Chapter 1. To Heir is Human

The drive through the Cascade Mountains was relaxing, the scenery picturesque. The trees blazed a bright green that lifted the spirits and touched the soul. Pink blossoms confettied the highway. There were even some newborn lambs to add a pastoral touch as the countryside whizzed by. Simon Banks toyed with the idea of pulling over for a bit. It would be great to stretch his long legs, inhale the fresh air, and escape his annoying passenger.

Leaving the scenery for a moment, Simon glanced at his travelling companion. Lee Brackett was flipping through the major Cascade newspapers. Simon returned his attention to the road; he didn’t need to read the papers again. It was all the headlines had screamed for the last couple of weeks:

Simon kept his left hand on the steering wheel and gestured with his right at the newspapers in Brackett’s lap. “You’re not going to show him those, are you?” There was a hard edge to his voice, just in case Brackett was actually planning on it.

“What?” Brackett’s attention was on his papers. “God, no! I’m not totally insensitive, you know.”

Simon refrained from responding one way or the other.

“Probably already seen ’em, anyway,” Brackett continued. “No. We’ll introduce ourselves, tell him what’s up, and then head home. The rest is up to him.”

“So this is a fishing expedition, then?” Simon liked fishing; it was an analogy he could live with.

“That’s right, Banks. We’re going to lay out the bait and reel him in, hook, line and sinker.”

Simon wasn’t so sure he liked the comparison, after all. He slowed the car down in accordance to a “reduce speed” sign. After zipping along the freeway for a couple of hours, it felt like they were barely crawling as they rounded a bend in the highway and passed a colourful billboard that read:

Someone had taken a taken a red pen, changed the number to read “15,286”, and had then gone on to correct the sign’s punctuation atrocities. Using a brown pen, another defacer had made a line drawing of a face rolling its eyes, captioned with the words: “Mister Sandburg was probably here”. Simon sat up a little straighter. A teacher who defaced highway signs? The trip just got a fraction more interesting.

Having left the freeway behind, they drove through the quaint little hamlet, quickly coming across Clayton Falls’ main street, which was, unremarkably, called “Main Street”. Following the directions Brackett’s administrative assistant had provided, they began to look for the home of Blair Sandburg. They drove around a while. Then a while more. Eventually, they found themselves at the far end of town. Simon pulled over by a sign that read:

The sign looked brand new, and no one had yet corrected the grammar. Simon wondered if he had a marker in his brief­case. His years in public relations, first with the Cascade PD and later as a freelancer, had taught him the value of clear, accurate communications. He hated imprecision.

“You know, Banks. For a minuscule town, you’re certainly having a tough time finding this place.”

“Me? Oh, it’s not like you…” Simon found Brackett’s insinuation highly annoying, but he censored himself, remembering his future employment could be linked with Brackett’s. “Let me see that.” Simon yanked the MapQuest directions from Brackett’s hand. “This is a map to Clayton Drive, Washington, D.C.! Did you even check it?” The white paper seemed pale and bleached out in contrast with Simon’s dark skin. He balled his huge hand into a fist, making the directions crumple with a satisfying crunch. He didn’t even wince when the staple pricked his palm.

“I guess Rhonda screwed up,” Brackett said, nothing resembling apology in his voice.

“Sure, Lee. Sure.” It was just like Brackett to lay the blame on his admin. Brackett’ed probably given her poor instruc­tions, and she was too afraid of him to ask for clarification. Simon liked Rhonda and had recently written a letter of recommendation to help her get another job. Too bad he didn’t need a secretary himself. He could ask his old friend Joel Taggert, Editor of the City Section at The Cascade Times. He’d think about it after he got back.

“Let’s ask somebody,” he told Brackett.

“Sure. It’s a small town. I’ll just roll down the window and yell, ‘Which way to Goldberg’s place?’ Everybody’s bound to know.”

“We’ll ask at the library. He’s a teacher. They’ll know him.” Simon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose where his glasses irritated it. “And it’s ‘Sandburg’, by the way.”

“‘Goldberg’, ‘Sandburg’. What’s the difference? They’re all the same.”

Simon looked at him askance. “Excuse me?”

“You know. Small town folk. They’re the same everywhere you go.”

“Oh,” said Simon, somewhat mollified. He had to admit that over his years working with Brackett, the man had never seemed like a racist. A “Brackett-ist” maybe, but not a racist. Simon brightened a bit. He’d finally found something good to say about the lawyer sitting next to him: Lee Brackett was a selfish son of a bitch, but not a racist. Great.

Simon pulled the car up at a gracious federal-style building, which had the words “Clayton Falls Public Library” and “Clayton Falls City Hall” engraved above the door. Before Simon could get out and ask someone, Brackett had yelled at a group of people milling about on the steps. “Hey! Does anybody know…?”

A few moments later, they were on their way, again. It might not have been very polite, but Simon had to admit it had been effective. Six people had practically fought over the privilege of pointing them towards Sandburg’s house. Apparently, this Sandburg guy was very well liked in Clay­ton Falls. Or at least well known.

