As Hardy had predicted, the front door of the Cottage was open, and not so much as a squeak came from the well-oiled hinges, nor a peep from the dogs sleeping off the effects of their afternoon snack.
Flashlights and crowbars in hand, the two crept in their sneakers up the main stairway. They would require no tools of demolition, however. Hardy was in for a surprise to find the mysterious study unlocked. They entered the room, shined their lights around, and a minute later were ransacking the desk and its drawers for anything that might prove Brogan Tulloch a disinherited heir.
Their job was rendered immeasurably easier from the file labeled Letters to and from Brogan, which Loni had discovered earlier sitting on the writing desk in the middle of the room.
“This is what we need!” said Jimmy Joe, rifling through the file. “Letters from the old man to his wayward boy. Ought to tell us what we want to know.”
He eased his large frame into one of the chairs with the file in his hand. “You take half of ’em,” he said, handing Hardy a stack. “See what you can find. You can read, can’t you, son?”
“’Course I can read. What do ye think we are, illiterates? Public education got its start in Scotland.”
“Don’t get your dander up. Just asking.”
After an hour, they had found nothing of value.
“Well, no matter,” said Jimmy Joe. “I’ll take a couple of these from the boy and the carbon the father left of his. I’ll fly down to London and get one of my boys to work his magic. He could copy the Mona Lisa if he had to, and he’s even better with handwriting. I’ll be back in a week or less. You start spreading the news about the lady lying to the folks. When I show up, we’ll have ’em right where we want ’em.”
———
Meanwhile, in his Edinburgh office, Ross Thorburn was looking over some documents that had come to Mr. McLeod’s personal attention from the corporate headquarters in Houston. They outlined the restructuring of the company’s U.K. holdings whose details he had been reviewing earlier. This dossier came complete with a list of top personnel. His own name was nowhere to be seen.
The document one of his own men, with no allegiance to McLeod, had uncovered now made sense. He was being groomed to take the fall.
He seethed with silent fury. He had given the big blowhard ten years and had made him millions. If he thought he could cut him adrift now, after promising him that he would head up the expanded Shetland operation, he could think again.
Carefully he resealed the envelope with the same skill he had used many times to lay eyes on Jimmy Joe’s private correspondence.
In the meantime, he had to find a way to confront the man without divulging how much he knew.
68
Crisis in Whales Reef
WHALES REEF
No one in Whales Reef knew what it was about.
David was gone. No one had heard from him in a week. Their new American laird had not been seen nor heard from since her sudden disappearance a week and a half ago.
Word had begun circulating through the village last week—the origin of the report was uncertain—that a major change coming to Whales Reef would be announced at three o’clock Monday afternoon on the last day of July in the town square. It was a development that would affect every resident on the island. When it was known, it would be cause for universal jubilation. Far from the tidings of gloom and doom that had hung over the island for the year of doubt about the inheritance of Macgregor Tulloch, the forthcoming announcement would bring good news for all.
Speculation ran rampant. Rumors hinted in the direction of untoward mischief on the part of their new laird, who was not what she appeared to be. But all would be resolved when her lies were exposed.
As far as David’s role in the affair, speculation flew just as wild. Not that his work, especially in summer, did not regularly take him away from the island, sometimes for weeks. But someone always knew his whereabouts—either the Kerrs at the inn, or his aunt and uncle Tavis and Rinda Gunn, or the two Mathesons. On this occasion, however, they all professed themselves as bewildered by his sudden disappearance as everyone else. Theories ranged from despondency over not receiving the inheritance, to his being called upon to lead some tour at the last minute, to the more dubious notion that his disappearance and the laird’s were somehow connected and that David was party to the deception being perpetrated by the money-grubbing American.
The one man who gave the impression of knowing more than he was telling was Hardy Tulloch. The smile on his face and resumption of his confident gait from a month earlier indicated clearly enough that whatever was going on must involve favorable developments concerning his claim to Macgregor Tulloch’s inheritance. On the basis of the obvious pleasure he took watching the village work itself into a frenzy of perplexity, not a few were of the opinion that Hardy had started the rumor himself and that there was nothing to it whatsoever.
That did not stop every man, woman, and child on the island from being present when the fateful hour came. Fortunately there was no rain. Even the fishermen were on hand, their boats bobbing idly in the harbor.
The mill closed for the afternoon. The Whales Fin Inn emptied of patrons and owners, as did every shop and cottage on the island.
Even Saxe and Isobel Matheson, not known for participating in island affairs, were on hand, as much as anything to be able to give David a report upon his return. Dougal Erskine, however, remained out on the moor with the sheep.
As the crowd milled about in a buzz of anticipation, most, though for no tangible reason, expected David to appear. It was not their chief, however, but his braggart cousin and former claimant to the lairdship who jumped onto the bench at the foot of the monument when the appointed hour came.
“Welcome tae a’ o’ ye my frien’s an’ neighbors,” boomed Hardy. The square quickly settled down. “Ye’re wonderin’ what this meetin’ is a’ aboot, so I winna haud ye in suspense longer than necessary. I’m here tae introduce ye tae a frien’ o’ mine who’ll soon be a frien’ tae yersel’s as weel. He comes tae Whales Reef as the bearer o’ good news.”
