Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5) Page 6

  The bell over the door rang. Michael and Gerald turned to see a young woman come into the store. She smiled at Gerald and came over.

  "Hi, Gerald," she said, but kept her eyes on Michael. Suddenly he wished he didn't look so much like a bum. He'd been working all day, dirty work, and his clothes showed it.

  "Amy Foster, this is Michael Lawrence."

  "Please excuse my appearance," Michael said.

  "You're at the old Nelson cabin," she said.

  Michael nodded. Twenty-four hours ago he would have called it a house, but the moment he found Erika there he knew it was only a cabin, meant to be used for weekends, for city people coming up for a back-to-nature weekend before they returned to the world of modem conveniences.

  "You planning on staying a while?" Amy asked.

  He'd been there over a year, but he'd learned that a while meant different things in different parts of the county. Here it probably meant a lifetime.

  "A while," he said. Turning to Gerald, he asked him to put the generator belt on his bill. He lifted the beer bottle and Gerald nodded. He’d add it too. Michael never got a bill from the store. Gerald sent a monthly invoice to the offices of Lawrence, Barclay, West, and Lawrence. His brothers made sure they were paid. He nodded at Gerald and said goodbye to Amy. At the door Gerald stopped him.

  "It's about dark, Michael. Why don't you let Amy drive you back to the cabin?"

  Nothing got past the store owner. He must have noticed from a back window that Michael came on foot. And Michael wondered if the old man was also trying his hand at matchmaking as a side business.

  "It's no trouble," Amy said before Michael could refuse. Twenty-four hours ago he would have refused and thought nothing of it. Now he felt the need to explain.

  "Thank you, but my clothes would leave a permanent mark on your car," he said.

  "Don't worry about that." Amy smiled, waving her hand in a nonchalant gesture. "You should see the stuff Jake brings in."

  Michael didn't ask who Jake was.

  "Now, Amy," Gerald asked. "What can I get you?"

  Michael waited by the door and followed Amy out of the store when she'd bought milk, bread, ice cream, and diapers. On the short ride back to "the old Nelson" cabin, as she called it, he learned she was married and had a three-month-old at home. Jake was her husband and he loved to hunt and fish.

  Michael thanked her at his driveway and walked the short distance back to the generator. Accompanying him were his thoughts of Erika St. James and all she represented. She’d changed his life with two simple words. She was unaware of the impact they’d had on Michael. Her sexy voice spoke and the air released stated the impossible. Carlton Lipton-Graves knew his secret, knew which carrot to dangle and exactly what he needed to do and say to get Michael to do what he vowed to never do again.

  Chapter 3

  The twin bed, with no head or foot board, was slightly over an inch longer than Frank Mason. He folded his body into the fetal position whenever he slept, which wasn't often. Tonight he lay on his back staring at the cracked ceiling. He'd read about people who did that, prisoners with nothing to do night after night but count the cracks in the ceiling. He'd counted two hundred and sixty-seven. He'd done it nineteen times, with never a variance. Exactly two hundred and sixty-seven cracks. His bed had fourteen lumps in it, seven of which were in the spot that cradled his back.

  Light filtered in from the hall. He knew Smiley Curtis was on the desk. Smiley came every night at exactly eleven forty-five. He was never a second late. As the chime on the clock in the distance outside his window went through its rendition of St. Michael's Serenade in twelve notes, Smiley Curtis would come through the door. Under one arm he carried the early edition of tomorrow's newspaper. To this he added a cup of coffee and a wide smile. By midnight the exchange of duties had been accomplished. Smiley knew who had taken their medicine calmly, and who had fought against the small white pills the patients had to take. He knew who had spent a pleasant day and who had been a royal pain for the past sixteen hours.

  At five minutes past midnight Smiley would make his rounds, speaking to the insomniacs and smiling at the sleepers.

  Then he'd settle into his chair, switch on the wall-anchored color television and open the paper.

