Savannah Secrets

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.”