Simon pulled up in front of the house as directed, shut off the car and climbed out.

Neither “quaint” nor “charming” were words Simon Banks used often, but he used them now to describe Blair Sand­burg’s residence. It had an air of loving, if sporadic, care. The Arts and Crafts-style bungalow featured the original oak trim left unpainted, although its weathered finish could have used a coat of varnish. The cement steps were probably original to the house, but were crumbling badly. The front lawn had been turned into garden that had run amok; but then who was to say which blossoming plants were weeds and which were flowers? A number of artefacts were on display in the gar­den: a shiny blue gazing ball on a stick tilted slightly to one side, a Buddha-head nestled among the roots of a sumac tree, a winged gargoyle was being strangled by a flowering vine. The house itself was similarly adorned. A large red mask peeked out at them from behind the stained glass front window, and the doorknocker was obviously South American in design. Simon had spent time in Peru and recognised the symbols from one of the local tribes.

The door opened just as he reached for the ornate knocker.

“Yes?” The man who had opened the door was average height, five-eight, five-nine, maybe. He was slim and fit, although more like a runner than the sort that works out regularly. He had long curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that was slightly lopsided, like the garden’s gazing ball. The man’s eyes shone dark blue, also not unlike said object, as well. Simon deduced the man wore glasses from the pressure marks on his nose, but he wasn’t wearing them now; far-sighted, Simon concluded; you could take the detec­tive out of the bullpen…

Stepping in front of Simon, Brackett asked, “Are you Blair Sandburg?”

“That’s me.” The man nodded.

Brackett held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Sandburg took it, although at this point, he wouldn’t have had a clue who these guys at his door were. “Uh… Hi.”

Brackett scooped a business card from his suit jacket pocket and presented it to Sandburg. “I’m Lee Brackett, of the Cascade legal firm Brackett, Brackett, Brackett, and Oliver.”

Sandburg took the card respectfully in both hands, Japanese style, examining it carefully. “Brackett, Brackett, Brackett, and Oliver,” he read aloud. Smiling, Sandburg looked up at Brackett. “Poor Oliver must feel a bit left out around the holidays.”

Simon Banks snorted. “Nah. He’s their cousin,” he explained, ignoring Brackett’s look. He, too, held out his hand, “I’m Simon Banks. No relation.” He patted his pockets, “I must have left my cards in the car.”

And then they stood there, Sandburg looking expectant, Brackett looking impatient, and Simon feeling awkward. After a very long minute, Simon ahem’ed and began, “We’re here about—”

Brackett cut him off. “May we come in?” He patted his designer briefcase. “We have some important matters to discuss with you.”

“You’re not, like, here on behalf of a church or anything are you?” Sandburg rocked up on the balls of his feet, “‘cause, I could, like, you know, tell you all about my cult. See I’m into the great FSM who created the…”

“That’s a very clever way to deal with crackpots, Mr. Sandburg. I’ve got to remember that.” Simon smiled. “I assure you we’re here on business that concerns you personally. We’re not selling anything.” Yet, he added silently.

“Okay. Sure.” Sandburg stepped back to allow the two men to enter. “Make yourselves at home,” he gestured toward his worn but comfortable-looking furniture.

Simon eyed the beanbag chair warily before seating himself on the futon that served as a couch.

Brackett grabbed a hard-backed chair from the dining table, dragged it into the living area, and seated himself gingerly. “Hope this holds me,” he said, sotto voce; surely, he’d meant Blair to hear him.

Before he closed the door, Sandburg reached into the wrought iron mailbox next to the door and retrieved a large, brown envelope. It looked to Simon to be one of those bubble-pack envelopes, and this one was pretty dog-eared. He hoped on Sandburg’s behalf, that it had successfully protected whatever it held. Sandburg looked at the envelope, then at his guests. Reluctantly, he crossed the room and took a seat on the futon next to Simon, still holding and stealing surreptitious glances at his package. He started fingering the envelope’s pull-tab.

Brackett got right to the point. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Sandburg.”

Blair nodded in acknowledgement, while continuing to fiddle with the tab, working it open an inch or two at a time.

“Mr. Sandburg, are you the son of Naomi Sandburg?”

“So she always said, although I wasn’t exactly there, you know.” He pushed an errant curl away from his face and yanked the tab all the way across. “And call me Blair, ’kay?”

“Okay. Blair.” Brackett made it clear he thought Blair was a dumb name. And quite possibly a dumb guy to go with it. “Are your parents living?”

Blair appeared taken aback by this question. After all, Simon thought, who appears at your door and starts asking questions like these? Despite his obvious misgivings, Blair answered anyway, “No. My mom died last year in a tragic yurt incident.” He looked off into the distance, eyes a little misty.

“And your father?”

“I’m an IC baby. No father on record.” Blair upended the puffy envelope and a worn, old volume slid into his lap.

“IC?” asked Brackett, one eyebrow raised in a gesture Simon had always envied.

