Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave

by Deron R. Hicks

  There was a pause. Then the deep voice replied, “True. But the books did burn. And”—the deep voice paused for effect—“you, not I or anyone else in this room, failed to re-sign one of the most important authors of the past half-century. It is a business. The Letterford name has value.”

  “It also has respect and tradition,” interrupted Mull Letterford. “That, Treemont, is something you simply do not understand.”

  Treemont! Colophon thought. The tall man from the lake is named Treemont.

  “Respect does not sell books,” Treemont responded. “Tradition does not pay the bills. The family cannot reasonably be expected to allow you to remain in your position without some realistic expectation that the business will turn around immediately.”

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  “I have the votes of the family to invoke the clause,” Treemont finally said.

  There was silence.

  “The clause,” Uncle Portis finally said, “can only be invoked at the meeting of the family that occurs on Christmas Eve—no sooner.”

  “You are correct,” answered Treemont. “That means that Mull has just under a month before the clause is invoked.”

  “One month?” said Mull. “But . . . that’s impractical.”

  The deep voice responded: “One month is all the family can offer. I suggest you use the time to get your affairs in order.”

  Colophon heard the shuffling of chairs below. She peeked around the vase and saw the tall man rise from his chair and straighten his coat. He then turned to Mull Letterford.

  “Of course, you always have the right to purchase the interests of the three other families.”

  Mull offered a mock laugh. “You know as well as I do that the price is far too high. I would need a king’s ransom to purchase your interests.”

  “Then, I suppose we shall meet in London on Christmas Eve,” replied the deep voice.

  “And Portis,” Mull asked, “do you agree with the rest?”

  Uncle Portis replied in a measured voice. “This is not of my doing. While I may disagree with Treemont and the others, it is their right to act as they deem appropriate. However, I do not believe that the clause should be invoked without some reasonable opportunity to correct the problem.”

  “Nonsense!” the deep voice boomed. “He has had his chances. I’ve raised concerns over the last year about Brogdon Honeycutt and whether we were doing everything we could to sign him. It was not a surprise that he went elsewhere.”

  “His demands were absurd,” interjected Mull.

  “His demands were those of an eccentric author whose next book will sell millions of copies and will be made into a movie. His demands could have been met,” insisted Treemont.

  “Enough!” interrupted Uncle Portis. The room fell silent. “I hope no one in this room would seek to invoke the clause without adequate justification and warning.”

  Once again there was a general murmur of agreement from the group.

  “So we are in agreement that Mull should be offered a fair chance. But what does that mean? The clause was intended to be exercised when the owner of the business was incapable of operating it. Sales alone are not and have never been a sufficient reason.”

  “Then what is a good enough reason?” demanded Treemont. “What must we do to get this ship straight?”

  “I am not sure,” replied Uncle Portis.

  Colophon chanced another peek around the vase. Her father was sitting in one of the large leather chairs in the middle of the room. Opposite him, Treemont was sitting in another. The rest of the family hovered throughout the library. Colophon quickly withdrew back into her hiding spot.

  After much mumbling by and between the family members, Mull, who had sat silent for this period, finally spoke: “I have a proposal.”

  Treemont hushed the rest and turned to Mull. “Go ahead,” he said in his deep voice.

  “Give me until our meeting on Christmas Eve. I’m scheduled to meet with three authors over the course of the next month to discuss long-term publishing contracts. A book deal of three or more books from any of these authors would be more than enough to guarantee the financial stability of this company for the next decade and beyond.”

  “Who are the authors?” Treemont demanded.

  “Roger Scornsbury, Natasha Limekicker, and Pat O’Dally,” replied Mull. “Scornsbury is coming into town in a couple of weeks to discuss a publishing deal. If I can get that deal completed, all of the prior problems will be behind us.”

  No one immediately spoke. Peering around the corner of the vase, Colophon could see from the look on Treemont’s face that her father’s offer had taken him by surprise. She was not sure if her father actually had meetings arranged with those authors, or if he was bluffing.

  Uncle Portis spoke. “I assume the signing of a contract of three or more books with an established, best-selling author would suffice?”

  There was yet another murmur of concurrence from those in the room.

  “Then,” continued Uncle Portis, “by December twenty-forth at midnight, if Mull delivers a deal to publish three or more books from a best-selling author, the business is his to run without any further interference from the family. If he fails to deliver, you may vote to invoke the clause, if that remains the will of the family. Are we agreed?”

  One by one the members of the family in the room expressed their agreement, with one exception.

  “Treemont,” Uncle Portis said, “are you in agreement?”

  Treemont stood and walked over to the fireplace. “If that is what is required. However, let me be completely clear. If, at the stroke of midnight on December twenty-fourth, the requirement has not been met, there will be no extensions, no excuses, and no second chances.”

