Sons (Book 2)

by Scott V. Duff

  “This side looks very good,” Dillon said. “Though remodeling is in order. The statuary is probably a little… Hindu for your tastes.” The smirk on Dillon’s face made Peter turn sharply for the door to hide his own flushing grin. Happy to get any reaction out of him that wasn’t angry, Dillon sauntered up beside him and rang the bell.

  “The layout doesn’t match the original plans very well,” Jimmy commented, looking over the modifications on the first and second floors, suspiciously.

  “No,” I said, almost choking at the Seventies-style discotheque in what was supposed to be the ballroom, complete with strobe lights in the ceiling and multiple mirrored balls of various sizes. A sound booth on the far end controlled the complicated gear and pulley systems that moved complex lighting structures around in the tall ceiling that probably took more than one person to run. “There are areas of extensive renovations. Some of them are most peculiar.”

  “Yeah, ‘peculiar’ is a good word,” Peter said, chuckling. Dillon cocked his head askance at him and reached to ring the bell again. “Just go on in, Dillon. They’re in the basement, trying to get the lights on.”

  “If you knew that…” he huffed under his breath and flung the door open, entering in its wake. Peter slid silently in behind him, surprising him with an intimate embrace as we came in behind them.

  “I didn’t know until just now,” he whispered over Dillon’s shoulder and into his left ear. “And this is the last one today, so let’s quit fighting and be nice.” Peter slipped loose and went to our left as Dillon stepped forward. I was pretty sure they’d both need a little alone time to let the blood flow return before they could return to polite company, so we checked out the library to the right.

  “The owner has a penchant for period interior design,” Peter called from the middle of the dining room, his back still to us. “The house façade and foyer are 18th Century England Manor House while this is 17th Century French. One of the Louis’ I’d guess, without the furniture.”

  “Yeah, the library appears to be 19th Century American,” I said, looking at the tall, empty shelves gathering dust in the streaming light of the tall windows.

  “His office is old-looking, too,” Jimmy said, coming back out the door into the library. “But newer than this, sort of like Darrin’s office on Bewitched.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Dillon yelled from further back in the house, alarming Peter.

  “Dillon found the disco,” Jimmy said grinning. I smiled, too. It was the most outrageous, kitchy room in the house.

  “Pete! Peter! You’ve got to see this!” Dillon yelled into the foyer, laughing uproariously. Peter trotted to the foyer, no longer worried about Dillon, and caught the door frame to swing around. Unfortunately, Dillon was running back up the dark hallway spastically and still laughing. Peter swung into the foyer and into Dillon, providing us a great view to their spectacular collision. Jimmy and I stood in awe as the physics played out before us to exquisite equilibrium.

  Peter’s angular momentum due to the swing created a perfect match for Dillon’s forceful run up the hall at exactly opposite angles. They canceled each other out, each stopping the other dead. They stopped in their tracks, standing straight up simply because there was no reason for it to be otherwise. Dazed, they were holding each other up when Jimmy and I both lost it. Peter glared daggers at us while he held onto Dillon for a few more seconds.

  “What? It was funny and you weren’t hurt,” Jimmy claimed innocently. “They’re coming up from the basement now, but I’m not really sure if they got the lights on or not.”

  “Only in places,” I said. “It is a very confusing electrical setup. Perhaps I should go down there a fix things for them.”

  “No, Seth,” Peter said sharply, then took Dillon down the hall, mumbling, “Just what he freakin’ needs, something else on his to-do list. Damned idiot, he is. Workaholic! And I adopted into his family. What kind of fool am I?”

  “One who knows good and well that we can hear him,” I said following behind them at an even pace. “I won’t touch the fuse box, okay? Besides, the real reason for your whispered rant is pretty obvious.” Peter turned and grinned at me over the arm he still had on Dillon’s shoulder.

  They were about to turn through the doors to the discotheque when the door to the basement opened further down the hall and on the stairwell side. A man in his late-thirties stepped out, wiping his hands on a used, dry towel. For some reason we were as captivated by the activity as he was, though we were far more amused that he hadn’t noticed us yet.