“Immaculate Conception, Lee,” Simon answered for Blair. Simon and Blair exchanged a grin that utterly excluded the pissed-looking lawyer. Perhaps, Simon thought, this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

Brackett harrumphed, returning to his questioning. “What do you know about David Lipshitz?”

“Uncle David?” Blair turned the book right way up, stroking the old leather binding almost reverently. The Sentinels of Paraguay by Sir Richard Burton, Simon leaned across the futon and read at Blair’s shoulder. “He’s my mother’s brother. I saw him pretty often when I was at Rainier University. Not very often after I moved back here and started teaching at the local high school. My mother had little contact with him.” Sandburg focused on Brackett. “Half-brother, actually. Hence the different last name. Seems my grandmother—”

“Well,” Brackett interrupted Blair’s family history lesson. “Lipshitz passed on. He was killed in a car accident a few days ago.”

Simon shuddered at Brackett’s curt announcement, only too glad Blair had indicated they weren’t that close, although he figured Brackett would have handled it the same even if Blair had said otherwise.

“He was? Gee, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do to—”

“I have good news for you, Blair.” Brackett said. “Mr. Lipshitz left a large fortune when he died. He left it all to you. Deducting the taxes, it amounts to something in the neighbourhood of $20 million.”

Blair opened the book gently; a daguerreotype of a South American aboriginal holding a shield and spear stared out at them. Blair tipped the book a little to the left so Simon could see it more clearly. Blair’s only reaction to the startling news about his inheritance was to lift his eyes in Brackett’s direction. “Would you like a snack? I’ve got a great whack of fresh fruit I picked up at the farmers’ market this morning. And real homemade yoghurt to go on top. You know, the thick, all-natural stuff. You don’t want to go to the local diner.” He rolled his eyes at his last comment, indicating that the diner was not the eatery of choice. “The cholesterol’ll kill you, man.” He returned his attention to his new old book.

Brackett looked surprised and a little annoyed, while Simon remained interested, and a little entertained.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said, Mr. Sandburg! The whole Lipshitz fortune goes to you!”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Blair turned another page. “I heard you, all right. Twenty-million dollars. That’s a whole shitload of bucks, isn’t it?” He laughed. “And I thought I paid a fortune for this!” He gestured at the book on his lap.

“And how much was that, Mr. Sandburg?” Brackett asked, apparently clueing in that this book was important to Sandburg for some reason.

“I paid $350 on eBay. Plus shipping. And let me tell you, there was some fierce bidding going on. Right up to the last possible second. There I was, poised to go in for the kill, and… hi-ya!” Blair made karate chop moves in the air with his free hand. “I, gentlemen, have the fastest mouse button finger in the Pacific Northwest.” He blew on his finger like a smoking gun and sat back, grinning in triumph.

Simon laughed. “Twenty-million bucks’ll buy a history book or two.”

“Anthropology, actually. Although the two can be practically interchangeable at times.” Blair’s stared at the ceiling. “I wonder why he left me all that money. I don’t need it.”

He sat forward again and resumed his reading, then raised his head, looking thoughtful. “You know, I could do a lot of good with that money. I bet I could set up a foundation, or divide it up among any number of important charities.” He seemed lost in thought.

Brackett practically leapt out of his chair, “Charities? Give it away? You can’t just go around—”

Seeing the look on Blair’s face move from surprised to pissed to stubborn as Brackett spoke, Simon cut in quickly. “Hey, Blair. Is that offer for fruit and yoghurt still open?”

This got Blair’s attention the way $20 million hadn’t. “Of course, Simon, coming right up. How, ‘bout you, ah…” He glanced at the business card he’d laid on the end table beside him. “Lee?”

“No, thanks. I’m not big on natural foods. If it wasn’t grown with pesticides, it’s probably got bugs, and if it’s not filled with preservatives, it’s probably rotten.” He grinned like he’d made a joke. Simon rolled his eyes, and Blair looked horrified. Blair opened his mouth to speak, but a minuscule headshake from Simon indicated it was pointless. Blair closed his mouth and headed to the kitchen.

~ ~ ~

“This was great, Blair. Tell me where the farmers’ market is, and I’ll take some home on our way back out of town.” Simon’s spoon clanked against the bottom of the bowl as he scooped out the last of the yoghurt.

“Glad you like it, Simon.” Blair grinned and looked again at the business cards lying on the table in front of him. Simon had fetched one of his from the car while Blair was fixing their fruit salads. “Your card here reads: ‘Public Relations and Private Investigations’. I get that Lee here is a lawyer and solicitor for the Lipshitz estate, but what’s your role in this?”

Before Simon could answer, Brackett, impatient and jittery—probably from low blood sugar, Simon guessed—jumped in. “Mr. Banks here is an ex-cop who was associated with your uncle for many years, as a sort of buffer.”

“‘Buffer?’ What exactly does that mean?” Although Brackett had been the one to speak, Blair focused his attention on Simon.