  Frank had watched this routine, sometimes pretending to sleep, sometimes acting as if he couldn't. With Smiley it never wavered. He was there on time and he left promptly at the end of his shift. But Smiley was no pushover. He stood a couple of inches over six feet, had massive arms and shoulders. He was fifty years old and had been at the job for twenty-four years.

  Frank waited. Sooner or later his chance would come, and he figured it would be during Smiley's shift. During the day there were too many people there, too many nurses and doctors, too many patients wandering in and out, for him to remain unnoticed for any length of time.

  He'd been here three months. First the jail cell, then the mental ward of the prison, and now this hospital. He grunted in the darkness. This was no hospital. It was a prison. Frank knew a prison when he saw one. The walls might be sheet-rocked, and the windows covered with curtains, but there was nowhere he was allowed out without an escort. He couldn't take a walk alone. Everyone had to have a "buddy." He was thirty-seven years old. What did he need with a buddy? But he didn't expect that to take much longer. He'd be out of here soon. He'd planned it and soon he'd be home.

  Home with Abby.

  ***

  A blue moon. There really was such a thing. Michael had always associated blue moon with the cliché, with thoughts of going back to the city and returning to his firm. Now he looked at the shining disk and thought of Erika St. James's eyes. He stared at the silver-blue color as he walked along the road for the second time in as many days. Cloud formations hugged the sky; flat, grey bottoms supporting a puff of gold-tinged cotton, turning the road into a black ribbon meandering through the landscape.

  This should be a leisurely walk after dinner, but it wasn't. Michael had only half eaten his meal. The will along with the picture album Erika had left, and what he read there led him to this road. Tonight he wished he hadn’t left his communication devices in his house in New Jersey. His cell phone, computer, fax machine were methods by which he could be easily reached and he didn’t want to be reached. Tonight he wanted to reach someone and his only option was to walk to the store.

  He held himself stiffly, his hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched, his gait determined and purposeful. He needed a phone. He needed to call his mother. Find out if there was real truth to Erika St. James's story. He'd told her he didn't believe her. But he did. Now he wanted confirmation. He wanted his mother to tell him the unguarded truth; that she had been married to Kevin Lipton-Graves, and that he was the product of that marriage.

  He wanted to call his brothers and have them investigate Erika and her claims, but he knew better than to involve them. At least for the time being, he’d leave them out of it. There was only one person he could ask to confirm her story— Malick Wainscott.

  Michael's breath congealed in the cold air. He dug his hands further into the pockets of his parka and continued his uphill climb. The trees were mere dark images along the side of the road. Michael's attention wasn't on the trees. He was thinking of Malick. Their friendship went back to his law school days. Malick had been his professor, his mentor, and later his friend. Separated in age by twenty-five years, Michael and Malick had formed a strong bond. Malick ran a practice in Philadelphia and taught Criminal Law at the University of Pennsylvania. He'd help him. All Michael had to do was ask. Michael had tried all day to forget the will, forget Erika St. James, and return to his quiet existence, but neither would leave him alone.

  He'd climbed the mountain this morning, keeping his concentration on his ropes and spikes and conquering the task before him.

  Now he walked up this ribbon of road on his way to Hodges General Store and Mercantile to use the phone. With each step his anger mounted instead of abating. T
he will stated he'd have to return to Philadelphia and share the legacy Carlton Lipton-Graves had left him and Erika St. James. That legacy included a house and joint management of Graves Enterprises. The name was vaguely familiar, but it meant little to Michael. What stuck in his craw was the contingency. If either of the main parties fail to adhere to the terms of this will, barring death or catastrophic injury, the entire estate bequeathed jointly to Erika St. James and Michael Lawrence will be awarded to Frank Mason. The words had been unwittingly committed to memory. If he didn't adhere to the terms of the will the entire estate would go to Frank Mason.

  Michael's hands balled into fists at the thought of Frank and what he'd done to Abby and her children. Reaching down, he picked up a stone and threw it as far as his pitching arm would let him. Why Frank? Had Carlton known Frank? Did he know what the man had done to Abby? Or was he just a manipulative old man trying to get his way, even from the grave?

