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
