Chapter 15
15
Sunday, 12:12 p.m.
“ I ’m getting all dirty, Reginald,” Eerika said, dropping the crow bar she held and putting her left hand around her broken right pinkie nail as if that would mend it again. “And I didn’t see a nail salon in Orrisey. This is stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. Your nails are rather ridiculous anyway, don’t you think? How do you even use your phone?”
“That’s what the stylus is for.” She sniffed. “And don’t be angry at me because you can’t find anything. We’ve torn up every floor board in this entire room. The map’s not here.”
“Oh, it’s here.” Reginald tossed his hammer aside. “It’s just not here . He moved it.”
Using the back of one filthy hand to swipe blond hair out of her eyes, she frowned at his backside. “Then why are we still ripping up floorboards, for heaven’s sake?”
“To make certain it’s not here.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous, Reginald. You told me—”
“I told you there was money and fame here that Ricky could only claim if he got to it first. He hasn’t done so. Which means I will.”
“How do you know he hasn’t?”
Reginald straightened, his slightly bland features forming into a pleasant smile that made him look more like his cousin. “Two reasons. First, Ricky can’t keep his purchases and discoveries to himself, especially if they’re rare and valuable. He’ll do an interview with some magazine or newspaper or something to explain what perfect taste he has, and why he’s saved some old stick figure from historical obscurity. But there’s never been a whisper about Will Dawkin’s treasure. Second, he’s extremely worried that we’re looking about in here. He nearly threw a tantrum when he found me in here the other day, and then he actually offered me money to stop searching. The—”
“He offered you money?” Eerika interrupted, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice. “How much money?”
His smile sagged a little. “He didn’t name a figure. What do y—"
“Reginald,” she cut in again, bending down to pick up her crowbar and gratified to see his attention on her chest as she straightened once more. “I could do an entire series around an unexpected windfall. Money doesn’t have the same ring as highwayman’s gold, but it might work. We’d have to change the name of the show, of course, but I’m not married to Booty Queen , anyway.”
He took the crowbar out of her fingers, then straightened to give her a soft kiss. “I like Booty Queen . But Rick’s charity money wouldn’t be enough. I negotiate price against product for a living. Trust me. Finding the treasure wouldn’t be charity. It would be mine. Ours. As would all the publicity we get from digging up Will Dawkin’s treasure.”
Stifling her sigh at the fragile egos of men, she furrowed her brow in the pout she’d been told was her second most attractive expression. “Darling, Booty Queen only happens if we find the map.” She sniffed. “I am getting impatient, Reginald. I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to tolerate going shopping with that woman.”
“Eerika, I will find it for you. The map and the treasure.” He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “I promised you a treasure, and I promised you that this would be the thing that moved me so far beyond being just ‘the other Addison, you know, not Richard’, that he’ll have to make an appointment to see me . And that producer friend of yours will have to make an appointment to see you, because you’ll be busy being a star.”
Well, he sounded very certain of that. At the best she could be married to the famous Reginald Addison and he could be married to the even more famous Eerika Nyland. At the least it would be nice not to have to go to the bother of pretending he was Richard Addison when he climbed on top of her. Folding her frown into a smile and stepping closer to rub her chest against his, she took his free hand. “You make me wet when you talk like that. It’s just that you’ve been promising me that highwayman’s treasure for weeks. I want it. I want it now. I want to see you tell your cousin you found it. I want that tiny rude woman to know she settled for the wrong Addison cousin. And I want all the fame that comes with it.”
“You make me hard when you talk like that ,” he said thickly. “What say we go take a shower and wash all this dirt off each other, and then figure out why Ricky’s American has been spending so much time in the attic? Especially when Ricky claims she finds lost things that are worth large piles of money?”
