and sniffled. Her pretty little face was flushed. “I’m so sorry,” she said between gasps. “I’m making a fool of myself, I need to go.”
“No, no. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. It’s just been a bad day. This evening was pretty tough.”
“Charles?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “But it’s not like this all the time. He’s really a good guy. It’s only when there’s been a crisis in his business and the stress gets too hard for him.” She forced a smile. “He doesn’t handle stress very well.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
She shook her head. “Not physically. Not really.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I should know better. I should know to get out of the house when one of his deals is in trouble. Today, he was having an argument with some shipping company. He couldn’t get the containers loaded on time. He was shouting at the phone and then, then he couldn’t find his briefcase and he said it was all my fault and I … I just felt like I needed to see a friendly face, that’s all.”
I took her around the corner to a pub where we each ordered a beer. I could tell she felt embarrassed by all this. “Do you think you should stay apart for a while? Give things a chance to cool down? Think this thing through?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll go home and he’ll be fine. He’ll apologize like he always does and things will be great again. Really, he treats me very well.”
What do I say to someone who’s caught in a relationship like that? I’m a PI, not a therapist, but two thoughts came to mind: Janie needs to get out of this abusive relationship or I need to go have a serious discussion with this punk. Maybe both. “It doesn’t sound like he treated you very well tonight.”
“No, not tonight.”
“Why don’t you get a room at the hotel for a day or two,” I said. “I think there’s a lot of empty rooms.”
She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, maybe I will. Maybe that will show him that he shouldn’t treat me so harshly.” She took a sip of beer and then changed the subject. “Are you going to the meeting at Solicitor Cooney’s office tomorrow?”
“I am. I’m an interested party. More than that. I’m the bull’s-eye in the center of Conor’s target.”
“Ah yes, the unwilling volunteer. I’m sorry I got you into this. It was my phone call that dragged you out here, wasn’t it?”
“Nope. It was my uncle’s will and trust that drafted me into service.” Then a lightbulb went off in my head. “Come to think of it, when you called and told me to come to Antrim, you said ‘The family needs you, Uncle Fergus needs you.’”
“That I did.”
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew that my uncle had prepared a will and trust that appointed me as trustee!”
“Yes, I did.”
“What else did you know, Janie?”
“Well, quite a bit, actually. Uncle Fergus and I were very close. I knew he was going to put all his property in a trust and appoint someone he could rely on. That was you. He told me that he didn’t want to appoint me as trustee, that he thought there might be trouble and he knew he could depend on you. Deirdre was there when he told me. We both knew that you were going to be appointed trustee, but I don’t think either of us has seen the trust. Not me anyway. Other than Deirdre and me, I don’t think anyone else even knew there was a trust.”
“Did he tell you he feared someone was trying to kill him?”
“No. Just what I told you. He also didn’t tell me anything about the terms of the trust or who the beneficiaries would be and it wasn’t my place to ask.”
“Do you know anyone named Bridget McGregor?”
She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “No, should I?”
“I guess not.”
We shared a couple more beers and I paid the bill. As we walked to the door, Janie gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Thanks for being here for me. I’m going to head home.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “It’ll be fine.”
“Do you want me to go with you? Maybe have a little talk with Charles?”
She smiled and shook her pretty head.
I went back to the bar, ordered another beer and sat there thinking about Deirdre. She knew about the will and trust. She knew I was the appointed trustee. She knew Fergus was on edge. What else did she know? I was sure she knew a lot more than she was letting on. If so, why wouldn’t she open up to me? I know there was a sixteen-year lapse in communications and that I should have called, but I didn’t feel she was holding it against me. I was confident we had reconnected, reestablished our close relationship. Maybe we never lost it. For six very important years of my boyhood we forged a strong bond—like mother and son. We still had it; I could see it in her eyes.
THIRTEEN
THE OFFICES OF SOLICITOR Michael Cooney, Esq., were space-age compared to Malcolm O’Neill’s Elizabethan suite. Everything was new and high-tech—ergonomic furniture and desk chairs, tables with minimalistic lines and brightly colored occasional pieces. His conference room was larger than O’Neill’s, and that turned out to be a bonus given the number of interested parties that showed up. Sitting around the long rectangular glass-and-steel table, the participants positioned themselves according to their dispositions—older and calmer on one side, younger and combative on the other. To my left were Conor, Riley and Conor’s two sons: Sean and Harry—the aggressive bunch. To the right were Deirdre, Robert and Eamon. I sat next to O’Neill at one end alongside Megan, who arrived looking very corporate—a gray suit, powder blue blouse and contrasting paisley scarf. Me? Jeans and a Chicago Cubs sweatshirt. Okay, I was making a statement. I wasn’t going to fancy-up for Solicitor Michael Cooney, Esq., who was trying to fire me. Besides, it was one of my dressier sweatshirts. There was an empty chair next to Conor, which I assumed would be occupied by Cooney whenever he decided to make his grand entrance.
