Leslie LaFoy (11 page)

Ben blinked repeatedly and then his mouth formed an O of understanding. “Do all Texans have such wonderful twists of speech?”

“I suppose so,” Jackson answered as patiently as he could. “I don't seem to recall anyone ever stopping in their tracks to admire someone's words as unusual, so I have to think that we all speak pretty much the same way.”

Ben contemplated this for a moment, then nodded and seemed to resolutely set aside his wayward thoughts. “One of the companies is located in Philadelphia, one in Richmond, one in Charleston, and another in Boston. Looking into what happens to the various properties after their sale would require a great deal of time and some expense. I haven't had the resources to satisfy what has been, to this point, an idle curiosity. As for pending transactions … Miss Lindsay has recently sent out letters to all four companies offering them land she holds in St Louis and—”

“That would be the property where the warehouse burned,” Jackson mused.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Patterson and she concluded that there were insufficient financial resources to rebuild it. If one of the gentlemen doesn't respond with an offer, she'll let the bank have it. The second property on which she's requested
an offer is the bank in Kentucky. I don't know what she thinks to do if an offer isn't tendered on it.”

Jackson didn't either and he made himself a mental note to ask her. He'd also ask her why the hell she was doing business not only blind, but over long distances. “Tell me something, Ben,” he ventured. “While she waits for the mail to move back and forth between here and the other cities, the value of what she's offering declines even further, doesn't it?”

“That is generally the case, sir.”

“Why doesn't she sell the properties to someone here in town? It would be faster, easier, and she'd make more money in the transaction.”

“You'll have to ask her, sir,” Ben replied. He leaned forward before he added quietly, “I suspect that it's a case in which she doesn't want her dealings to become public knowledge in the community in which she lives.”

“In other words, she doesn't want people to know that the MacPhaull horse is lame, blind, and wheezing.”

Ben smiled tightly. His gaze darted to the window and he grimaced. “I see Mr. Vanderhagen's carriage drawing up.”

Jackson quickly rose to his feet, finished the last of his coffee, put the cup on the tray, and handed the entire service to Ben, saying, “Here, take the coffeepot with you. I don't want that weasel here long enough to have a cup.” As the bookkeeper dutifully turned away with his burden, Jackson added, “One more thing, Ben.”

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“Actually two things. First I want a list of all the properties currently owned that are consuming rather than producing income. When you're done with that, I want a list of the MacPhaull properties sold in the last three years, the price Lindsay paid for each and what she got out of it when she sold it, as well as the name and address of the buyer. Not just the name of the company, Ben, but the names of the individuals who hold major interests in it. I also want to know the present status of each of those properties they purchased. If they've been sold, I want to know to whom and for how much.”

The corners of Ben's mouth tightened. “I expected that you would want that information, sir. I've already begun. Will there be anything else?”

“Naw. I figure that'll keep you busy for a week or two.”

“At the very least, sir,” Ben said with a taut smile. He started for the door, adding, “I should mention that it's Miss Lindsay's custom to arrive here at nine-thirty.”

“Thanks for the warning, Ben.”

Jackson raked his fingers through his hair, buttoned his shirtfront, and then found his tie where he'd tossed it aside the night before. Otis Vanderhagen's voice was booming through the outer office as Jackson pulled on his suit coat. Thanks to Benjamin Tipton's honesty, he had a few more answers than he'd had yesterday. If he could get a few out of Vanderhagen in the next thirty minutes, the day could be counted a success. If he could actually get Vanderhagen gone before Lindsay came sweeping through the door, it would be cause for celebration. The less reason he gave her for swinging a fist at him, the easier it was going to be to set things right with her.

“It's good to see that you've taken the helm so quickly and firmly, Stennett,” the lawyer declared, advancing into the room, his hand extended, the door standing wide open in his wake. From the other room, Ben glared briefly at the lawyer's back and then turned away to take care of the coffee service.

Jackson noted the bookkeeper's apparent animosity and then, with no other polite choice, shook Vanderhagen's hand and began. “Circumstances haven't allowed for the luxury of wasting time.”

