The Harry Starke Series Books 4 -6: The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set 2 (The Harry Starke Novels - The Boxed Sets)

by Blair Howard

  “Mrs. Tyler wanted to be sure you were provided for in the short term. She came to me in 2000 and had me purchase certificates of deposit in your name in the amount of $500,000. They are in this box, as are copies of the bank statements. Also in the box is the deed to the Towers, the hotel in Maine. She gifted that to you at the same time, to avoid death taxes and probate. You’ve owned it for more than fifteen years,” he said, smiling.

  “The box also contains some odd personal items, jewelry and so forth: all gifts. Her instructions to me were that I place them directly into your hands, and I do so now.” He pushed the box across the table to her.

  “None of the contents of the box are subject to probate. You are free to cash the CDs and do what you will with the money. It should be enough to tide you over during the probate process.” He looked keenly at me as he said that last remark.

  I looked at Amanda. Her face had gone pale. Even she didn’t have control over that. I smiled inwardly. Couldn’t happen to anyone nicer.

  “Her will is quite specific. After probate, the entire estate goes to you. Her one request is that you read this letter and carry out her instructions with regard to the Towers. She did make it plain to me that whether or not you carry them out is entirely up to you. Should you decide not to do so, there are no penalties. You may keep or dispose of it as you wish.” He handed the letter to her.

  “You say the hotel isn’t generating much income,” I said. “How is it continuing to operate?”

  “I’m afraid I can answer questions only directly from Ms. Cole.”

  “Oh answer the question and don’t be such an ass,” Amanda said, frustrated.

  He looked more than a little put out, but said, “I apologize. Ms. Cole’s grandmother has been subsidizing operations and maintenance for many years. I myself have not seen the place, only photographs, some of which you’ll find inside the box. Now, would you like a few moments alone to read the letter?”

  She sat very still for a moment, took the envelope from him, and nodded.

  “Very well, then. I’ll leave you alone for, shall we say….” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes?”

  Again, she nodded, and he left.

  “Oh… my… God. Harry.” Nineteen million. She mouthed the words.

  I put my arm around her and pulled her to me. She laid her head on my shoulder, just for a minute, then sat upright and opened the envelope. I moved my chair a little closer so I could read over her shoulder.

  My Dear Amanda,

  By now you will have learned that, among other things, you are the proud owner of a rather large and very old hotel on the coast of Maine­­—near Little Machias. I say “proud” facetiously, for I certainly never was proud of it myself. And I may say that by dumping it on you I am not doing you any favors. That being said, I suppose you should at least have an idea of what you’re getting into.

  It’s a strange old house, remote and, in many ways, beautiful. I have also found it to be a bit frightening. It’s been in the family since 1889. It was the family home until my father turned it into a hotel in 1929. I was born there, but I don’t remember living there. My mother hated the place, hated Maine, couldn’t stand the cold. We were quite well off, so my father hired a manager and we came south to Macon. I inherited it when he died in 1985. In fact, I visited it only a few times during all the years I’ve owned it. I don’t think your mother ever visited it. It was an albatross, and unlucky. I never felt comfortable within its walls. Silly me, yes, of course. But it does have a rather checkered history. My great-grandmother, Elizabeth Miles, disappeared there, and my great-grandfather’s second wife Georgina threw herself off the cliffs, and as I said, I hated to set foot in the place. It’s not profitable. It never has been. I tried to sell it, but I couldn’t get what I thought it was worth. The current manager has been there for almost thirty-five years. His name is Arthur Strong. He’s a nice man. His wife, Mary, is nice too. You’ll like them both.

  You may wish to sell the house. I can’t stop you, of course, nor would I want to. But before you do, I would ask that you at least try to solve the mystery of what happened to Elizabeth—I don’t think she ran away—and why Georgina committed suicide, if that’s indeed what she did. Maybe that boyfriend of yours can help. He is, after all, a detective. The rest of my estate will more than compensate you for the task I have set you.

  Goodbye Amanda. I wish I could have known you better. That said, I do love you very much, and I hope you will have a long and happy life. Tell Harry hello for me.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Madge

  Amanda looked at me. Her eyes were watering. “Oh, Harry. I so wish I’d spent more time with her. I feel like such a piece of shit. She always loved me, was always pleased to see me. She called me now and again. I was always too damned busy to spend much time talking to her. How could I have been such a total ass?”

  I put my arm around her. “Hey, it’s okay.” There were tears on her cheeks. “She knew. She knew you had a busy life, and I’m sure she understood. She knew you loved her.”

  “Oh God, Harry. I wish I could do it over.”

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  “You know I will.”

  She lifted the lid on the box, looked inside, sniffed, then closed it again. “We’ll wait till we get home and go through it together.”

  “Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

  “Yes, but it can wait.”

  There was a knock at the door. It opened slightly, and Duckworthy poked his head in.

  “Sorry to disturb you. Are you done?”

  Amanda nodded, taking a tissue from her clutch and wiping her eyes.

  “Very well then,” Duckworthy said as he sat down again. “There are some papers for you to sign.” He picked up one of the piles and placed it in front of her. “The places where I’ll need your signature are all indicated by the colored tabs. Please read before you sign. If you have questions, I’m here to help.”

