Follow the Sun (2 page)

When it came it had an echo, as if Kyle Surprise
were hundreds of miles away, rather than in their office, five miles from Jeopard’s apartment.

“Damn cordless phone,” Kyle said solemnly.

“Stick your note elsewhere.”

“Oh-ho, a direct hit to the Iceman’s dignity.”

“If I had any dignity, I’d tell people that I was an only child.”

Kyle laughed at the barb, as usual. “That’s cold. Iceman, cold. I thought you had a plane to catch for California.”

“I’m going. Tell me what you meant by ‘Don’t scare her with your charm?’ ”

“The babe is used to young, fun-loving guys,” Kyle shot back drolly. “Do your best to impersonate one.”

And, chortling, he hung up in Jeopard’s ear.

“Fun-loving” wasn’t even in Jeopard’s vocabulary. He raised a glass of brandy to a mouth made too grim by too many years of reading reports such as the one on Tess Gallatin.

He felt nothing but cold, professional curiosity about her. That lack of emotion had earned him harsh nicknames from enemies and respectful ones from friends over the years; it was the trait that made him so good at his work.

It was also the one trait that depressed the hell out of him.

He returned to reading the report. It contained the facts of her life in a concise, unequivocal list. Twenty-six years old. Residence: A sailboat, the
Swedish Lady
, Big Cove Marina, Long Beach, California. Widow of Royce Benedict, age sixty-two, jewel thief, died two years ago, cancer.

Father: Hank Gallatin, Cherokee Indian, Mercenary soldier. Mother: Ingrid Kellgren, Swedish, professional athlete. Both deceased.

Cherokee Indian?
Jeopard scanned that information twice. She was half Cherokee? Well, at least that was different.

Occupation: Diamond broker. Education: Elementary and secondary—Smithfield Academy, London;
college—UCLA, bachelor’s degree in business administration.

Lifestyle/personality profile: Married Benedict when she was twenty; inherited his entire estate over objections of his two daughters; sexually promiscuous both before and after Benedict’s death. Business associates rate her tough, manipulative. Approach with caution.

Jeopard almost smiled at that last note. While the brandy seared his throat, his eyes narrowed in a thoughtful squint.

Compared to the assignments he’d been given during his government career, her case was fluff. Even compared to the assignments he took now, as a civilian, her case was fluff. In effect, he was about to take his first vacation in ten years.

He flipped the last page of the report and studied a series of photographs. After he stared at them, mesmerized, for a long moment, he slung them and the report into a nearby trash can and downed his brandy in one painful swallow.

T
HE CHEAP DOMESTIC
rental car wasn’t accustomed to Tess Gallatin’s. Grand Prix driving style. But then Tess Gallatin wasn’t accustomed to cheap, domestic cars.

She steered the straining little automobile around a bend bordered by lovely, Victorian-era houses on one side and a tree-shaded college campus on the other. Picturesque little Gold Ridge, Georgia, backed by distant mountains, suddenly appeared before her like an obstacle course waiting to be negotiated.

It was so beautiful that it made her hurt inside with an odd wistfulness, as if she were returning to a home she’d never seen before. There were trees, lots of trees, and a brilliant blue sky untouched by smog.

Tess propped one olive-hued elbow out her open window and zoomed into the town square past a neatly preserved brick courthouse fronted by a dignified sign that read, “Welcome to Gold Ridge, Georgia,
home of the first U.S. gold rush, 1829. Courthouse and gold museum open for tours.”

In a musical British accent she murmured, “All right. Lawyer Brown, where are you?”

She checked her written directions, then peered at a tourist’s mecca of quaint storefronts. Finally she spotted a glass door with “T. Lucas Brown, Attorney At Law” painted on it in gloriously ornate letters. T. Lucas Brown’s door was sandwiched between a country café and a dulcimer shop. She swung the rental car into a parking spot so fast that when she braked, it made the tires squeal.

A minute later she was striding up a steep old staircase. At the top of it a ceiling fan hummed and clacked rhythmically over a reception area staffed by a Betty Davis clone wearing a white organdy dress.

Tess politely told her she had an appointment.

“Your cousins are already here,” Betty informed her, puffing on a long cigarette. “You’re late.”

“How kind of you to remind me. I’ve never visited Georgia before. I left the Atlanta airport, took a right, and immediately got lost.”