“I guess ‘buffer’ is as good a term as any, although some­times I think ‘glorified pit bull’ would be more accurate.”

Brackett leapt in again, “Yes, you see, rich people need someone to keep the crowds away. The world’s full of pests. Then there’s the media and paparazzi to handle. And hundreds of ‘good causes’.” Brackett made air-quote around the last two words. “One must know when to seek publicity and when to avoid it.” He stared at Blair.

Blair focussed on Simon as he had the old book. “That’s quite an interesting career path, Simon. I get the cop to private investigator thing, but how does the public relations fit in?”

Simon sighed and gave the abridged version of his career. “Do you remember the Channing Avenue gang wars of a few years back?”

“Sure. I had just finished my Bachelor’s and was about to start my Masters that fall. It was one long, hot summer for sure.”

“Well, I’d just made detective then, fresh off the streets and had good contacts with the gangs. I’d done a degree in public relations before going to the police academy, so the higher-ups started coaching me and putting me in front of the media, and I helped negotiate the truce between the Deuces and 357s.”

“Right. Right. I remember. As far as I know, that truce still stands today. Nice work! So you ended up in PR, right?”

“That’s right. But times change and things change…” Simon trailed off.

“Like budget cuts and promotions that never came,” Blair supplied. “I hear that, man. I hear that.”

Simon was startled by Blair’s accurate and vehement description. “Something like that,” he agreed, not liking to slam his previous employer. “So I got a job in public relations at The Cascade Times. Another former cop was rising through the ranks there and brought me on board. I worked there for about 18 months. I liked it, but I really wanted to be my own boss, so I quit and hung out a shingle—public relations and private investigations—like it says on the card. Your uncle was one of my first clients, and I was with him until the end.”

“You liked Uncle David?”

“I did. Very much so. He was a self-made man and didn’t have any of the…” Simon searched for the right word, “uh, sense of entitlement that people who are born wealthy often have. He was…”

“Powerful?” supplied Brackett.

“Cool?” suggested Blair.

“Yeah, cool. Thanks.” Simon took off his glasses and cleaned them with the napkin he’d not used for the fruit plate.

“Well, this trip down memory lane has been fun, but we have a few more details to get straight here,” Brackett jumped in. “With $20 million comes a lot of responsibility. You’ll need to spend all of your time managing your money. It’ll be a full time job for you.

Blair had returned his attention to the old book but now seemed surprised by the question. “Who, me? What do you mean? I don’t know anything about managing money. And besides, it’s hardly how I want to spend my time.”

“Well, you could find someone to manage all that money for you.” Brackett tossed out his line casually. Simon knew Brackett had been angling for this since they got there. “That way you could concentrate on doing things you’d always wanted to do. Is there a life-long dream you’ve always wanted to fulfil?”

“There is one thing I’ve always wanted to do, since you ask. I’ve gotten fixated on the idea of finding a Sentinel. It’s the subject of the Ph.D. thesis I never completed. My therapist says I’m a bit obsessive.” Blair winked. “But as far as letting someone else manage Uncle David’s money, I’d really have to give that some thought.”

“Completing your thesis, hmm?” Simon rose hoping Brackett would realize it was time for them to leave. “That’s very dedicated of you. Don’t you think so, Lee?”

Brackett scowled and stood as well. “Well, I suppose we all had dreams like that when we were young, but we outgrow them. We’d better get started. You’ll have to pack.”

“Huh? What for?”

“Because you’re going to Cascade with us, of course.”

“I am? When?”

“As soon as you’re ready. So you’d better get started. You do own a suitcase, don’t you?”

Apparently, Brackett’s abrasiveness was starting to get on Blair’s nerves. He answered with a low note of anger in his tone, “Listen. I’m an anthropologist. I’ve been all over the world on expeditions. I keep my passport up to date and a backpack ready to go at a moment’s notice. So I’m ready now.” He stood with hands on hips looking a bit pissed.

“What about your students.”

“It’s six weeks to the end of term. We have a half-time science teacher who’ll be very glad to get the extra hours. It’s not a problem.”

Brackett seemed pleased. Simon wondered if he was just obliviously offensive, or if he had just manoeuvred Sandburg into coming to Cascade with them without argument. After all, Blair could have insisted they settle the estate from Clayton Falls.

Brackett picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, stopping at the last moment to say, “Congratulations, Mr. Sandburg. You’re one of the richest men in Cascade. We’ll be waiting by the car.”

Chapter 2. Blood is Slicker than Water

Lee Brackett strode up the lushly appointed corridor to a frosted glass door. “Brackett, Brackett, Brackett & Oliver” was stencilled in gold leaf on the glass. He pushed open the door and walked through. The receptionist wished him a good morning, but he didn’t bother to reply. Turning a corner, he reached his own private office.

“Good morning, Lee,” Rhonda mumbled.

This time he did respond, not in greeting, but by asking for the mail, messages, anything urgent.

“The other senior partners would like to meet with you as soon as possible, but you have a meeting with John Smith. He’s been waiting a while in the lobby. Shall I buzz him in?”