  “Agreed,” Uncle Portis replied. “Now, I believe we should all return to the living room before the rest of the family begins to worry about what we are doing in here behind closed doors.”

  And with that, everyone departed, with the exception of Uncle Portis, who closed the large oak doors behind him and stepped back into the middle of the room. Colophon, who had been crouching behind the vase for almost half an hour, wondered if she would ever be able to leave.

  “Colophon, you may come out from behind the vase now,” Uncle Portis said.

  Colophon froze and held her breath. Surely he had not said what she thought he just said.

  “Come now, girl, I don’t have all night.”

  There was no escape. “How . . . ?” Colophon said as she stood and tried to stretch the cramps out of her legs.

  “Oh, you can’t be serious. You made enough noise to wake the dead. The problem was that everyone else was so busy arguing that they wouldn’t have heard a train plow through the front door. I, however, am an editor. My job is to pay attention to the details. And a detail you were. So come down here and join me.”

  Colophon descended the circular staircase and stood before Uncle Portis. “How could you?” she demanded.

  He pointed to the large leather chair next to him. Colophon sat down and sank deep into it. Uncle Portis appeared to have aged ten years since dinner.

  “I trust you understand what just happened?”

  Colophon fidgeted in the leather chair. “I think so.”

  “There was no choice, dear. Technically, the family has the right to do this. However, I convinced the others in private—with the exception of Treemont, of course—that your father deserved the chance to set the business straight.”

  “But what happened was not his fault,” Colophon protested.

  “No, it was not. And I argued that very point. Treemont, however, has convinced everyone that there is no one else to blame and that there is no one else who can accept the responsibility. The family is looking to your father as the party responsible for the current state of the business, whether these events could have been prevented or not.”

  “But I thought they liked my father.”

  “Oh, but my dear child,
they do—again, with the exception of Treemont. Treemont has always been jealous of your father. He was every bit as successful as your father academically and in everything they attempted. But it didn’t matter, and Treemont knew that. No matter what he did, no matter how successful or smart he was, the business was going to be turned over to your father. That is, as I’m sure you are painfully aware, the family rule.”

  Colophon nodded again.

  “The family adores your father. However, this is a family business. They want to ensure that the business prospers, not just for their sake, but for the sake of their children and their grandchildren. Treemont has convinced them that your father’s ownership of the company has placed that future at risk.”

  “But how could he have prevented—”

  “He could not have. However, that is beside the point. What matters now is perception, not reality. The question is whether the family has confidence in his leadership. Treemont has spent months—perhaps years—undermining that confidence among the other family members.”

  “What will happen?”

  “If your father is not able to meet the terms of the agreement, ownership of the company, and everything that goes along with that ownership, would transfer to the next in line of direct lineage from Miles Letterford’s second son.”

  There was a period of silence. Colophon finally spoke.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “This house?”

  “This house, the home in London—they would be the homes of the new owner.”

  Again, a long silence.

  “Who?”

  “I am quite sure you already know the answer to that,” replied Uncle Portis.

  “Treemont?”

  “Yes,” said Uncle Portis. “I am afraid that unless your father is able to complete the task he has taken on by the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, it will all become Treemont’s.”

  “But can’t father purchase the whole company? Didn’t Treemont say that?”

  “Yes. In theory he could,” replied Uncle Portis. “However, Miles Letterford wanted the owner of the majority interest to account to the other owners. Your father would have to pay each of the other three sets of descendants the full value of the company to purchase their interests. There is not a bank in the world that would loan him that amount of money.”

  Colophon sat still and contemplated what Uncle Portis had said. It sounded so final. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “Uncle Portis?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you think that everything that has happened has been simply a series of accidents?”

  The question seemed to catch Uncle Portis off guard. He sat back in his seat and looked at Colophon. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it seems that a whole lot of bad things happened all at once. Weird things. Would Treemont—”

  “Now, now, surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “I’m just saying that it’s mighty strange how everything occurred.”

  “Young lady, that will be enough of that talk. Treemont may be many things, but I do not believe for a minute that he would do anything intentional to harm this company.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. The only thing you can do now is support your father. He does not need to be distracted by anything—particularly unfounded conspiracy theories. He has a task to complete, a difficult one. I suggest you let him focus and do what you can to make his life easy over the next month.”

  Colophon nodded.

  “Good. Now, I understand that there was some pecan pie left over from dinner. Why don’t you run down and get some?”

  Although she was not in the least bit hungry, Colophon nodded again, stood up and walked out of the room. Uncle Portis, however, stayed in his seat looking very much like he was contemplating Colophon’s last question.