As he was speaking, from behind the monument, hidden from most of the gathering where he had been waiting inside his rented SUV, a huge man walked around and stepped up beside Hardy. His hat and boots presented spectacle enough to send murmurs through the crowd. Those few residents who had previously encountered the man found themselves skeptical about the proceedings.
Hardy stepped down and again the throng quieted.
“How do, folks!” said Jimmy Joe effusively. “The name’s McLeod . . . Jimmy Joe McLeod. I hail from Texas, which I reckon most of you’ve heard of. My hat probably gave me away anyway, if my accent don’t!”
He paused, apparently waiting for laughter. None came.
“I’m a businessman,” he continued. “McLeod’s the name and oil’s my game is how I like to put it. And that’s what I’m doing in the Shetlands. I got some oil interests up north on the big island. What I’m mostly interested in is getting hold of land in these islands before the real boom hits, which it’s sure to do. I’ve been trying to buy up some of the ground on this island of yours because it looks like a way that you and me and all of us could make a pile of money. But when I talked to this lady of yours—what you call your new laird, the American gal called Ford—she turned me down flatter’n a June bug on a railroad track, if you know what I mean. I told her it’d make her a small fortune, and all you folks too. But she didn’t care about any of you. She must figure she’s got her dough, so what do any of you matter to her. She just said no and that was that.”
A few disgruntled murmurs spread about.
“Well, after I talked to my friend Hardy here, what did he tell me but that she ain’t the true heir of old Mr. Tulloch’s at all. He tells me that the court folks made a mistake and that’s he’s eventually going to be named the heir. He’s got his solicitor filing appeals with them folks at the probate court. But all that’s likely to take time to get sort
ed out, and meanwhile all you poor folks ain’t getting what’s coming to you and what you deserve. It don’t seem right the Ford lady can treat you that way. She ain’t been truthful to you good folks, and the way I hear it your own chief is in on it. They’re out to swindle you. That’s why I’m here, to try to help. So I figured why not tell you good people what’s going on so that you can tell the lady you don’t take kindly to her standing in your way of making a lot of money. You all need to tell her you don’t think what she’s doing is right.”
By now everyone was talking at once.
“But she’s the legal heir,” called out Keith Kerr, who was standing near the front of the crowd and one of the village’s acknowledged leaders in David’s absence. “I dinna see that anyone can change it.”
“I’ll grant you, partner, that she’s been named heir for the time being. But the question is whether it’s legal. Turns out I got evidence here proving it ain’t.”
With the words, he withdrew the fruit of his labors in one of the seedier parts of London. He held up a yellowed envelope.
“This here’s a letter,” he said, “that’s recently come to light and was written by Mr. Ernest Tulloch, dated almost eighty years ago. I reckon you all know the name.”
“We ken who he is weel enouch,” said Keith.
“Well then, partner, did you know that he cut off his son, Brogan, from all legal claims to any portion of his inheritance—and all his posterity with him?”
Jimmy Joe paused briefly to let his words sink in.
“In other words,” he went on, “no inheritance coming through his oldest boy is legal. This here’s proof that the Ford gal’s claim is sure to be overturned. What I’m fixing to do is give this letter to Mr. Tulloch here, and his solicitors will present it to the court, and that will be the end of your American laird. She’s nothing but an imposter.”
The whole crowd of villagers erupted into bedlam.
“So what I aim to do,” Jimmy Joe went on, raising his voice, “is get each of you who are occupants of property on the island to take one of these documents that Mr. Tulloch will distribute among you, and look ’em over and then sign ’em. I’ll be picking ’em up in another day or two. These are what’s called Letters of Intent, and they state your desire to lease your property from me and not her—once it’s in Mr. Tulloch’s and my hands, that is. These letters will show the Ford lady the will of the people, as we are fond of saying in America. By your signing these papers, she’ll know you ain’t pleased about her trying to take advantage of you behind your backs, and that you want her to do what’s right and let me take over your affairs without waiting for it to be dragged through the court all over again. By then your mill would likely be bankrupt and a lot of your people out of work. You gotta convince her to quit playing around.”
“If she owns oor places, like she does my hotel,” objected Keith again, “what good’s all yer papers?”
“It’ll show her she has to listen to you all. People have rights. They got the right not to be taken advantage of. If she won’t listen, and if you’re all behind me, heck, we’ll sue her pants off. Courts don’t look kindly on people’s rights getting taken advantage of. She’s going to lose the inheritance anyway once Mr. Tulloch’s solicitors get hold of this letter. Then he’s going to sell to me. All I’m saying is that the longer you have to wait, the more likely it is that your mill has to close and you all don’t get what’s rightly coming to you.”
By now the crowd was abuzz like a hive of angry wasps, still not sure what to make of what the big man was saying.