“Yes, poor Patterson. So tragic,” Vanderhagen wheezed as he dropped down onto the sofa. “But I'm glad that you're a man of clear and decisive purpose. It will make my task this morning much less awkward and more easily concluded.”

Jackson eased down into his own chair, asking slowly, “And that task would be?”

Pulling a handkerchief from inside his coat, Vanderhagen began mopping his face as he answered, “I've spoken
with Dr. Bernard this morning at MacPhaull House. Although he didn't come right out and say it, I think it prudent to conclude that he doesn't expect Richard to recover from his lapse of yesterday. Under the terms of William MacPhaull's first Will, Richard's death would set into motion the transfer of company management. Henry, Mr. MacPhaull's eldest child and only male heir, would take the helm.”

“But Billy's later Will changed all that,” Jackson supplied to prod the conversation along. “I own it all and who manages it is my decision.”

“Indeed,” he said, his voice actually dropping to normal volume. “Which brings me directly to the matter we need to discuss today.” He sucked a deep breath that drew his waistcoat up over his girth. He tugged it down, saying, “Mr. Stennet, you have inherited considerable wealth. As the attorney who has represented the interests of the MacPhaull Company for over two decades, I feel that it's my responsibility to see that there exists some mechanism by which the assets are protected should something—God forbid—happen to you.”

“You want me to make a Will stipulating … what precisely?”

“Do you have any heirs who you feel properly deserve the proceeds of your estate?”

“Let me save you a race around the course, Vanderhagen,” Jackson said, feeling precious seconds ticking by. “I have a Will already; legal and proper, drawn up under the laws of the Republic of Texas. In it, I name Billy Weathers—whom you knew as William Lindsay MacPhaull—as my sole heir. Now, my lawyer back home is a meticulous sort of fellow and he insisted on covering all kinds of impossible possibilities. Long story short, Vanderhagen, because Billy's dead and dead men can't inherit, all my property goes to any legal heirs Billy might have.”

“The MacPhaull children,” Vanderhagen all but sighed. “I assume in equal parts?”

“I'd guess. Since I didn't know Billy had any children, I didn't see a reason to go about dividing things up.”

“Do you intend to modify the bequeath? Or are you planning to let it stand as it is presently worded?”

“I think it's a mite early for deciding something like that,” Jackson countered, wondering just how Vanderhagen would divide the assets if given the opportunity. “I'll let you know what I've done in the end.”

“I'd be glad to see to the creation of any legal documentation you require. A codicil is all that would be necessary. It's a very simple thing to draw up.”

“Like I said, I'll let you know what I decide.”

Vanderhagen apparently had enough sense to recognize that he wasn't going to get anywhere by pressing the matter and so he nodded, appeared to mull a moment, and then said, “Regardless of your decision on the particulars of the matter, Mr. Stennett, I'm relieved to hear that you intend to do right by William's children. It's a great weight off my heart and shoulders.”

The tone of his voice suggested that he was preparing to leave, forcing Jackson to delay him by asking, “Is there anything else you'd like to talk about? I'd hate for you to haul around any more weight than necessary. As the company attorney, do you need a copy of Billy's Will?”

“You're a good man as well as purposeful, Mr. Stennett,” he responded, wiggling forward on the sofa so that he could effectively leverage his body off it and upright. Puffing from the exertion, he mopped his brow again and added, “No, there's nothing else I need from you. I secured the copy of William's Will from Miss Lindsay this morning while I was at the house. I'll be filing the appropriate documents with the court for the legal acknowledgment of your ownership.”

“Well,” Jackson drawled, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers, “if you wouldn't mind holding up for just a minute, I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Vanderhagen.”

“Yes?” he asked, clearly wary about having the shoe put on his foot.

“I have some decisions to make regarding the company assets and it would help if I knew the terms of Richard
Patterson's Will. Do you happen to know them? Do you know if he plans to leave anything to Lindsay?”

