Savannah Secrets

Getting into her old Jeep Cherokee, Meredith prepared to go into Mom mode. It wasn’t easy juggling home and the office, especially now that Tom was gone.

She swallowed and gunned the engine, reminding herself that her ten- and eight-year-old sons, Mick and Zack, were her priority. This was no time for tears. The kids needed her. And she needed them.

It was all they had left.

After she’d read the boys a good-night story, turned off the lights and walked down the staircase of the lovely antebellum home she and Tom had dreamed of, saved for, then bought, depression set in. During the day Meredith had so much to do that she barely allowed herself time to think. Work at the office was all-consuming and the kids’ schedule was packed with extracurricular activities that had her running from Little League practices to soccer games. She always had dinner to prepare and homework to finish, and although she’d never thought she’d enjoy math, she’d found herself delving into the intricacies of multiplication and long division with zeal, dreading the moment when it would be time to say “bedtime,” and she’d find herself wandering around the house alone with only her memories for company.

Turning on the TV in the den, she glanced absently at the time. Nine-thirty. It was still too early to sleep. Maybe she should call her mother. But then she remembered it was bridge night and Clarice and John Rowland would be out. It was too late to call Elm in Ireland and everyone else was busy, watching TV with their husbands, discussing the day’s activities. They didn’t need to listen to her whining on the phone, or worse, weeping.

She flopped onto the aged moss-green sofa next to Macbeth, the family’s golden Lab. Actually he’d been Tom’s. Swallowing the knot in her throat again, Meredith stroked the dog between its ears, determined to keep her emotions under control. Faithful old Mac was getting really ancient now. She simply couldn’t bear it if he went, too.

Meredith flipped the channels on the remote, unable to concentrate on any of the programs. She’d always followed current affairs and both local and international politics, but now she didn’t care what was happening in the Middle East or in Washington, or even here in Savannah. All she now knew was the loneliness of the empty space on the couch next to her.

For the thousandth time since learning of the freak boating accident off the coast of Georgia the year before, Meredith railed at the injustice of his death. Why him? Why them? With so many unhappy people about, why did such tragedy have to befall her Tom?

She took a deep breath and willed herself to stop this railing at fate that served no purpose.

After several more minutes she switched off the television impatiently and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea. Maybe she should go over Rowena’s will again and compile some notes for her conference call tomorrow with the New York detective agency so she’d be sure to gather all the information she could on James G. Gallagher, presumptive heir.

Taking a sip of the hot brew, she sat at the old pine table she and Tom had picked up by chance at a yard sale. However hard she tried, it was impossible not to feel his presence everywhere, to make believe that if she closed her eyes then opened them she’d find that it was all a bad dream, that Tom was right here, calling to her from the top of the stairs for something he’d forgotten.

A slim, sad, yet determined figure in her ancient sweats and Tom’s old sweatshirt, she opened her briefcase and donned her glasses. Handling Rowena’s bequests would help fill some of the emptiness.

An hour later, she closed the file and stretched. Then, after thoroughly checking all the doors and windows and switching off the downstairs lights, she made her way up to check on the kids. She scooped up a fallen duvet, and tucked Zack’s dangling leg back under the covers. Then she entered her bedroom and undressed, catching a glimpse of herself in the long cheval mirror that had belonged to her grandmother.

Looking thin and tired, her eyes stared dully back at her. Her skin needed a treatment and her hair looked terrible. She dragged her fingers through it and grimaced, realizing she must make time to go to the salon. She had to appear presentable at the office and for the kids, even if she really didn’t give a damn.

Pulling on a pair of Tom’s old pajamas, Meredith got into bed and huddled under the covers. Maybe she’d try to read awhile. She flipped through the Savannah News, but after ten minutes she gave up and, turning off the bedside lamp, sank wearily into the pillows. And then, despite every effort not to, she did what she did every night and gave way to the unshed tears that had haunted her all day.

A few minutes later she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Thank God she was too tired to dream.

So Rowena Carstairs was finally dead.

On the one hand, the news filled him with relief. On the other, her passing encapsulated the passage of time, a reminder of just how many years had gone by since that long-ago night when…

Better not remember that.