“Smith? Who the hell is John Smith?” Brackett asked as he leafed through the pink message slips Rhonda handed him.

“He’s a law student looking for a place to article when he graduates next month. You thought he looked good on paper, and our HR director said he had potential. He graduated top of his class.”

“Oh. Tell him I can’t make it today. Set up something for later in the week.”

“But, Lee, he’s already…” She trailed off as he walked into his office.

“And, Rhonda. Tell my brothers and Oliver I’ll see them in the boardroom in 20 minutes. He closed the door. He had nothing on his schedule for the next 20 minutes now that he’d cancelled Smith, but it was good to let them wait.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later, Brackett, Brackett and Oliver had ordered their secretaries to re-arrange their jam-packed calendars, rushed through early-morning meetings, and congregated in the boardroom. The table was littered with coffee cups, Blackberrys, cell phones, and a half-eaten bagel.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Brackett began.

“How was the fishing expedition?” asked Brackett.

“How’d Sandburg take it?” asked another Brackett.

“What’s he like?” asked Oliver.

“We’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s as naive as a child.” Lee Brackett was the eldest, and they all looked up to him. At least in his mind, they did. “The smartest thing I ever did was to make that trip.”

“Uh, Lee. Did you get the, uh—?” Oliver asked, speaking for them all.

“No, Oliver, I didn’t get the Power of Attorney. But don’t worry, I will.” He beamed confidence at his partners. “I asked him yesterday what he intended to do with the money, and what do you suppose he said?”

“What?” asked Brackett.

“I can’t imagine,” said another Brackett.

“He’d buy a yacht?” asked Oliver.

Brackett drew out the suspense, taking a long sip of coffee. Finally, he said, “He said he’d give it away.”

“Give it away!” repeated Brackett.

“What?” asked another Brackett.

“The boy must be crazy!” declared Oliver.

“Exactly,” said Lee Brackett. “That’s why I brought him back with me now. He’s staying at his late uncle’s place and hasn’t a clue what to do in a big city. Last time he was here he was a starving student. Probably knows his way to Rainier and the reference library and nowhere else. He’s been all over the world, but always as part of an academic expedition organized by somebody else. Any time he’s spent outside of Bumblefuck Falls has been in this jungle or that forest. He knows how to handle himself on a dig or in an airport and that’s about it.” Brackett laughed. “He’s a utter naïf. I told him he’d inherited $20 million, and he asked if I wanted a fruit cocktail!”

“Well, Lee, you certainly had the right hunch!”

Oliver looked a bit concerned. “Lee. About the Power of Attorney. We can’t afford to—”

“I know. I know.” Brackett snapped. “We can’t afford to have the Lipshitz account books investigated right now. You must have said that a thousand times already.”

“But what if they fall into somebody else’s hands, why, uh…”

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet, has it?”

“But four-and-a-half-million dollars! My God, where are we going to get—”

Brackett slammed his cup down on the table, denting the expensive finish. Coffee slopped every which way. PDAs and the bagel were quickly snatched out of danger. “Will you stop worrying! It was me who got old man Lipshitz to turn everything over to us, wasn’t it? And who got the Power of Attorney from him? All right, and I’ll get it again!” He sat back, a little calmer. “Don’t you worry. Those books’ll be above reproach before the IRS makes their next visit. I promise you none of us are going to jail! Cross my heart.” He ran his index finger up, then down his breast pocket, knowing the familiar gesture from their childhood would go a long way toward reassuring his brothers and cousin.

Chapter 3. Married Alive

Larry Lipshitz sprawled across his black leather sofa, reading a newspaper and trying fairly successfully to ignore his wife. She waved a copy of the financial section about, pointing over and over at the headline:

Lipshitz Heir Located. Small Town Boy $20 Million Richer!

“A hick! A yokel. Nothing worthwhile every came out of Clayton Falls! Your uncle must have been crazy to leave all that money to him! You’re as closely related to him as this bumpkin is, and what did you get?”

She tossed the financial section into his lap. He moved it over and carried on reading the sports section. “I said, what did you get?”

“Stop yelling at me, Cassie. Can I help it if my uncle didn’t like me?” Larry looked at his wife. “Besides, we’re doing all right. We don’t need his money.”

“I told you to be nice to him. Ten years we’ve been waiting for that old man to kick off. And then we were going to be on Easy Street.”

Larry looked around—they had a lovely home, furnished in excellent taste. He did okay as a financial analyst, and she had a high-paying job in R&D at Dupont. They’d done well in the stock market and, having never had children, were looking forward to early retirement and moving up to the summer place permanently. “The summer place. Uncle David gave us that beautiful place as a wedding present. I’ve always felt he was very generous.”

Cassie tossed her red curls. “Considering his net worth, he could have been a whole fuck of a lot more generous than that! I’m going to see about getting the will overturned. We have a good claim on that estate, and we’re going to see that that hayseed Sandburg doesn’t blow it on… I don’t know, hay or something.”