  Amanda didn’t read, nor did she ask questions. She signed each piece of paper with a flourish, barely taking the time to flip through them. She was done in less than two minutes and then she pushed the papers toward him.

  He was looking a little put out again. “Don’t you want to know what you’re signing?”

  “Would it make a difference?”

  “Well… no. Not really.”

  “Then there’s no point, is there.”

  He shrugged, looked at her, seemingly perplexed, then at me, then back at her. “No. I suppose not.” He gathered up the papers and put them into his briefcase.

  “I will of course handle the probate process for you. Mrs. Tyler has already paid my fees for that. Now, is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Cole?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked. “If so, perhaps I could have the name.”

  “I do. August Starke of Chattanooga.”

  I blinked at her. When did that happen?

  August Starke is my father. He’s a lawyer, a very good one—and a very wealthy one. Over the past half dozen years or so he’s become one of the country’s foremost specialists in tort law. To date he’s handled five successful major class-action suits. The last one, a pharmaceutical suit, he settled just two months ago, winning almost a billion dollars for his clients, and he has three more working. He’s one serious litigator, but he’s also a fun kind of guy, and a hell of a golfer.

  “August Starke…?” Duckworthy looked at me, and the light came on. “Oh…. You’re Harry Starke.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t mention—well, of course you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Starke. Had I realized….”

  “Had you realized, you wouldn’t have been such an ass?” I said it with a smile, and without malice. He smiled sheepishly at me.

  “Quite right. Quite right. I know your father rather well. In f
act we’ve worked together, several times, and what a pleasure it was. He’s a fine, fine lawyer. I’m also familiar with your own reputation, Mr. Starke. The name just didn’t click. No matter, I now know I can rest easy knowing Ms. Cole is in good hands. Now,” he said lightly. “I have something I’d like to talk to you about, if you have just a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s about the Towers. Your grandmother did try to sell it, as I told you, and I was wondering if you would be open to offers?”

  She looked at me, her eyebrows raised. I nodded.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t even seen the place yet. What did you have in mind?”

  “I have a business partner up in Boston. He’s a real estate developer, specializes in resort properties. He’s seen the place and, while we couldn’t offer the appraised value, we could make what he considers to be a very fair offer.” He looked first at Amanda, then at me, then again at her.

  “Go on,” she said.

  He hesitated.

  “What did it appraise for?” I asked.

  “A little more than $2 million. $2.1 million to be exact.”

  “And your offer is?” I asked.

  He took a deep breath, then said, “I can offer $750,000. Oh please,” he said, holding up a finger to stop Amanda’s retort. “Let me explain. First, the place is in a terrible state of disrepair. Second, my partner thinks we can turn it into an exclusive getaway… a golf resort, but the investment for such a project would be monumental. As it stands the hotel is a money pit. You would be better off without it. Please don’t say anything right now. Go and look the place over. I’m sure you’ll agree. My offer will remain open until you decide what you want to do.”

  I looked at Amanda. She had that hard-nosed look on her face, the one I knew so well, but she nodded and rose to her feet. Duckworthy showed us out.

  “So, what did you think of him?” Amanda asked as walked out onto the street.

  “My first impression? Sleaze, but I amended that to sharp. Actually, maybe that’s not the right word. August is sharp, but he’s honest. This guy… well, I have a feeling he wouldn’t be beyond a little shady dealing.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I didn’t like him. He was an ass.” She paused, glanced at me. “And what did you think of his offer?”

  “I think he’d be willing to pay more.”

  “Hm. Yes, I think so too.”

  Chapter 4

  We left Atlanta and drove straight home to my place. Amanda was in no mood for small talk, or much else, so we didn’t stop to eat even though I was starving. It was almost five o’clock when we got home.

  Once inside, Amanda went straight into the den and made several phone calls—to whom I had no idea, but I was sure I’d soon find out. In the meantime, I made coffee, Hawaiian Kona Reserve. No K-cups this time. I used the French press: two tablespoons of coffee to each six ounces of purified water at 200 degrees­­—yes, I use a thermometer. I made a full press, enough for two cups each.

  "I just called Arthur Strong,” Amanda said, dumping herself onto the sofa beside me. “He seems quite nice, at least over the phone. I told him I was going to visit soon. He sounded pleased. Wanted to know when. I told him I’d call him back, probably later this week. You’ll come with me, right?”

  “How long are you planning to go for?”

  “I’ve asked to take two weeks of my vacation time,” she said. “Can you get some time off too?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, sarcastically. “I can do that. I can drop everything and just take off. Amanda, I have a business to run. People are depending on me. We have more than three dozen ongoing cases—”

  “Oh stop it,” she said, laughing. “You do just as you please. You know you do, and besides, you have Jacque and Bob. If you dropped dead tomorrow, things would go on just as before. Now think about it.” She placed her hand on top of mine. “Please, Harry. I want you to go with me.”

  Well, she was right, of course. Between us, Jacque, Bob, and I had turned my one-man company into a model of efficiency. They could get along without me, for a little while, at least. The trouble was, I hated to admit that, and I hated to turn it loose. I liked my hands-on approach. I…. Excuses, Harry. Excuses!