The problem was, he’d never known if Rowena knew or had guessed what had happened. Had Isabel kept quiet all those years? Rowena had never asked him about it. Not in so many words. But sometimes he’d wondered. Rowena had been a strange old woman. There was no telling what she knew. One thing was certain, though. She’d always made him feel uncomfortable.

It wasn’t anything she did or said, rather an indefinable uneasiness that crept over him whenever she was present. Then again, that might just be his conscience pricking him. At least now he could finally breathe easy, knowing she was six feet under. Well, would be in a few days, he corrected.

Somehow the idea that Rowena still lay in the morgue sent shivers down his back. All at once he thought of Miss Mabella, the famous voodoo priestess whom Rowena made no secret of visiting.

He shifted in the deck chair, telling himself not to be ridiculous, then deliberately turned the page of the Savannah News where they’d dedicated two full pages to her obituary.

Instead, he chose to read the sports page.

2

“So what do we know about our heir?” Meredith asked Detective Garcia on the other end of the line.

“Actually, quite a lot. The guy’s in all the papers.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head curiously.

“Yeah, he’s Grant Gallagher.”

“I thought his name was James,” she answered impatiently.

“James Grant. He goes by his second name. And what I meant, ma’am, is that he is the Grant Gallagher, you know, the corporate raider who took over Bronstern’s last year? Remember all that fuss in the news? From what I read, he made a killing.”

“Good Lord.” Meredith’s brows flew up. “But the man’s a thief and a bloodhound.” She sat up straighter and, in her usual fashion, tipped her glasses.

“Well, I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Others might say he’s a mighty smart businessman who knows how to make a buck.”

“With absolutely no regard for those he bulldozes along the way,” Meredith replied witheringly. “Somebody should haul him to jail for what he does. Now, you’re absolutely certain you’ve got the right man?”

“Yes, ma’am. No doubt at all.”

“I’ll want DNA samples.”

“We already got ’em. Our fellow in London got a hair off Gallagher’s coat when he was dining in some fancy restaurant. Slipped some dough to the coat-check gal.”

“Oh.” Meredith blinked, taken aback. By any measure, without the man’s consent, that constituted a major invasion of privacy. “I see. Well, maybe we should have a second authorized sample. Anyway, send me the complete file and I’ll deal with contacting him.”

“Sure will. Anything else we can do, just give me a call.”

“Thanks, Detective, I will.”

Meredith hung up, dazed by this latest news. Grant Gallagher. The press usually fawned over him, writing about his meteoric rise to fame and fortune, skipping over the fact that he’d damaged the lives of countless employees. He was the worst sort of corporate raider, buying up companies only to destroy them as he sold off their parts for a profit. And now one hundred million dollars was about to fall into his sleazy, undeserving lap.

“I can’t let this happen,” she muttered, a picture of Dallas biting her nails over the foreclosure papers forming in her mind. “It’s just not fair.”

She reread a letter from the convent in Switzerland where the adoption had taken place thirty-eight years earlier. It was dated about ten years ago, which must have been about the time Rowena had hired the detective agency to track down her grandson. She had no doubt of the letter’s authenticity. Now, as she perused it again, she wondered why it had taken Rowena so long to initiate the search.

Even as she asked herself the question, she realized it wasn’t her place to query her client’s motives. But what about Dallas? Somehow she had to do something for the girl. She would come up with a plan, she vowed. But first, despite her natural reluctance, she must follow the will’s directives, contact Gallagher and inform him of this windfall. She shuddered.

The next morning, after shuttling the kids off to school, Meredith got to the office as early as possible, hoping something in the files on her desk would present a solution for Dallas.

“Good morning.” Tracy poked her head around the door and smiled. “May I?”

“Please, come on in. You’ll never believe who the Carstairs heir is,” she said with a huff.

“You told me. James G. Gallagher, whoever he is.” Tracy sat down opposite. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks. And by the way, he goes by the name of Grant Gallagher. Mean anything?”

“Sounds familiar.” Tracy’s brow creased.

“Of course it does. Remember at the beginning of last year, that Bronstern takeover up east? All those families put out of work?” she inquired, brows drawn together in a distressed frown. “It was Grant Gallagher who put the whole thing together. Just marched in there, cleaned shop and sent all the jobs overseas. Claimed outsourcing was in the shareholders’ best interests. He couldn’t have cared less about the people who’d given their lives to the company. He just wanted to fill his goddamn pocketbook. It made me sick.”