“What I got in mind,” Jimmy Joe said, raising his voice, “is for you to sign these Letters of Intent. Then I’ve also had a petition drawn up nice and legal for you to sign as well. The petition demands that she relinquish the inheritance and lists your rights she’s violating. She’s going to lose it all anyway. This letter”—he held high the yellow envelope—“cuts her off from any claim to property on Whales Reef. Here it is signed in Ernest’s own hand, saying no future son or daughter or great-granddaughter can come along later and claim any part of his inheritance. It’s what they call legally binding. It’s proof that the lady’s inheritance ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”
By now Jimmy Joe could hardly be heard over the hullabaloo.
“We gotta force her to give up the inheritance before she finds herself in court, where she’s going to lose,” he shouted over the din. “If it’s signed by everyone in the community, this petition is the kind of thing the court looks at to see if people’s rights are being violated.”
“Why should we care who owns oor hooses?” asked Coira MacNeill, “or my bakery or Keith’s hotel? Why should I sign a letter sayin’ I want a lease wi’ yersel’. I ken naethin’ aboot ye?”
Nods and looks of confusion broke out in Coira’s vicinity.
“Because I’m the one who’s going to share the wealth of the island with you all.”
“How ye goin’ tae do that?” insisted Coira.
“The first thing you’ll notice on that paper is that when the lease on that bakery of yours gets turned over to me, your rent will be lowered by twenty-five percent on the very first day. It ain’t just an empty promise—you can see it right here in black and white. Show ’em the papers, Hardy. Let ’em see for themselves.”
Those closest to Hardy clamored forward. He handed out several sheets. Keith Kerr stepped through the crowd and took one of the Letters of Intent. The crowd quieted and waited. They knew Keith was incapable of speaking an untrue word. A moment later he looked up and glanced around.
“He’s right,” said Keith. “It says it right here: ‘twenty-five percent reduction in current rent.’”
Murmurs of approval spread through the crowd.
“You’ll also notice that it calls it a lease of indefinite duration,” said Jimmy Joe. “That means you got the right to stay in your places for as long as you want. I can’t evict you or sell your places to anyone else who can evict you. So long as you pay your rent on time every month, nobody can do a thing to you.”
“Every month? We pay six months at a time,” interjected Coira again.
“I like to get these things taken care of monthly. Same amount—you just pay one month at a time instead of having to come up with a big chunk twice a year. Better for you that way. Ain’t it worth the lower rent to pay me on the first of every month?”
A few nods went around.
“These letters also promise that I’ll take care of all maintenance and upgrades needed. All you gotta do is come to ol’ Jimmy Joe and he’ll take care of you.”
“The laird already did that,” said Keith, still skeptical.
“And I’ll keep doing it, partner! The best is that when you sign on the dotted line like we say, and sign this here petition, the minute your Ford lady transfers title to me, you’ll get a personal check from me for five hundred pounds. I’ll write you the check now—you just hang on to it. Sorta like a pledge between you and me. When the deal goes through, it’s five hundred pounds cash in your pocket. Heck, you’d likely get your whole first year’s rent for free! That’s the kind of man I am.”
At last arose shouts of approval.
“It’s what in the business world we call a win-win deal—for you and for me.”
“Why would ye do all this for us?” persisted Keith.
“’Cause I’ve taken a mighty keen liking to your little island, partner. I figure I’d like to help you folks. So you all take one of these letters from your friend Hardy and you look them over, and I’ll be back in two days to collect them. Then we’ll put it to the lady to see if she’s really looking out for you or only for herself. Soon as I’m back I’ll write every person whose name is on this list a check for five hundred pounds as a deposit on your house or land, payable when the Ford gal agrees to do the right thing by you all. You get her to agree, and you can put that cash in the bank.”
69
Aborted Plans
LON
DON
Had David possessed an inkling of the chaotic turn of events erupting on Whales Reef during his absence, he would not have postponed his return flight and lingered in Washington, D.C., with Loni, touring the city and the Capitol building and visiting the presidential monuments. Nor would he have planned three days in London.
After touching down at Heathrow, David had lined up a full itinerary for the two American ladies, including Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera in the West End, and as much of London as they could cram into three days. His plans were aborted, however, the moment they left airport customs. Activating his mobile phone for the first time since departing for the States, he found half a dozen frantic messages awaiting him from Jason MacNaughton. He immediately telephoned the solicitor in Lerwick.
“Jason . . . David Tulloch.”
“David, am I glad to hear from you! Where are you calling from?”
“Heathrow—just got in.”
“Did you manage to make contact with Miss Ford?”
“I did. Your help in locating her grandparents was spot-on. She’s here with me, in fact.”
“In London?”
“She and I flew over together.”
“That is good news. The two of you need to get home immediately. There is mischief afoot on the island.”
“What kind of mischief?”
“Your friend Hardy and a Texan by the name of McLeod are inciting the people against you and Miss Ford.”
“What!” exclaimed David, motioning to Loni, where she and Maddy stood nearby looking into one of the airport shops. She came and stood beside him. David turned on the speaker of his small phone. They huddled closer so they could hear amid the surrounding hubbub.
“I would never have learned of it had it not been for Dickie Sinclair,” Jason was saying. “I believe you met him.”
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