The wariness evaporated. He stepped closer to the desk and—though it seemed impossible—actually said quietly, “I can't discuss the terms in any specific sense; attorney-client privilege, you understand. I think you may make reasonable assumptions. He values loyal service and the memories of those he's cared for in the course of his life. He is, however, above all else, a compassionate man who remembers his own beginnings and those who haven't been as fortunate in life as he.”

“Thank you,” Jackson offered, not liking the answer, but accepting that the choices were Richard Patterson's and not his to make. “Second question: How long is the court going to take before it formally recognizes my right to make business decisions and execute them?”

“Getting such matters through probate usually takes some time; months at best,” Vanderhagen replied, moving away now that the topic had moved into a less sensitive area. “Were the heirs to contest the provisions of their father's second Will, you might have some difficulties in conducting business, but Miss Lindsay assures me that she has no intention of standing in your way and that she'll execute decisions in your behalf until such time as the court formally recognizes your right to do so.”

Lindsay could make his life a living hell. And she would if she had the money to fight him. Thank God she didn't. Of course, Lindsay wasn't the only card in the deck. “Have you said anything to Henry about the second Will and the unexpected change in his circumstances? Have you said anything to Agatha?”

“My responsibility and primary concern is for the continuation of the MacPhaull Company, Mr. Stennett,” Vanderhagen explained, mopping his brow again. “Henry isn't a particularly intelligent or farsighted man, but he does understand the power to be had in getting access to the company coffers. Agatha will see that in Henry losing control of the company, she'll be losing an ally with similar attitudes toward money. Neither one of them will have any comprehension of the costs involved in contesting their fa-
ther's Will. I'm willing to let Miss Lindsay inform and deal with her brother and sister. Should either Henry or Agatha come to me wanting to battle you for control, I'll do my best to dissuade them from the course.”

“And if you can't? Or if they go to another attorney?”

“In either situation, I would hope that you would feel comfortable in allowing me to represent the interests of the MacPhaull Company in court.”

Snakes weren't always bad, Jackson mused. They were good to have around for varmint control. Still, the idea of deliberately putting his fate in Vanderhagen's hands didn't set well. “It'd sure be easier just to shoot Henry and be done with it,” Jack observed dryly.

“You can't!”

Clearly Otis Vanderhagen thought the idea had been seriously suggested. Just as Ben had taken the threat to his tongue. Sweet Jesus. What kind of world did these people live in? What kind of people did they know? “Just kidding, Mr. Vanderhagen.”

“Oh,” he breathed, his entire body sagging downward. He recovered enough to wipe the rivulets of perspiration from his face. Stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, he managed a weak smile and said, “One hears stories about Texans, you understand.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “One hears them about New Yorkers, too.”

Vanderhagen puffed up, yanked his waistcoat down, said coolly, “Mr. Stennett,” and then spun on his heel—an amazing feat of balance for a man of his proportions, Jackson thought as the lawyer half-waddled, half-rolled toward the door.

“Good morning again, Miss Lindsay,” he boomed as he crossed the threshold. “And good day, again.”

Jackson winced and hung his head, softly swearing at his miserable luck. So much for keeping Lindsay from knowing that he'd had a chance to meet with Vanderhagen. He wondered if she'd believe him if he told her that the subject of Richard's Will had never come up. Maybe it would be a kindness to keep her from learning that, while she might get a small bequeath, the bulk of Patterson's estate
would be going to charity. Then again, maybe not. Honesty might hurt sometimes, but it was always a better course than lying.

“What stories does one hear about New Yorkers, Mr. Stennett?”

He looked up to find Lindsay standing in the doorway. She was wearing a pale blue dress today and a matching pelisse. The sunlight streaming in the office window glinted off the golden curls peeking out from under the crown of her bonnet. He'd have thought her an angel from on high if it hadn't been for the cool resolution in her eyes.

If a fight was unavoidable, he reminded himself, sometimes it was smarter to fight over something that didn't matter rather than something that did. “Well, I'll tell you,” he drawled, rising from the chair. “Mostly one hears that, aside from taking everything said quite literally and having no real sense of humor, they'd sell their own mothers for a dollar.”

“Actually, the going rate is three dollars,” she countered with the smallest of smiles. “Mothers are in short supply these days.”