“Wow! And you mean to tell me that he’s the heir to Rowena’s hundred million?” Tracy’s eyes popped and she let out a huff. “Jeez, it’s not like he even needs the money.”

“Exactly. Now you understand why I’m not too thrilled at having to contact the guy about his windfall. Which, by the way, brings me to what I wanted to ask you. I really can’t leave town right now. The kids are involved in so many activities. Zack has that dental treatment coming up. I was wondering whether you wouldn’t—”

“Don’t even think about it.” Tracy raised her hand like a vigilant traffic cop. “I’m tied up to the gills in the Fairbairn affair.”

Meredith was about to protest, then let out a sigh. It was true that Tracy was carrying an impossibly heavy load. Plus, deep down, she knew the duty was hers. “Okay,” she said, a sigh escaping her as she scooped up the papers. “I guess I’ll have to get on with it. Maybe I can avoid a trip. I’ll write him first and pave the way. There are a couple addresses in the file.”

“That’s a good start. Send Mr. Gallagher a registered letter requesting a conference call. Don’t go into too much detail in writing.” Tracy rose and paused at the door. “By the way, have you told the others?”

“Not yet,” Meredith answered in a hollow voice.

“And what about Dallas? She still refusing to leave Providence?”

“Yep. She’s refusing to come to the reading of the will. She’s playing the proud princess, saying she doesn’t care. She’s already told me that she wouldn’t touch Rowena’s money, anyway—not that she knows what kind of money we’re talking about, of course. It’s unfair that she stands to lose so much and that such a creature will inherit what he can’t possibly need. I can’t fathom why Rowena would do this, I really can’t,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I just wish I wasn’t the executor of the will and could advise Dallas to contest.”

“Hardly appropriate,” Tracy murmured, sucking in her cheeks, as she was prone to do. “Dallas is a strong-willed young woman. She’ll live. It’s a pity her father left quite a bit of debt when he died several months ago. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Doug Thornton did indeed leave her that,” Meredith said, nodding. “Which makes this decision of Rowena’s even more unacceptable.”

“Honey, I haven’t the faintest idea why she did this, but knowing your client I’d bet big money there’s a good reason. Maybe you should visit Dallas and see Doug’s stud farm in the process. Beautiful place, apparently,” she added. Then, glancing at the file in her hand, she murmured, “Thought at all about what approach you’ll take with Gallagher?”

“No, I have not.” Meredith bristled. “I’ll wait for him to reply to my letter first. Until then I’ll concentrate on the Carstairs gang.” She grimaced. “The meeting’s set up for this afternoon.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it. Don’t be surprised if I end up in Intensive Care.”

“Because of Joanna, you mean?” Tracy wiggled a brow expressively. “Don’t worry. If Rowena’s niece acts up, I’ll be down the hallway.”

“Nice thought, old buddy,” Meredith grinned, “but you don’t really believe the Carstairs crowd would lower themselves to coming to this modest office, do you?”

“No, probably not.” She chuckled. “So where is the meeting?”

“Rowena’s town house. She wanted it that way.”

“Jesus. Talk about turning the knife in the wound,” Tracy exclaimed. “Hasn’t Joanna believed for years that she was going to inherit that place?”

“Don’t remind me.” Meredith gave a hollow laugh.

“Well, call if you need me to send in the National Guard.”

“I’ll be fine.” Meredith gave a thumbs-up. Trace really could be counted on. But right now what she needed was someone to take Zack to the dentist later today. First braces, she thought with a sigh, lifting the phone and dialing her mother in the hopes that Clarice Rowland would be able to help her out. Only God knew how long the meeting might last.

“What do you mean we’re to get nothing?!” Joanna Carstairs Lamont blanched, her surgically lifted features tightening with rage. “We are the rightful heirs. Each and every one of us is owed a share of that money,” she insisted, waving her index finger wildly. “Surely you’ve got it wrong, Meredith.”

“Look, I had nothing to do with this, okay? I’m sorry you’re all disappointed. I really can’t tell you why Rowena structured her will as she has, since I didn’t draft it. But it’s all here, and her wishes are quite clear.”