Thank Christ. She’d been nudging him toward the idea of using the American’s claimed expertise for the past two days. It had become clear to her almost immediately that all Reginald had was a theory and a vague idea. She’d sharpened it as best she could, but they had a limited amount of time here, and with the months she’d invested in Reginald she required a payoff. A very lucrative one. That was what she’d been promised, after all. If Sam Jellicoe was capable of providing it, then she must be convinced to do so. There didn’t appear to be any other option.
Her mother had always said that a man with possibilities and no ideas needed a woman with intelligence and ambition. Reginald was that man, because the little American already had her claws into the good Addison. And by God, Eerika Eunice Nyland was that woman.
Lightning slashed across the windows along the front wall of The Bonny Lass. The sky had been lowering all morning, and according to Jamie MaCafferty, the pub’s owner, they were in for a bit of a blow. By Highlands standards that could well mean something apocalyptic.
The lights flickered overhead. It could also mean the end of their internet and wi-fi. Tom glanced over the screen of his laptop, then went back to typing. Generally the two of them would be pacing, contract revisions in hand, while someone else typed up changes for immediate review by the other party involved. These were not normal circumstances, and as thunder rumbled again Richard had the distinct impression they were running out of time.
“Do you have it?” he asked. “I’ll still step in to purchase Himori Gaming, but if that bastard Kigomo stays on, my offer shrinks to four hundred million because of the impediment his presence will cost my business and my reputation. Let’s see how their board likes that.”
“You’re sure they won’t just back out of the whole deal? A hundred seventy million is a lot to lose in exchange for keeping one bastard on the payroll.”
“They can’t afford to back out. That’s the problem when a company puts all its resources behind a billion-dollar enterprise that gets a unanimous ‘worst game of the year’ vote.”
“Yeah, Rick Addison swoops in and suddenly your company will be working on a Godzilla VR game for his girlfriend.”
Richard grinned. “I am not making anyone work on anything. I am going to run the next big game idea by your children before I sign off on it, though. There will be no Slip and Slime 2 .”
“And thank God for that. I’ve never heard so much whining about how many hockey goals my kids had to make before they earned enough points for ladder steps to climb a slide or some such crap.”
“Less complaining. More typing.”
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Prendergast didn’t give me an A for being the slowest typist in typing class.”
Richard pushed to his feet. “There’ll be a mug of mulled cider and cinnamon whisky waiting for you to hit Send.”
“I’m getting there. Go away.”
He’d been planning on that, anyway. The pub was nearly empty at the moment, with just Jamie and a couple of old timers in the far corner playing darts. Richard strolled up to the long bar.
“What can I get ye, m’laird?” Jamie asked.
“Two mulled ciders with cinnamon Benedictine, if you please.”
“It’s a good day for it, I reckon.”
Richard leaned an elbow on the bar. “My cousin’s been a little curious about some of the old legends since he came to visit,” he said quietly. “I’ve been putting him off, but he may decide to go digging. Is there anything new I need to make him avoid?”
The pub’s owner squinted one eye. “If ye’ve come here to allow trouble, all these villagers will wish ye’d left us abandoned.”
“I think you know I have Orissey’s best interests in mind. Be patient and I’ll attempt to do the same.”
“I keep to that very same philosophy, m’laird. But I’m one lad. There are those a wee bit more worried than I am. You giving yer word and all.”
Clenching his jaw, Richard nodded crisply. “I will do my part. If things move beyond my control, I will let you know.” At least at this moment Reg was clomping around so loudly that no one but Richard and Stoney had any idea Samantha was the real threat. But he still needed to stop both of them.
Jamie inclined his head. “I appreciate that. Here lately or nae, ye’ve done well by us, m’laird. At least most of us think so.” He set the mugs on the bar top.
“Then most of you are welcome.” Picking up the mugs, Richard returned to the table. “Sent?”
“Just. I added another forty-eight hours for final signatures, because Scotland.”
Which also meant Tom would be staying for at least another forty-eight hours – which meant Walter Barstone would be about for at least that long, as well. Businesswise it made sense. It was all playing hell with his blood pressure, though.
Tom sipped from his mug. “You could just let this go.”