  “Hello,” Peter said gently, startling the man and causing him to jump backward into the door. Peter and Dillon rushed forward to help steady him. “Sorry, don’t fall down the stairs. Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, you just scared me,” the man said, chuckling lightly. “Sorry we weren’t here to greet you when you got here. We were trying to get the lights on.” He turned back to the basement and called down the stair, “Geoffrey! They’re here!”

  “What? Already?” a voice on the stairs answered, huffing. “Coming.”

  “Geoffrey will be right up,” the first man said as we gathered around. “Oh, sorry, I’m Ken Thompson. I recently inherited this marvelous discontinuity of rooms from my Uncle Max. My wife and I have just gotten over here to settle the rest of his estate.”

  Thompson’s accent placed him from somewhere along the West Coast of the United States, considering the “Lakers” jersey he wore, probably Los Angeles. Definite gym-built body, he was clean-shaven except for the razor-thin line on his jaw line, which did nothing but accentuate his balding, razor-cut hair. I had no doubts he did most of his business with right-hand, left-hand headsets and talked incessantly.

  “Whew!” Geoffrey wheezed at the top of the steps, breathing hard. “Pardon me, please.”

  Peter handled the introductions with Geoffrey Edmington, the land agent, leading us back into the better-lit foyer, and learning a bit more in the process. Thompson had inherited the house and land from his uncle, Max Sheffield, a Seventies record producer who managed limited success in the next decade but floundered horribly after that. At the height of his extremes, this had been his private Gomorrah, not quite up to Sodom’s decadence. Sheffield was smart enough, even through designer drug years, to protect his little private sanctum through several financial debacles and still keep it maintained until he passed away sixteen months ago, leaving his entire estate to his only living relative, a nephew in the States.

  And of course, I gleaned a few more facts off the tops of their minds. Neither had been here before and only had a few hours to review the house before us. They were both more than a little upset at the state of disrepair and the extensive modifications to the electrical systems. Neither was looking forward to the upcoming inspections and expected a great deal of it to be condemned and they’d be forced to rebuild before they could sell. Major influxes of cash would be necessary before a profit could be seen. And the inheritance taxes would come due before then. And the land tax as well.

  Thompson desperately wanted his Uncle’s music catalog, though, something about unheard recordings. He thought he could make a great deal of money in the US with the rights to those, if he could just get rid of this kludge…

  They expected us to excuse ourselves and leave in disgust, but were quite amused when Dillon dragged Peter off again for the disco. Thompson managed a few of the lights, a short display of strobes and dancing running lights along the short stage. Dillon laughed uproariously again at the kitch and we were enjoying his delight. They were pleased to show the rest, despite the disrepair, after that.

  Sheffield had done quite an unusual job on the house itself, subdividing several of the second floor bedrooms into smaller, acoustically correct practice rooms. Since much of his music was techno or electronic, I didn’t see the point, but whatever, it wired the house totally. That left six usable bedrooms total on the top floor, all with their own bathrooms.

  �
�There are several outbuildings as well,” offered Edmington, hopefully, at the top of the stairs. “A small warehouse on the back road, several gardening sheds in several strategic places on the property, things like that.”

  “A warehouse?” I asked. “What’s that for?”

  “One of my uncle’s more successful business ventures,” Thompson said, bounding down the stairs. “In the late Eighties, he started an Internet music ship-to-home company here, specializing in a fairly hard-to-find catalog. He had extra lines for computers and everything. Kept it running for quite a few years.”

  That explained the extra wiring around the music rooms and why the closets seemed excessive on the second floor. This was starting to look good, but it would be a lot of work. Of course, I did have a lot of talented people standing around right now.

  “Your uncle certainly had interesting ideas of what to do to a house,” I said as we landed in the foyer again. “A lot of different styles everywhere.” Plastering a huge grin on my face, it was time to take a little light-hearted jab at my brother. “Peter, since you’ve banned me from the fuse box and the basement is the only area left, I’ll just wander around in back while y’all finish looking around.”