She glanced round the exquisitely appointed drawing room, knowing as she glimpsed at their pale, stunned faces what a blow this must be.

“But we have rights,” Joanna spluttered. “Charles, say something, for Christ’s sake, don’t just sit there like a beached whale. My God. This is a disaster.” She sank heavily into a deep chintz armchair and muttered under her breath.

“I’m sure something can be done about it.” Charles, a middle-aged well-to-do doctor, swallowed uneasily. He hoped he sounded convincing—he was still absorbing the shock of the announcement and its implications. In a few short sentences Meredith had blighted his most cherished dream.

“Surely the will could be contested?” Patricia, Rowena’s youngest half sister, a pious, soberly attired widow of seventy, replied, eyeing her son Ward, who was humming quietly to himself, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“That’s certainly within your rights,” Meredith responded carefully, “but I must caution you that there would be serious consequences if your challenge failed. There is a clause here to the effect that anyone who sees fit to contest the will loses his or her right to the income of the trust she set up for you a few years ago.”

“The bitch!” Joanna screeched. “The goddamn bitch! I should have guessed that she would double-cross us and done something about it while she was still alive.”

“You certainly tried.” Charles eyed her coldly. “In fact, I distinctly remember you asking me to be part of the team that would certify her insanity.”

“You did what?” Meredith asked, looking from one to the other. It was her turn to be shocked. “Rowena may have been eccentric but she was anything but crazy. Anyway,” she continued, flipping through the paperwork and pointing to several documents, “she seems to have planned for that contingency. She had several medical examinations certifying the state of her health before she wrote this final will.”

“But it’s outrageous.” Joanna rounded on Charles, her chin jutting out defiantly. “And so what if I did try to have her certified? I’ll bet in view of this you all wish you’d agreed to it instead of being so fucking squeamish. My God, if we’d had her locked up, it sure as hell would have solved our present little problem, wouldn’t it?”

Controlling her temper, Meredith realized it was probably better to let Joanna have her say. As the woman continued her rant, Meredith took stock of the other members of the family. Ward, Rowena’s half nephew, looked vacant as usual. Mary Chris, his sister, had her hands clasped piously in her lap and wore her customary saintly expression. Their mother’s face was blank. Charles had gone gray at the gills. The only missing relative was Craig, Rowena’s third nephew, who still had to fly in from London.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Joanna was saying. “What the hell did she plan to do with the money, then?” She turned to glare at Meredith. “If we’re not going to get it, who is? Surely Dallas doesn’t get it all?”

“I’m afraid Dallas doesn’t get anything, either,” Meredith said slowly, pausing to take a deep breath. She looked up. All eyes were upon her. The room seethed with pressure, as though each and every one there guessed there was more bad news to come. And boy, was there, Meredith thought grimly. Straightening her shoulders, she said quietly, her tone neutral, “The sole heir to Rowena’s estate, excepting some personal bequests, is her grandson.”

“What?” Joanna exclaimed in a high-pitched squeak.

“Her grandson?” Charles exclaimed, frowning, his jaw tense. “There must be some mistake. She had no grandson.”

“Actually, she did,” Meredith countered, outwardly calm. “Isabel, Rowena’s daughter, had a child out of wedlock.”

A general gasp echoed throughout the drawing room. Charles’s pallor increased. Joanna sat dumbstruck. Mary Chris blushed and murmured something incomprehensible under her breath, while her mother’s set features took on an inscrutable cold expression. Ward just sat there, smiling politely, quite unaware of the true meaning of Meredith’s words.

“This grandson,” Meredith continued warily, “was given up for adoption at birth. But it appears Rowena tracked him down some ten years ago and made him the sole beneficiary of the bulk of her will.”

“Good God,” Charles exclaimed, dabbing a white handkerchief to his lips.

“But if he was legally adopted, then he has no rights,” Joanna interrupted, her eyes narrowed in bitter anger as she tossed her perfectly colored strawberry-blond hair back.

“He’s still her lineal descendent. Rowena established his birth connection. Anyway, the point’s moot, because she made him her heir. She had the legal right to leave her fortune to anyone she chose.”