Janie was missing and her absence worried me. I shouldn’t have let her go home last night. The least I could have done was to check up on her, but I fell asleep. The more the seconds ticked, the more anxious I became and just as I made up my mind to step out into the hall and place the call, Janie and Charles waltzed into the room.
“Sorry that we’re late,” she said, as bouncy and cheerful as ever, as if last night had never occurred. She wore a sparkly gold necklace. I wondered if that was Charles’s peace offering. Charles was his gregarious self, flashing his Colgate smile and warmly shaking everybo
dy’s hand. They took their seats beside Robert on the congenial side of the table, and small talk occupied the air for a few minutes until Cooney entered.
Considerably younger than O’Neill, Cooney breezed in, set his papers on the table next to Conor and walked around introducing himself and thanking everyone for coming to the meeting on such short notice. When he got to Megan, he said, “I don’t think I know who you are. I’m Mike Cooney.”
“Megan Dooley.”
“May I know the purpose of your presence here?”
I interrupted and answered for her. “She’s assisting me in looking into the death of my uncle.”
“In what capacity?”
“Investigator,” she replied. “I’m acting at the direction of Liam Taggart.”
Cooney put on a patronizing smile. “Well isn’t that nice, but this is a gathering of Fergus Taggart’s family, so is it really appropriate for you to be here today?”
“It is if you want me here,” I said.
“I see, so you want to put this on a contentious platform from the very beginning? I had hopes that we could all work together. Peacefully. I believe it’s necessary that we try very hard to come together and have this matter straightened out at the earliest possible time,” he said, looking to O’Neill for concurrence. “That benefits all of us, don’t you agree, Malcolm?”
“It’s your show, Michael,” O’Neill said. “Why did you bring us here?”
“Yes, well, we all know why. Conor has filed a lawsuit to end this farce. The reason we have gathered in my office this morning is to comply with court rules that require us to meet and confer in advance of our initial court appearance.” He leaned in my direction. “Mr. Taggart, did you bring the trust agreement with you today?”
I nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“Excellent. May I see it, please?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I brought it for reference purposes only. It’s confidential.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said no.”
“Mr. Taggart, I don’t think you fully understand the nature of our proceedings here in Northern Ireland. Judge McNulty will ask us if we have met and conferred prior to the first court appearance. That means to share information. You and I both know that ultimately we will see a copy of the trust. In fact, beneficiaries have a right to see the trust. Therefore, I insist on seeing the document right now.” He tapped his finger on the table.
“Oh, you insist? Well then, when you put it that way, the answer is still no.”
Turning to O’Neill, he said, “Malcolm, I appeal to you. The laws of this realm give my client an absolute right to a copy of that trust. I don’t think there’s any argument on that point, is there? We all agree, don’t we?”
“Michael, let’s stop the games,” O’Neill said. “The trust is sealed until the testator’s killer is found. What we all agree on is that Liam is the named trustee and he is only following Fergus’s instructions. You knew that would be our position. Please tell me you didn’t gather us all here this morning just to hear that in person.”
“Excuse me, Malcolm, but apparently not everyone agrees. Fergus Taggart’s two children do not agree. His grandchildren Sean Taggart and Harry Taggart do not agree. So it seems as though Fergus Taggart’s lineal heirs are rightfully contesting the total control that is being exerted by an estranged American nephew. They are justifiably concerned that some trickery is afoot to deny them their inheritance rights.”
O’Neill bounced to his feet. “Trickery, is it? Fergus Taggart possessed the right to bequest his property to whomsoever he chose in whatever manner he chose. I drafted the documents. Me, Michael. You can be damn well sure they’re valid and enforceable. You’ve seen the will. The will was witnessed and is unquestionably valid.”
Cooney stood as well. They faced each other in defiance, like prizefighters ready for the bell. I considered the possibility that we might have a little bare knuckles going on.
“Afraid not,” Cooney said. “The validity is questioned. Fergus Taggart’s mental state is questioned. Once we’re allowed to see it, I’m sure the bizarre terms of his trust will also be brought into question. There will be questions galore. We are contesting the will. We’ll let the judge decide the validity of the instruments.” Then surprisingly, he waved his hand from side to side, as though dispensing with everything that had been said. “But, but, but. That is not the only reason I have asked you all to join me this morning.”
Cooney gestured toward his client. “Conor has a proposal. Let’s all discuss it here like gentlemen and ladies and come to a reasonable accommodation. Otherwise I will present my emergency motion to the court and we’ll do it the hard way. Conor?”