  “Okay, Seth,” Peter answered, rolling with it but suspicious. “Shouldn’t take but a few minutes to check out the utilities connections.” When my grin grew wider, he knew he was in trouble, but I disappeared down the hall too quickly for him to object. Jimmy wanted to follow me, but I wanted him with Peter and Dillon, just in case.

  The patio and small garden in the back was in as good a shape as the front porches, provincial and modest until the statuary. I didn’t understand Dillon’s reference to Hindu in that regard. It didn’t look particularly Indian to me, more Tom of Finland, which I thought a bit strange that I knew that, but the Guards’ knowledge was more varied than I expected.

  Easing Daybreak out, I sought the edges of the property lines. It wasn’t hard to differentiate the neighboring farmland from this one—they were tended. A lot of repair work on the fences was required. And Uncle Max stockpiled CDs in a few more buildings than they knew about. The more I saw of the hills surrounding us the more I liked the situation here. Fairly secluded from the city but less than an hour’s drive and the roads were reasonably new. We could probably bribe most of the neighboring farmers into complacency about deliveries to the warehouse by letting them stretch over onto the property and keep the bounty for themselves. I could even offer contracts to that affect.

  Magically, the area was pretty dull. No major ley lines passed through the property but there were a few nearby that would support those that needed it. I could always plant a few lodestones, if push came to shove, and start a cycle over the house or something.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called our New York attorneys for a recommendation to a London solicitor. After speaking with a junior partner for fifteen minutes and giving him specifics on what I needed, he promised to have a reputable attorney return my call within a half-hour. I hopped onto a rail to enjoy the bug noises in the dusk as they called to each other. Flood lights on the house and several garden lights popped into existence about ten minutes later, so Peter must have figured out the power system finally.

  “Damn, it’s hot down there,” Dillon complained, leading the way onto the patio. Peter was directly behind him and headed determinedly for me.

  Leaning on the rail I sat on, he said with great confidence, “You… are a bastard.” I started howling, looking to see him covered in dust and grime. He grinned at me as he shook the dust off in my direction as if the breeze would dump it onto me. “And we’ve been here forever. You like this place.”

  “Eh, more like it’s the best of our best three choices,” I said, trying to be noncommittal. “It’ll come down to price, I think. I’m not paying their asking price, that’s outrageous, especially considering the condition and size of the house. Maybe if they paid for the renovations to our specifications, including some gold-plated doorknobs. Thompson will have to come down considerably, but I think he will.”

  Edmington’s cell phone chimed in his pocket. Excusing himself from the table where everyone else had gathered, he stepped into the house to take the call. Mine rang a few moments later from an unknown number, putting Peter immediately on edge.

  “Pete, calm down,” I said and answered the call.

  “Mr. McClure?” the man asked. “My name is Ryan Davis of Hilliard Brothers of London. Seymour Steadman of New York referred me to you regarding a Real Estate emergency?”

  Laughing I said, “I don’t think I’d call it an emergency, exactly, Mr. Davis, just that we need to move quickly for many different reasons and are in need of a legal agent since we’re not exactly well versed on English law. As a group, we’re American, mostly from the US. And since our legal needs literally exploded in the US, I expect the same will be true here.”

  Davis chuckled lightly in a low tenor. “Seymour implied that this might be a test against future billings, yes. I am willing to make preparations on the property he’s described in your name as he’s requested, but you must understand that I can’t sign anything that promises or binds to any kind of monetary payment to a voice on a phone.”

  “Prudent,” I agreed. “Can you have contracts available by tomorrow, say one o’clock? I realize it’s terribly inconvenient, but that is why we pay for the best. I will provide an advance on services rendered and accounts to draw on should the purchase occur. I’ll have similar documents for you to sign regarding accountability on those accounts.”