Larry sat up and put his paper aside. “Well, I don’t know about that, Cassie. I suppose I could go see Cousin Blair and see if he wants to, uh, maybe split it with us or something. I could ask.”

Cassie eyed her husband critically. “Don’t bother. What idiot in their right mind would give away money they didn’t have to? I’m going to try to reach Lipshitz’s lawyers. I’ve got their card right here. They can advise us on our chances of getting something out of the old man.”

“What ‘us’?” Larry asked, but Cassie was already dialling.

Chapter 4. Liars and Taggerts and Blairs. Oh, my!

Joel Taggert stood at the front of The Cascade Times “situation room”. It was a fairly large boardroom, the inside wall constructed completely of television sets, each showing the news from a different channel: local, national, interna­tional. A dozen remotes were holstered to a Velcro-covered bar near the front, all currently set on mute. While a newcomer might find the silently scrolling reports and flashing graphics distracting, the seven reporters and photographers scattered around the boardroom table were all pros, ignoring the endless broadcasts.

The facing wall was floor to ceiling windows, slightly tinted to avoid glare on the TV screens. A tall, handsome man leaned against one window, staring out at Cascade harbour, apparently indifferent to the heated discussion going on around him.

“He’s news!” Joel was saying. “Every time he blows his nose, it’s news. A corn-fed bohunk like that falling into the Lipshitz fortune is hot copy. But it’s got to be personal. It’s got to have an angle. What does he think about? How does it feel to be an overnight millionaire? Is he going to get married? What does he think of Cascade? Is he smart? Is he sexy? There’s a million angles, people. Get. Me. One!”

“Yeah, we tried to—” one reporter spoke up.

Joel interrupted her. “Sandburg’s been here three days, and what have you brought in?” He pulled out a large purple bandanna and mopped his sweaty brow.

The self-appointed spokes-reporter tried again. “You know Simon Banks. He’s keeping this Sandburg guy under lock and key.”

“Simon Banks, huh?” Joel smiled. “I know Simon well. He’s a good guy. Find a way around him! Listen, people. This is just like diffusing a bomb; you have to finesse it. You have to study it carefully, circle it, check it out and then swoop in and do your thing. And if you think you got it wrong, run like hell so you can live to try again another day.”

There was laughter around the room, even though most of them had heard the bomb analogy before.

“We’ll try, sir!” One of the young photographers had a little case of hero worship for Joel. The other reporters rolled their eyes or smiled warmly, depending on their temperament. The man by the window ignored them all.

“Now here are some updates we’ve pulled together from other sources.” Joel tossed a pile of photocopies to the first man on his right, who took one and passed them on. “So bone up on these and then come see me when you’ve got a plan. I want a coordinated effort here. No cowboy stuff. My door’s always open to you.”

The group knew the signal for “meeting adjourned” when they heard it. Noisily, they collected their notebooks, both electronic and the old-fashioned paper kind, and scrambled to their feet.

The man by the window remained. Now that the meeting was over, he turned to face the room, watching his colleagues file out. Joel picked up his favourite coffee cup, the one with a picture of his first grandchild on it, and walked over to the windows.

“‘Cornfed bohunk’, Joel? Who writes your stuff? Minnie Pearl?”

“You’re welcome to criticize my word choices any time, Jim. That is, anytime you put something of your own on my desk for editing. I can’t believe that you, my star reporter, haven’t brought me anything on Blair Sandburg. The news­paper-reading public loves this human-interest stuff, Jim. The only reason I haven’t whaled on your ass is that none of the other papers have come up with anything either.”

“‘Whaled on my ass,’ Joel?” Jim’s tone was dryer than good gin.

“Metaphorically, speaking, of course.” Joel smoothed his tie. He and Jim Ellison went way back and genuinely liked each other.

“I thought I was supposed to be a crime reporter, Joel.”

“And it’s a crime nobody’s got anything to report on Sandburg yet.”

“Look, Joel. I know you gave me a chance when no one else would hire me, when my...” Jim made a sweeping gesture that encompassed his ears-eyes-nose-mouth-entire-self. “You know, senses or whatever went crazy, and I couldn’t be a cop anymore. I appreciate that, Joel; I really do. But you said then that my experience in law enforcement, my detective training and skills would really give me an advantage as a crime reporter.” Joel nodded. “So explain to me how spying on some lucky stiff who just inherited 20-million bucks is, in any way shape or form, crime reporting?”

“Look, Ellison. Nobody else can get near him, and you’ve got a history of working well with Simon Banks. Hell, so do I. Simon’s a great guy, and you know as well as I do that he’s putting his knowledge and training in law enforcement to good use keeping everybody away from his boy.” Joel leaned in close. “And besides, it’s a slow news week. I promise I’ll pull you from the Sandburg story the instant some crazy takes hostages in an elevator, or hides bombs in public places, or threatens to poison the water supply. How’s that for a compromise?” He slapped Jim soundly on the shoulder. Jim winced a bit.