The receptionist scanned Tess’s flowing turquoise dress and white fedora with a curious gaze. “Gawd, you’re obviously from California.”

Feeling more amused than annoyed. Tess cocked her head to one side and returned the appraisal. “You’re obviously not shy around strangers.”

Betty grinned, nodded, and punched an intercom line on her telephone. “The third one’s here, boss.”

A booming voice answered, “Dear Lord! A smorgasbord of beautiful women! Send her on in!”

Tess wondered what kind of lunacy she’d encountered as she went where Betty pointed. A rotund, black-bearded man threw a door open and exuberantly waved her inside. “Ms. Gallatin! Meet Ms. Gallatin and Ms. Gallatin!”

Her heart pounding, Tess stepped inside his office and gazed raptly at the two women seated in scroll
backed chairs by T. Lucas Brown’s large desk. They stood, gazing back just as raptly.

The tall one, a lanky Amazon with shoulder-length chestnut hair and fair skin, was very businesslike, in a gray pin-striped outfit. The short one, a curvaceous Kewpie doll with an incredible mane of inky black hair and skin the color of dark honey, was very athletic, in jeans, running shoes, and a baggy T-shirt with a road-race logo.

The tall one smiled, came forward, and shook Tess’s hand formally, but with genuine warmth. Her voice droll, she said, “I’m Erica. Born in Boston. My great-grandfather was Ross Gallatin, and that’s about all I know concerning the Gallatin Cherokee blood. I own a construction company in Washington, D.C.”

The short one grinned, came forward, and pumped Tess’s hand merrily. “I’m Kat. Born in a circus trunk. My great-grandfather was Holt Gallatin, and I think he robbed banks for a living. I’m a nomad, although I have a dinky little apartment in Miami.” She paused, thinking. “Oh. And I’m a professional wrestler.”

After a stunned moment, Tess laughed. She’d known her cousins less than a minute, yet she already felt an affectionate kinship with them. “Tess Gallatin,” she announced, and smiled at the double-take they did over her slight English accent. “Born in Sweden, raised in England and California. My great-grandfather was Silas Gallatin, and he owned a shipping business in San Francisco. I’m a diamond broker and I live on a sailboat in Long Beach, which is about an hour’s drive south of Los Angeles.”

“I’m a plain old country lawyer, and I’m fascinated by all three of y’all,” T. Lucas Brown interjected, smiling at them. “Ladies, we have a will to read. Take your seats.”

When they were all settled he looked at each of them, shaking his head in awe. “What a smorgasbord,” he repeated. “None of you have met before?”

Tess traded apologetic looks with her relatives. They shook their heads almost in unison. T. Lucas
chuckled. “Incredible. Do you know that you all share the same birthday?”

Tess turned toward Erica and Kat in amazement. “September twenty-seventh?” They nodded, as intrigued as she was. “But different years, I assume. I’m twenty-six years old.”

“Thirty-three,” Erica told her.

“Twenty-eight,” Kat said.

“This has mystical implications,” T. Lucas noted solemnly. “Which brings me to the reading of Dove Gallatin’s will. Let’s see, you share the same great-great grandparents, Justis and Katherine Gallatin—their sons were your great-grandfathers. That makes you cousins of some sort—third cousins, maybe. Who knows? Dove Gallatin was your great-aunt, Kat, and I’m too confused to figure out what that makes her in relation to Tess and Erica.”

“My mother was Swedish. My father told me he was almost full-blooded Cherokee, but I know nothing about his family,” Tess admitted. “Including Dove Gallatin.”

“Same here,” Kat added. “And I’m practically a full-blooded Injun.”

“Ditto for me and the Gallatin Cherokee history,” Erica said. “I’m only one-sixteenth Injun, umm, Cherokee. The Gallatins in my branch of the family didn’t marry back into the tribe, the way Kat’s and Tess’s ancestors did.”

T. Lucas Brown sighed heavily. “I hope Dove’s bequest sparks y’all’s interest in the family heritage. You can read her will if you want, but it’s extremely simple. She left you two hundred acres of land north of Gold Ridge. The three of you are co-owners.”

Tess blinked in surprise. “Land?”