  Michael could see the light ahead. Hodges General Store and Mercantile had the only streetlamp Michael had seen since he'd come to Highland Hills. He stopped a moment, staring at the pool of light cutting into the engulfing darkness. Tiredness seemed to rush into him. It had been a long day. He'd worked hard today, not just with his hands but with his mind, trying to keep it off Erika and trying to forget the terms of the will lying on the clean wooden surface of the table where he'd eaten only this morning.

  Why should he go back? He'd fought his fight and lost. He never wanted to see the inside of a courtroom again. He never wanted to return to a world where people like Frank Mason could say one thing and do something as frightening as—

  Michael stopped the thought. Forcing his feet to move, he continued toward the store.

  "Malick, this is Michael," he said several minutes later when he'd completed the walk to the store and Gerald had let him use the private phone in his office. Around him were order slips, stacks of cases with vegetable names written on them; corn, peas, lima beans, string beans. The general clutter reminded Michael of his desk back at Lawrence, Barclay, West, and Lawrence.

  "Michael!" The surprise in Malick's voice was clearly evident. "It's good to hear your voice. When are you coming back?"

  Malick never beat around the bush. Each time Michael had spoken to him, all three of them, in the last year, he'd begun the conversation in the same manner.

  "My plans are unclear," Michael told him, and that was the truth. If he could confirm the validity of the will, he would either return to the world beyond the hill or let Frank Mason walk away with whatever estate had been left to him.

  "Do you need anything?" Michael heard the concern in his friend's voice.

  "I'm fine, Malick. My health is excellent." Except for his weight, he was as fit as he'd been when he arrived. And even with the dreams, his state of mind had improved. "I want you to do me a favor, something I want to keep quiet."

  "What is it?"

  Michael could almost see the older man sit forward in his chair, pulling a yellow legal pad close, as he crunched the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  "Ever heard of a woman named Erika St. James?"

  "Who hasn't?" Malick said. "She's been all over the news since Carlton Lipton-Graves died two weeks ago. A real Cinderella story. The press is eating it up. How do you know her?"

  "I don't," Michael replied, then thought of her warm mouth opening under his. Quickly he clamped the lid on that area of memory. "She came to see me."

  "Why?" Malick's question came out on a long, incredible breath. "The press has been trying to interview her, but so far she's been behind closed doors. Every newscast ends with 'Ms. St. James was unavailable for comment.' "

  Michael groaned. He wanted no part of the press. He'd had enough of them a year ago, when they'd made his life unbearable. Now he might have to return to the same game.

  "Malick, I need you to make some discreet inquiries about her and Carlton Lipton-Graves."

  "Exactly what are you trying to find?" Malick asked, his voice as dry as sandpaper.

  Michael explained the conditions of the will Erika had left with him and the alleged parentage.

  "She claims there are DNA tests confirming this. I need to know if it's the truth."

  "Why would she lie?"

  "I don't know. I don't know if she's even the real thing. Her picture was in the paper, but that can be faked."

  Malick described the photo he'd seen and Michael had to agree it was the woman who'd spent the night on his sofa.

  "Why don't you do the obvious thing, Michael? Call your mother and ask her."

  "I plan to. I just want to know that I have the facts straight before I do that."

  "All right," Malick sighed. "Can I reach you through the store?"

  "Yeah," Michael told him.

  "Give me a couple of days."

  Michael knew he could count on Malick. He'd put an investigator on it in the morning and by dinnertime he'd have a report on the heiress to the Lipton-Graves millions. He smiled, replacing the phone. Millions. He should be so lucky. He'd never heard of Carlton Lipton-Graves. It wasn't like he was J. Paul Getty or Howard Hughes, dying and leaving a fortune. Malick had said the press was carrying the story. He knew the press. They carried anything that sold papers and commanded air time.