“Okay, Joel. Okay.” Jim shrugged, staring out the window again. “He hasn’t taken out Old Man Lipshitz’s yacht since he’s been in Cascade. It’s just sitting there at the Cascade Yacht Club. Lee Brackett was out there earlier with a pretty young girl, though. Wonder if Mrs. Brackett knows.”

“Don’t tell me you can see all the way to the yacht club from here, Jim. That’s preposterous.” Joel was aware that Jim had great vision, but that far? No way. “What’s gotten into you, anyway, Jim? I remember a time when you’d blast this town wide open before you’d let Simon Banks get between you and a good story.”

“Oh, Simon’s not getting in my way. Don’t you worry about that.” He looked at Joel, a grin that could only be defined as “shit-eating” on his handsome face.

Joel’s face lit up. He wagged a finger at Jim. “Ah. So, you’ve a plan then. Are you going to share with your old Editor?”

“When have I ever?” Jim smiled back, complicity the bond between them.

“If it were anyone else, Ellison. Anyone else.” He shook his head but was still smiling. He laid a hand on Jim’s arm, and they turned to leave the boardroom. “Listen, Jim, get me some stuff on this guy, and you can have—”

“Two month’s vacation?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I could never get that past the higher ups.”

“One month, then.”

“Done! Get me the goods on Sandburg, and you can have a month off with pay.”

They reached the door and stopped again. “Leave four columns open on the front page tomorrow,” Jim said loudly; loudly enough for the rest of the newsroom to hear. He headed up the hall toward his office.

“Hey, Jim!” Joel called after him. “What’re you gonna do with a month’s vacation?”

Jim turned back, but kept walking, somehow able to move through the crowded work area without hitting anything or anybody. “I’m going to Peru to see a man about a Guide.”

“A man about a… Well, that’s just crazy!” Joel muttered. He heard Ellison laughing down the hall. It was almost as if Jim had heard him.

Chapter 5.Clothed for the Season

The former Lipshitz Manor, now the Sandburg residence, was an imposing structure. It featured gothic, Italianate, and Victorian detailing. It had turrets and crenellated rooftops. It had ivy and ginger-breading and gables galore. It had marble pillars and flying buttresses. It should have been an architect’s nightmare, but instead, it all kind of worked together in a strong, eclectic manner. It might not have been beautiful, and Frank Lloyd Wright would have run screaming, but it was one of the more interesting homes in Cascade, and Blair was quite taken by it.

He’d been there before, of course. His uncle had invited him for dinner a couple of times a year when Blair had been studying at Rainier University, but Blair’s education had spanned a lot of years, so it had meant a lot of dinners. He’d liked his uncle, although he’d rarely seen him since he’d moved back to Clayton Falls. Apparently, though, Blair’s mother, Naomi, and Uncle David had had some sort of falling out. Something about bailing her out once too often. Blair suspected that it might have been Uncle David’s money that had allowed Naomi to keep her fancy-free, hippie lifestyle, flitting here and there around the world without ever holding down a job. He’d ask Simon about it later. Maybe there was a trust fund or a stipend somewhere on the books. It would be good to know that Naomi and David had attained some sort of truce, now that they were both gone and no reconciliation could ever take place. At least not on this plane of existence.

The house seemed huge to Blair, although there were plenty of other mansions on the street that dwarfed it. It had a living room, a formal dining room, a parlour, a party room, a “rec” room, six bedrooms with ensuite baths, and more that Blair hadn’t had a chance to discover yet. There was even a small ballroom on the ground floor near the front. He’d eschewed the master suite that had been his uncle’s, feeling too much like an interloper although Simon and Rafe both assured him Lipshitz wanted him to have everything—hence the will. Still, he’d chosen a smaller room and even offered the master suite to Rafe if he liked. Rafe declined, saying the apartment over the five-car garage was more than spacious, and much more private. The emphasis Rafe had put on “private” had confirmed some things Blair had suspected. Also, in ensuring his own privacy, Rafe also ensured Blair’s.

Blair had inherited Rafe, the valet, along with the rest of the Lipshitz estate, and as far as Blair was concerned, he was the best thing about the place. Slim, good-looking, with a quick mind and very dry sense of humour, he provided nearly transparent service and pleasant, if deferential company; the man was the quintessential in-service professional.

Most of the house, though, seemed to be left unused. In fact, everybody congregated in the “family room”, although there was nothing “family” about it. It seemed to have been his uncle’s workroom and office. It had a desk and chairs on one side, couch, TV and bar on the other. A huge antique mirror graced one wall. Most importantly, it had direct access to the kitchen. Rafe had referred to it as “command central” when giving Blair his initial tour of his new home. The name had stuck.

It was in command central that Blair found himself on the morning of his third day as a millionaire. He was positioned on a tailor’s podium and stood awkwardly as two tailors waved chalk and pins like magic wands, fitting him for one suit after another. The one he was currently sporting was almost done. It was a conservative navy pinstripe, and he was as uncomfortable with the tailoring process as a kid at the dentist.