  I looked at her. She had her lower lip stuck out. Her eyes were wide and pleading. Damn. How am I supposed to say no to that?

  I couldn’t. I sighed, shook my head, then said, “Okay. Let me fix it with Jacque and Bob. When do you want to leave? You’re not planning on driving, I hope?”

  “No, of course not. At least, not all the way. I thought we might fly into Boston, rent a car, and enjoy the drive up the coast.”

  “Hmmm. That’s sounds like a plan…. Wait, I might have something better. Let me call August.”

  She nodded, her eyes narrowed quizzically.

  I hit his number on speed dial—he answered just as quickly. “Hey, Dad,” I said, “what’s up?”

  “What do you want, Harry? I’m kinda busy.”

  “Yeah, me too. Listen. Did I hear you right the other day? Are you leaving for New York sometime this week?”

  “I am. On Wednesday. Why?”

  “I thought Amanda and I might join you. I’d like to see that new Gulfstream.”

  “It’s not new. It’s used. It’s three years old. And yes, you can come along if you like. What did you have in mind?”

  “Ah, it’s a long story. Short version: Amanda has just become Maine’s newest hotelier. We’re planning to go up there and visit. New York would be a good jumping-off point.”

  “Fine. I need to leave early Wednesday morning. I have a meeting on Wall Street at eleven thirty. Shall we say seven, at Lovell Field?” I had him on speaker, so I looked at Amanda. She nodded.

  “Seven is good. I’ll see you before then, I hope.”

  “Lunch at the country club tomorrow, both of you. Bye, Harry.” He disconnected. I shrugged, then grinned at her and sat back in my chair, my coffee cup cradled in both hands.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I was just going to say thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For opening my eyes, to a lot of things. The prospect that I might soon be losing you being number one.”

  “Awe, sweetie, you’re not going to lose me.” She looked at me sideways, a sly smile on her face. “And besides, I worked too hard snagging you.” She paused, sipped thoughtfully on her coffee, then said, “I mean it, Harry. I don’t want to lose you either. I… I love you very much.”

  Oh my God. Where the hell did that come from?

  I’d thought for a while that it might be coming, but it was a shock all the same, and I didn’t know what to say to her. I stared at her open-mouthed. Her eyes were wide and, for a moment, I remembered the day that she had taken me apart on air, now more than three years ago. Who would have thought it, that me and this amazing woman could have come so far?

  “Amanda….”

  “It’s all right, Harry. You don’t have to say anything. I know you love me too in your way. It will all come out right in the end.”

  She was right. I’d known I loved her since I almost lost her to Mary Hartwell. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself. Now here I was, seemingly on the verge of losing her again, and I didn’t like it worth a damn.

  “We need to go through the box, I suppose,” she said, picking it up from the coffee table in front of her. She set it on her knee and opened it. I turned toward her so that I could see too. It held several pieces of jewelry, including a lady’s gold watch and chain­­—Victorian, I assumed­­—three small silver boxes, all identical, and a much larger wooden box. There were also some papers, one of which was the deed to the Towers. Five were certificates of deposit, each for $100,000. Most of the rest were yellowed with age. There was also a small key ring with three tiny silver keys­­—for the watch, I assumed. Finally, on top of everything, there were two envelopes. One was sealed and had Amanda’s name written on it; the other had
the name Marjorie on it. Amanda picked up the one addressed to her, opened it, and began to read aloud.

  My Dear Amanda,

  These few things have been handed down through the family. Except for the letter to me from my mother, your great-grandmother, Sarah, from whom I inherited everything, they all originally belonged to John and Elizabeth Miles, your great-great-grandfather and mother. My mother passed away in 1946 at the age of fifty-three. I think her experiences at the Towers had much to do with her early death. How these things survived the journey through time I have no idea. Nor do I know what they all are or what they mean. The papers are, of course, self-explanatory. The small silver boxes each contain a polished stone. I have no clue as to what they might be or represent; probably just pretty things that once belonged to Elizabeth. The gold watch was also hers. The wooden box originally belonged to John Miles. When he passed away in 1929, Sarah found it among his things and kept it. Why, I don’t know, but it has since been passed down to the ladies of the family, and now to you. It is something of an enigma. To my knowledge, no one has ever been able to open it, if indeed it can be opened. As you can see it’s a work of art, but, as far as I can tell, there’s no way into it. No seams, no lock, nothing. Many times I’ve been tempted to smash it open, but I just couldn’t do it. One day I even took a hammer to it, but something stopped me before I could strike a blow. I can’t explain it. I even raised the hammer, but that was as far as I got. It was as if something was holding me back. I put the box away and haven’t touched it since, except to give it to Mr. Duckworthy. It all means something. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. Perhaps it holds the key to what happened to her, to Elizabeth. Perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s just a pretty box. I hope you and Harry have better luck with it than I did. Amanda, I hope you’ll look into it, the mystery of what happened to Elizabeth. Maybe she did just meet someone and run away, as John Miles always said, but I don’t think so. That’s not us, is it, Amanda? We’re all strong women, you more so than most.