  If Carlton Lipton-Graves had left a fortune, Michael wouldn't know it. He admitted he'd been single-minded when he practiced law. He'd resided in New Brunswick, and he hadn't concerned himself with much outside of the law and court. If Erika had inherited millions she would surely be courted by the press. Even if she hadn't, her elusiveness would be enough to make them hound her. The more she remained unapproachable the longer the story would play out. Secretly Michael hoped the whole thing would blow over.

  Then he pictured her, saw her standing by the stream in the misty morning light, staring at the mountains in the background. She looked as if she loved the stone facades, as if she belonged on the hill as much as the evergreen trees and the deer that kept a discreet distance from him. Too bad he hadn't taken their cue and stayed away from Erika.

  ***

  Erika tapped the head of her pen against the marble-edged blotter on her desk. She should be working. She should be doing something about the takeover. But her mind wasn't on it. She glanced at the phone again. It must be the hundredth time today she'd thought of calling Michael Lawrence. It had been a week since she left him; a week for him to read the will, to get used to the idea of Carlton being his grandfather.

  She knew it had to have been a shock to him. She'd grown up with Carlton. He was her friend, and like a good friend she'd grown used to him. Finding out that the man you thought was your father wasn't, that in his place stood a man who didn't even share the same heritage, had to be a revelation that he needed time to assimilate.

  She checked her watch. It was only a few minutes past six. The office was quiet, so no one would disturb her, and she was sure Mr. Hodges would still be minding his store. She could call and leave a message for Michael. She could ask him to call her, and then they could discuss the future.

  Lifting the receiver, she punched in the number she'd printed on one of her business cards. Maybe Mr. Hodges isn’t there, she thought when the phone went through its third ring.

  ". . . bye, Ed. Say hello to Helen."

  She heard his voice as he picked up the phone without ending his conversation. She had the feeling that Mr. Hodges was always in the middle of a conversation with someone.

  "Hello," he said, speaking to her.

  "Mr. Hodges, this is Erika St. James. You may not remember me."

  "Not remember an heiress? They'd pull my friendship license if I forgot a beautiful woman like you."

  Erika laughed. A little of the tension which held her shoulders stiff lessened, and she relaxed. "I wanted to leave a message for Mr. Lawrence," she began.

  "Sorry, he's gone."

  "Gone!" Her grip on the handset tightened. "Where did he go?"

  "Said he had some things to see
to. I suppose he'll go back to the city. Newcomers never last long up here. He lasted longer than most."

  "How long ago did he leave?" Erika interrupted.

  "Yesterday, about four o'clock. Dropped by to tell me to rent the cabin if I wanted to."

  "He's not coming back?" Erika found her heart sinking. How could she find him if he'd left the cabin?

  "He'd didn't say. He left me an address in case you called."

  Her heart lurched. He'd assumed she would call. He knew she would.

  "Here, I've got it." Erika knew he was holding it up as if she could see it.

  "Would you read it to me?"

  Seconds later a frown changed her facial expression from elation to incredulity. Mr. Hodges read Erika's own address, to her. For a moment she thought it was a joke. He knew she'd try to reach him again, and intentionally he'd given a false address. If he'd been coming to see her, he would have arrived late last night or early this morning. The house was full of servants. If Michael had arrived, one of the maids would surely have called to let her know.

  She didn't have any idea where he'd go. Maybe he went to talk to his mother. She thought that might be the normal thing to do, if his mother was still alive. Would he get the information he needed? An image of her own mother came to mind. Erika knew Alva Redford would be the last person she'd go to for confirmation of something important in her life.

  "You got it?" Mr. Hodges asked, calling her back to the phone she held in her hand.

  "Yes, Mr. Hodges. I have it. Thank you very much."

  "You're welcome. Come back and visit us when you're out this way again."

  She smiled. She liked the old man. "I'll certainly do that, Mr. Hodges."

  Erika replaced the receiver in the cradle. She faced it for only a second before punching in the numbers to her own house. As expected, the maid informed her that no one had come looking for her all day. Erika thanked her and hung up.