  “Prudent, Mr. McClure,” he agreed. “And one o’clock is certainly enough time.” He gave me his office address and we disconnected.

  “We have a solicitor now,” I said to Peter lightly and started programming my phone with his name.

  “Really? Which firm?” Dillon asked from the table. Gossipy as he was, he probably knew a person or two on the bar. It might be worth hearing if he knows anything about them.

  “Mr. Davis mentioned the Hilliard Brothers of London,” I said, lifting myself off the concrete rail and swinging my legs back over to lean like Peter. “Nice enough fellow, seemed kind of young.

  “You got Ryan Davis of Hilliard’s? To call you?” he asked. “Why am I surprised? You don’t do small.”

  “Yes, he does,” Jimmy disagreed, chuckling. “He just does a lot of them.” Dillon and he shared a chuckle for a moment, earning them both a short glare from us. Thompson just watched in confusion, but luckily for him, Edmington chose that time to return.

  “That was an interesting phone call,” he told Thompson with a small smile. “It seems we have a bid on the house from an American company.”

  “What? But we haven’t shown it or anything,” said a shocked Thompson.

  “Actually, I think we just did,” Edmington said, looking at me. “I suppose Mr. Davis’ office is representing you?”

  “And apparently responding very quickly,” I said nodding and impressed, as I was supposed to be, but it’s possible Davis didn’t know I was still there. “We’ll provide you with a written bid by tomorrow along with a list of our considerations in making that number. I trust Mr. Davis or his associate made some of those points known? There was so little time during my conversation with my attorney in New York.”

  “His associate made several,” Edmington said seriously, trying to take a lighter tone. “Even added a few himself, I’d say. I hadn’t thought any of you were paying that kind of attention to detail. Ken and I will discuss it.”

  “That’s all we can ask,” I said. “We should be going.”

  “Ah, man! I don’t get to run through the woods?” Jimmy whined.

  “This is what happens when you take hillbillies out of the hills,” Peter said grinning.

  “Tell you what, Jimmy, if we have to make a second bid against their counteroffer, we’ll come in with a survey crew and a housing inspector for a proper estimate.” I consoled him with bribes now and wielded petty threats
at the same time, how very Fae of me. Peter swatted me in the side but Jimmy jumped from the table excitedly, expecting them to turn the offer down. I felt it was a fair offer and from what I got from Edmington, so did he, but it didn’t feel right to press in on him to see more than a vague emotion.

  “Come on, Dillon, I promised you dinner for driving,” Peter said, extending his hand to Thompson in the process, he continued, “Ken, Geoffrey, a pleasure and a fascinating tour. Your uncle was an interesting person who led a curiously disturbing life. We can only hope he was happy.” Thompson laughed without knowing why, but believing Peter completely and taking some joy from it. We followed Peter out through the house, shaking hands and saying good-byes with both men. Dillon got off the parting shot.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourselves, gents,” Dillon said smoothly. “Those two are dangerously disarming together. Separately, they’re just dangerous. You never had a chance.”

  “Dillon!” I shouted impatiently down the hall, more to cover Jimmy’s snickering and stifle my own than to rush him. He trotted in behind Jimmy, laughing at his own joke.

  “I’m gonna get that printed on the back of their calling cards!” Jimmy whispered to Dillon as they bounded down the steps together. “I have a craving for ribs. You guys have a place to get a slab of BBQ pork ribs?”

  “You start that stupid song and I’ll strand you in New Mexico,” I warned him, shrugging off my jacket. I didn’t need a TV commercial going through my head all night. “I would prefer it if we could arrange something that is close to or passes by 712 Deighton Road.”

  “Bishop’s office?” Peter asked as Dillon consulted a London map. “Why do you want to look for that?”

  “Seems my new solicitor is on the same road several blocks down. I thought it might be a good idea to take a look at it before dropping by in the morning,” I said.

  “That does seem a bit coincidental,” Peter agreed.

  “Even more puzzling, though,” Dillon said, looking up from his map. “Deighton Road starts at twelve hundred.”