Conor looked around the room, but avoided making eye contact with me. “Yeah, as Mr. Cooney says, I have a proposal. It’s like I said before, I propose that we all hire a professional investigator licensed in Northern Ireland to find the bastard that killed my father. We all know the PSNI won’t do shit. We also know that the reason my father put that weird language in the will was to make sure we’d catch the guy who was threatening him. You know, it was his way of motivating us. He didn’t intend to disinherit his own kids. So I propose we carry out my father’s intent, be properly motivated and appoint a qualified private detective.”
Then Conor turned his attention to me. “Liam’s an American, he doesn’t know anything about our customs or our way of life. He’s never worked here and he’s not even licensed here. Let’s turn it over to a real professional, one who will find the killer, no matter who he is. And once we turn it over, that should be sufficient. My father’s last wishes will have achieved their purpose. We will have been motivated. Once it’s out of our hands and in the hands of the independent investigator, then we’ve done all we can and we should all get our copies of the trust so that we can protect our rights. No more secrets.”
Now it was O’Neill’s turn. “You may be right, Conor, that the appointment of an independent investigator might serve your father’s subjective intent, but none of us sitting here really know what Fergus’s subjective intent was, do we? We are left only with the written word. The killer has to be found before any of you get to see the document. Those were his words. Take them at their plain meaning.
“As to the qualifications of an investigator, Conor, Ms. Dooley is fully licensed and authorized in Northern Ireland. She’s working closely with Liam and she knows all about Irish customs and ways of life. Inspector McLaughlin is an experienced police officer and he is also independent and he’s working hard as well. Finally, as attorney for the trustee, I cannot recommend spending any trust money to hire another investigator, which I consider unnecessary and superfluous.”
Conor looked over at Megan with a sneer. “Dooley? How experienced is she? Did she finish high school yet?”
“That’s enough, Conor,” I said.
His mercury was rising. “Look, Liam, it’s not just her, it’s you. I don’t want you poking around my father’s property. You’re nothing but a bloody snoop. You’ve been that way for twenty years. You turned your back on your family. You turned your back on your uncle who raised you. You even turned your back on Annie. You coulda had her if you weren’t a slimy rat. She dumped you because you turned out to be a dishonest asshole. I don’t like your intrusion, Liam. I don’t like your attitude. In fact, I don’t like you at all. I want you to stay the hell out of my family’s house. I grew up in that house. That’s my house. That’s Riley’s house. Maybe Deirdre would argue it’s her house, but it’s sure as hell ain’t your house. So stay the hell out. In fact, get your ass out of Antrim, the sooner the better.”
O’Neill rose to his feet again. So did I. Bare knuckles were sounding better and better. And bringing Annie into this discussion was way out of line.
“Are we done here, Mr. Cooney?” O’Neill said. “Is this your idea of a good faith attempt at compromise? Unless and until the court decrees otherwise, Mr. Liam Taggart is the duly appointed trustee of a
ll of the assets belonging to the late Fergus Taggart. So, Conor, you’re wrong. It is his house, at least for the time being. And he will conduct whatever investigations he deems prudent to the circumstances.”
With that, Cooney reached into his stack of papers and handed a document to O’Neill. “Not so fast, Malcolm. This is a copy of my emergency motion to turn over copies of the trust, which I have set for tomorrow morning in Judge McNulty’s courtroom. It’s what I warned you about. We will represent to her that we held our good faith conference and despite our best efforts, we could not come to an agreement. I will ask the judge to order the turnover of the trust and the removal of Liam Taggart as trustee. We will dissolve this nonsensical trust. I have a client to represent and I will do so vigorously, no matter what the remainder of this dysfunctional family wants.”
I looked to my right. Robert had his head down, sadly shaking it from side to side. Eamon’s lips were pressed together and his eyes were glaring. Deirdre was sobbing. Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on the table. “Vultures,” she said, her voice rising. “Ravens, grackles. All picking at Fergus’s remains. Carrion eaters!” She rose from her chair and left the room.
Eamon glared at Cooney. “You better watch your mouth, sonny.”
“You knew that Conor’s ridiculous proposal was a sham,” O’Neill said. “You brought us here so you could falsely represent to Judge McNulty that we had a good faith meeting, but there was nothing good faith about it. File your motion, solicitor. We’ll be there.”
Cooney shrugged. “As you see fit. Call it what you will, I think it was in good faith. But I have another good faith suggestion. Seeing as the family is all here and most of them agree with me, why don’t we vote on Conor’s proposal?”
“A vote?” barked O’Neill, with as much sarcasm as he could muster, which in all fairness was quite a bit. “By all means, let’s vote. After all, this is a democracy, isn’t it? Oh, wait. No, it’s not. This is a will and trust, which contain a testator’s specific instructions. The majority voice of these people is totally irrelevant. The documents control. Liam is the duly appointed trustee and is acting wholly within his authority.”
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