“You said everything?” Charles interrupted, his voice strained. “You mean the properties, the furniture, all her personal assets?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Joanna asked, her voice shaking with loathing.

“One hundred million dollars, give or take.”

Gasps erupted from all corners of the room.

“A hundred million dollars? But we never knew Rowena had that kind of money.” Joanna’s manicured hands were shaking now. “How is this possible? How could she have done this? It’s not fair.”

“I understand how upset you are,” Meredith countered, shifting her legs under the desk and wishing that the meeting were over, “but actually it’s even more unfair for Dallas. After all, she’s a grandchild, too. And Rowena has left her nothing. Except for a string of pearls.”

“Not her black pearls?” Joanna hissed.

“Uh, yes. I believe those are the ones.” Meredith quickly checked the file.

“But she promised those to me. Why, the old bitch has done nothing but lie and pretend all these years! When I think of the time and attention I lavished on her,” Joanna screeched, rising abruptly and turning on Meredith. “It was all a waste!”

“Well,” Meredith countered, “you aren’t without resources. You will, of course, continue to receive the income from the trust she established for you. Subject to certain conditions.”

“The income,” she threw scathingly. “As if I cared about the goddamn income. It’s the capital I’m interested in—that’s what I’ve been waiting for all these years.”

“Naturally,” Meredith said dryly, discomfort fast changing to disdain as Joanna’s performance evolved, “you will have to continue fulfilling the requirements—”

“Requirements,” Joanna spat, prowling the Aubusson carpet of Rowena’s stately drawing room, hands clenched. “How dare she do this to us? How dare she?”

“As I was saying,” Meredith continued, ignoring the outburst, “the trust’s requirements will still need to be met.” She swallowed, knowing what would come next. “As the heir to her affairs, Rowena’s grandson, Mr. Grant Gallagher, has been named cotrustee with me. We will be the ones to determine if the requirements are met.”

Joanna erupted. “You mean to tell me that not only has she named some godforsaken bastard of Isabel’s her heir, but that she’s made him a trustee to what’s rightfully ours?”

“Oh, Joanna, shut up,” Charles said tightly. “Meredith, what do we know about this Gallagher person?”

“Well, it’s not the best news, I’m afraid. Grant Gallagher is a well-known corporate raider. Remember the Bronstern affair last year?” She glanced up.

“Of course. What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything,” she replied, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone. “He was responsible for breaking up the company. I don’t know how many people lost their jobs.”

“My God,” he muttered, “then there’s no hope of his declining the inheritance, I guess.” His hands fell in his lap and he looked suddenly years older. And very sad, Meredith realized, feeling rather sorry for him, but also wondering why he seemed so devastated. Married to a wealthy Bostonian wife, Marcia, he was probably in a far better position financially than the rest of them.

“This is just so unfair,” Joanna continued, her voice shaking as she paced the room.

“Hardly unfair, Joanna. She didn’t need to make that trust in the first place. Basically, it all goes on the same,” she pointed out reasonably.

“You actually expect me to go groveling to some bastard child of Isabel’s for my share?” Joanna stared at Meredith, shocked.

“I’m afraid you won’t have a choice. Mr. Gallagher and I will have sole discretion as to the disbursement of funds. In other words, you will have to receive our approval.”

“The bitch,” Joanna whispered again hoarsely, staring out of the bay window onto the luscious garden she’d been so certain would one day be hers. “The fucking hypocrite.”

“Joanna,” Charles reprimanded, “this is hardly the time to be criticizing our benefactress.”

“Benefactress my ass,” she hissed, her mouth twisting hideously. “She’s manipulated us, forced us to kowtow to Isabel’s droppings. It’s disgusting. Don’t you see, Charles? She did it on purpose to humiliate us. God, I hate her,” she exclaimed again, clenching her fists.

“Joanna, this is no time for tantrums,” Charles admonished.

“Charles is right. There’s little use getting upset,” Meredith countered in the vain hope that the meeting would not deteriorate further. She glanced at the other relations, who had remained silent. Ward was picking at a thread on the sleeve of his old tweed jacket. He had no real understanding of what was going on around him, but from time to time he pretended to listen. “I see no reason why Gallagher or I should refuse any reasonable requests.”