  Chapter Nine

  Quittance or Obligation

  Friday, November 28

  “Why should I care?” asked Case, displaying little or no interest in his sister’s concerns as he flopped onto his bed and started fumbling with his ever-present iPod.

  “Case,” protested Colophon, “this is serious.”

  Colophon had just spent fifteen minutes describing to her older brother the conversation she had overheard in the library.

  “Like I said, I don’t care. It’s dad’s business, not yours. Not mine.”

  “You should care. It will be your business one day.”

  “Please, don’t remind me,” replied Case.

  “You should be proud to run the family business. The family tradition goes back for several—”

  “Several centuries, I know. Trust me, I’ve listened to the stories for more years than you have. How it will one day be my obligation. Blah, blah, blah. My duty to the family. Blah, blah, blah. I would just as soon see the whole business go away.”

  “You don’t mean that!” exclaimed Colophon.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Case turned away from his sister, put in his earbuds, and turned up the volume on his iPod.

  Colophon was infuriated. How could her brother turn his back on the family business? All she had ever wanted to do was be part of Letterford & Sons. It meant everything to her. She took a deep breath. She knew that yelling at him wouldn’t help. She needed another approach. She walked around the bed and tapped him on the shoulder. He took out his earbuds.

  “What?”

  “So, tell me—how is Samantha Peet? Brett Haven? Glenn Eldridge? Still hanging out with that crowd?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Nice people, I’m sure. And they all come from very wealthy families. Isn’t Samantha’s father the CEO of something or other?”

  Case turned off his iPod and stared at his sister.

  “What’s your point?” he asked suspiciously.

  “The point is that you hang out with a bunch of rich snobs.”

  “They are not a bunch of—”

  “Oh, spare me,” replied Colophon. “They wouldn’t even talk to you if your father were not the owner of a world-famous publishing house.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Really? You know as well as I do that your little group consists of nothing but spoiled rich kids who look down on anyone who was not born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”

  “Whatever,” said Case. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Fine—they are wonderful, caring people. But tell me something. How will Samantha and the rest of your snobby friends react when your father is thrown from his position in the company, stripped of his business, and kicked out of his house? It will be on the front page of every business paper on this planet.”

  Case started to say something, then paused. Finally he replied halfheartedly: “Samantha and my friends don’t care about that.”

  “I’m sure they don’t. They seem to be a very understanding group.” She stood by the door and stared at her brother.

  Case started to protest but fell silent. He walked over to the window in his room that overlooked the front lawn.” There’s nothing we can do, you know. Dad is either going to get the contract or he won’t. We can’t help.”

  “Case,” Colophon said, “I don’t think what happened to those other authors were accidents.”

  Case turned to face his sister. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just too much of a coincidence. All those things happened all at once, and then this Treemont guy shows up.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” responded Case. “You don’t really think—”

  “Case, you didn’t hear this man. You didn’t see his eyes. I think he would be willing to do anything. Think about it. He would get everything. Everything.”

  “Even if he did have something to do with what happened—and I’m not saying he did—the point is, what can we do? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing.”

  “Dad will be meeting soon with the first author. At the very least, you could tag along an
d keep an eye on things.”

  “So I just go up to Dad and tell him I want to tag along when he meets with this author? I’m so sure that plan is going to work.”

  “Just ask,” replied Colophon. “At least try. But don’t tell Dad what you’re doing. We’re not supposed to know what’s going on. He would freak out if he knew that we knew.”

  Case contemplated simply ignoring his sister’s request. But what if something did happen and he could have helped? Colophon wouldn’t shut up about it for the rest of his life. “Fine,” Case finally said. “I’ll try to do something, and I’ll keep it a secret. I still think you’re crazy, though. And by the way, what will you be doing while I’m saving Dad?”

  “I have a mystery to solve,” replied Colophon.

  Chapter Ten

  Most Ponderous and Substantial Things

  Saturday, November 29

  8:15 p.m.

  Colophon lay on her back near the old persimmon tree at the edge of the field and stared up at the night sky. Maggie, the family’s golden retriever, snuggled up warmly against her side. The night air was cool, but the ground still retained remnants of the summer heat. A light sweater and a warm golden retriever proved more than sufficient to keep her comfortable.

  Far from the lights that infested the cities and the suburbs on a 24/7 basis, the night sky over the Letterford property was actually dark. And on those occasions when the moon was absent from the sky (a night just such as this), the sky was filled with an unimaginable number of stars. On her back in the field, Colophon looked up at the delicate pinpoints of light set against a deep pool of black. Case had his iPod to escape from the world; Colophon had the stars.

  Maggie stirred momentarily, let out a halfhearted growl, and fell immediately back to sleep. Colophon turned her head and discovered that her father was now standing by her side.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, honey,” replied Mull Letterford. “Isn’t it a bit cool to be outside on the ground?”