“Land that’s been in the Gallatin Family for over a hundred and fifty years. It belonged to Justis and Katherine—probably belonged to her parents before that. Anyhow, Katherine’s will stated that the land must pass down through the family. It went to her son. Holt Gallatin—Kat’s great-grandfather—and then
to Dove, his daughter. It can’t be sold outside the family. It can, however, be leased.

“And you ladies will be happy to know that the Tri-State Mining Company has come to me with a lease offer for you. They suspect that there’s enough low-grade industrial gold on your property to make a mining venture worthwhile. Y’all would get plenty of income to pay the property taxes and a small percentage of the mineral rights.”

“Hooray!” Kat said. “Let’s do it.”

“Sounds terrific,” Erica added.

Tess nodded. “I agree.”

“Now, hold on, hold on. There’s something else to consider.” He reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a small cloth bag. Brown opened it and took out three large gold medallions.

Tess found herself gazing at them in open-mouthed wonder. They were nicked and dulled by years of handling, but the craftsmanship was superb. Each was a quarter-inch thick and at least three inches in diameter, and each had a small hole bored in it. The holes were worn as if by long use on a necklace.

Each bore a line of delicately molded symbols stamped in a circular pattern. The messages—if that was what they were—began at the outside perimeter of each medallion and wound to the center.

Brown flipped the medallions over. The strange symbols covered the other sides, as well. Attached to the hole in each medallion was a small white tag. Brown glanced at the tags, then handed the medallions out.

“It’s absolutely magnificent,” Tess whispered as she smoothed her fingertips over the strange gift. She glanced at her cousins and saw expressions of awe on their faces too.

“Each of you gets one,” Brown told them. “Dove specified which of you gets which medallion. That’s her handwriting on the tags.”

Tess studied the bold, artistic script. “What do you know about Dove Gallatin?”

“Not much. She spent her entire life on the Cherokee reservation up in North Carolina; she was at least ninety when she died. She never married. She considered herself a psychic, I understand. I have no idea how she decided which of you gets which medallion. The symbols are different on each one. I believe they’re Cherokee script.”

“Hmmm, the tribe had an alphabet, correct?” Erica asked.

“Yes. Actually, it’s called a syllabary. A remarkable achievement. Invented by a Cherokee named Sequoyah.”

“Like the tree,” Kat interjected vaguely, staring at her medallion.

“I believe the tree was named after
him,
” Brown said with exasperation. “At any rate, ladies, I think it would behoove you three to track down some family history before you let a mining company tear up the Gallatin land. Supposedly the Cherokees buried their gold around here. These medallions may hold clues to something your ancestors left.”

“Who made the medallions?” Tess asked.

“Don’t know. Your great-great-grandmother Katherine, perhaps.”

“Can you take us to see this land?” Kat asked.

“Sure, if everyone wants to.”

Tess looked at Kat and Erica. They nodded eagerly.

T
ESS KNEW AS
soon as she saw the magnificent valley that she wanted to learn more about the people who had loved it. Erica and Kat stood silently beside her, their medallions clasped in their hands. T. Lucas Brown waited beside his Land Rover at the end of the old trail that was the outside world’s sole access to this spot.

“I say we go back to our respective homes and do some research into our branches of the family,” Erica suggested. “And we meet back here again in, say, a couple of months to decide about the mining lease.”

“Good enough, Washington,” Kat chimed. She gazed at Tess. “What d’ya say, California?”

Tess smiled. “If nothing else, I want to get to know you two better. Certainly.”

She held out her right hand. Erica and Kat placed their right hands on top of it. Tess had the oddest notion that someone, somewhere, was watching with approval.

W
HUMP
.

Tess careened sideways on her lounge chair. The large, ostentatious yacht bullied its way into the berth beside her sailboat, bumped it again, and sent Tess sprawling to the deck on her hands and knees.

This was not how she wanted to spend her first day back from the Georgia trip.

Tess staggered to her feet. Her
Swedish Lady
was forty feet long, big enough to have comfortable living space below deck and room for a patio table with a bright orange umbrella and four chairs above, but the yacht dwarfed it.

Against the sun she could make out only the silhouette of the man seated at the control console on the deck above her head. The yacht’s bow plowed into the marina dock and bounced at least five feet backward.

Luckily for the yacht, the thick concrete dock was lined with a wood buffer.

Tess huffed in dismay. He was probably another weekend captain who’d rented a berth at the marina so that he could park his floating mansion and serve cocktails.