“This is the first time I ever had a suit made for me.” He fidgeted, shifting his weight to the right.

“Please, sir,” tailor Maurice reprimanded. “You’re skewing the drape.”

“Uh, what does that mean?” Blair asked, shifting his weight to the other side.

“It means,” Maurice’s partner, Travis, said, “that if you don’t hold still, this will have to be done over from scratch.”

Blair couldn’t bear the thought of going through this process again and so forced himself to hold as still as he could. He wished he could meditate—that would help—but there was too much commotion for him to relax and get peaceful.

“I usually just go to Ross Store and find something waaayyy discounted, “ he told the tailors. “In fact, I’ve got a couple of suits already. After all, I only wear ‘em to weddings, funerals and job interviews. Why, I bought a Harry Boss suit just a few years ago.”

“A suit that was off-price a few years ago would be terribly out of date by now.” Maurice sniffed and adjusted his designer glasses. “And by the way, that would be ‘Hugo Boss’, sir.”

Blair thought hard a moment. “Nope. I remember passing on the Hugo Boss stuff because it was so pricey. Now Harry Boss I could afford. Must be a family business, because the logo was practically identical. It’s like this Roltex watch I once bought. Got it way cheaper because the manufacturer made a typo in the name.” He grinned.

“You’re joshing with us, Mr. Sandburg, aren’t you?” Rafe entered the room with beverages “all round” as Blair had requested. Interestingly, Rafe, it seemed, could afford Hugo Boss suits. Not for the first time, Blair wondered what the dapper valet’s relationship with his uncle had been.

“Yeah, Rafe-buddy. I am. You guys think I’m such a hick. Try and remember I have two-and-a-half degrees, will you?”

“If I might be so bold, sir,” Maurice began. “I might hazard a guess that none of those degrees is in fashion design, is it?” He held Blair’s worn and torn jeans in one hand and a faded plaid shirt in the other, like exhibits A and B.

Blair threw his head back and laughed. “Ow!” His movement had caused Travis to stab his thigh with a pin—probably accidentally. Blair rubbed the spot, still chuckling. “You got me, man. Not one of the many courses for the many degrees was in modern-day fashion, although I did take a course in tribal body adornment. Did you know that the Ubangi of Africa often pierce—Ow!”

“Please hold still, sir. I cannot guarantee your continued safety if you keep dancing about like a… like a…”

“Like a kid that needs to pee?” Blair supplied helpfully.

“I was going to say like a go-go boy at Club Doom.”

This time Travis was quick enough to move the pins to a safe distance when Blair laughed so hard he doubled over.

“Now look what you’ve done, Maurice. I’m going to have to re-pin the knees as well as the seat and crotch.”

This, of course, set Blair to laughing again. Travis stood with hands on hips, all formal and stern, but his smile indicated he was having more fun with his present client than he had had in a long time.

Simon Banks and Lee Brackett chose that moment to enter. “Wow, Blair. That looks great on you,” Brackett said. “The chicks are going to go crazy for you.”

Rafe raised one eyebrow. “Well, someone certainly will,” he seconded. “May I get you gentlemen a drink?”

Simon Banks sniffed the air. “Is that Colombian I smell, Rafe?

“You’re good, sir. I just brewed up a fresh pot of Nariño Supremo. I’m assuming you’d like a cup?”

“Oh, yes, please. Or, you know, an entire pot. Whatever’s easier.” Simon sniffed again, sighing contentedly.

“Mr. Brackett?” Rafe asked.

“Uh, same for me, uh, Ralph. But that last one you made me tasted kind of funny. See what you can do about that, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Blair snickered, thinking Brackett might be wise to either learn Rafe’s name or stop drinking the coffee.

Brackett made himself at home at the antique desk in the corner, pulling papers from his briefcase and taking up their conversation of yesterday exactly where he’d left off. “It’s merely a suggestion, Blair. I don’t wish to press the point, but if you’ll give me your Power of Attorney, we’ll take care of everything. It’ll save you a lot of petty annoyances. Every shark in town is going to try and sell you something.”

Blair was about to protest. He’d told Brackett again just yesterday that he needed time to think about it and, frankly, twelve hours hadn’t been what he’d meant. But Brackett had, ironically, raised a good point about people trying to sell him something. “You’re right, Lee. There’s been a lot of hangers-on and people with their hands out around here already.” He looked pointedly at Brackett. Simon looked uncomfortable, but Brackett was oblivious. “Strangest kind of people.” Blair continued. “Salesmen, politicians, lawyers… They all want something.”

“Lawyers, hmm?” Brackett looked nervous. “Well, until the estate is fully settled, you’re locked into my firm. You can undertake the painful process of short-listing, interviewing, reference-checking, negotiating…” He sighed. “I don’t envy you the task, Blair. Finding a new lawyer you can trust, one that’s up to speed and large enough to handle all your needs, while keeping the business here in Cascade… Whew!” Bracke