“No. People don’t get to alter the rules midway through a game in the hopes that I’ll leave my marbles and go home. It sets a bad precedent.”
“I get it. I’m just saying you c—”
The lights flared and went out.
“Well, that’s that,” one of the old-timers drawled. “Wife willnae like sitting alone in the dark.” The three men got up, put on heavy slickers, and left the tavern.
“We may as well go, too, before the road washes out.” Richard handed over the waterproof case as the attorney shut down his computer.
“Do ye want me to send word up when the internet’s back?” Jamie asked, walking over to collect the used plates and glasses.
“Please do. I imagine we’ll have at least one more day of this.”
“Ye help us honor our way of life, and I’ll keep welcoming ye back, m’laird.”
No, that didn’t sound odd at all. “I’ll hold you to that,” Richard said for good measure.
Outside they hurried through the driving rain to the jeep and jumped in. “I think Scotland might hate us,” Tom noted.
“Scotland doesn’t care,” Richard replied, putting the wipers on what Samantha termed “ludicrous speed”. Living most of the year in Florida meant being accustomed to heavy rain and the occasional hurricane. Here, however it also meant steep terrain, muddy roads, and overrun streams cascading down mountainsides.
If he hadn’t been keenly aware that he’d left Samantha at Canniebrae with his relations and her literal partner in crime, he would have been tempted to put himself and Tom up at one of the bed and breakfasts that had sprung up in the village since Braveheart and the Outlander had made the Highlands so popular with tourists.
“How are you helping them honor their way of life?” Tom asked. “By buying drinks?”
“Technically I own the village,” Richard said, wondering how many twisted tales he could hold onto before it gave him a stroke. “Or the land it’s on, anyway. I keep the rent low, and Orrisey becomes the second quaintest village in the Highlands.” That sounded fairly straightforward, at least.
“Gotcha. When I leave,” Tom said, doing a valiant job of trying not to look terrified as they skidded up the road, “how are you going to work it with Barstone?”
“I won’t work it with Barstone. I’ll work it with Samantha. She knows you came up here because you had to. You leave, he leaves. That’s the deal.”
“And if she doesn’t agr—”
“That’s the deal,” Richard cut in. “I have every confidence that she concurs.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re confident, but I’d be even happier if you slowed down a little.”
Richard took a breath. Yes, every moment that went by with Samantha digging into highwayman legends, especially with Walter there to help her, did make him a little keener to get back to Canniebrae. At the same time, the man sitting beside him was a husband and a father. He eased his foot off the accelerator.
“Thanks.”
“As convinced as you are that Samantha will be the death of me,” Richard pressed, “she’s a huge incentive for me to remain alive and healthy. That’s the only way I’ll be able to keep up with her.”
“I ain’t gonna argue with you while you’re driving,” Tom drawled.
Just as well; the attorney would never win that fight. But it did remind Richard of that other problem waiting back at the house for him. “If I wanted to write someone a substantial check, say,” he began, picking through his words, “how much do I have to hand?”
Whatever bee had gotten into Reg’s bonnet, his cousin hadn’t shown any inclination to give up digging for buried treasure. Reasonably, the only way to counter a treasure hunt was with money. Enough money to convince Reg that it was no longer worth his time to continue digging, whether an actual treasure existed or not.
Tom sat up straighter. “Wait a minute. Just who are you buying off? Because if it’s Jellicoe I might be willing to chip in a little of my own money.”
“It’s not Samantha, for God’s sake.”
“Okay, okay. A man can dream, can’t he?”
“How much?”
“You’ve got some cash flow tied up with this Himori deal because the numbers keep changing,” the attorney mused. “And I’m not your accountant. But off the top of my head I’d say you’ve got about two million to play with if you don’t want to bother with shifting funds or cashing out assets.”
Two million. When he brokered deals for high-end cars Reg likely made seven or eight thousand dollars. An offer of a million or two in exchange for not digging up floorboards and chasing a two-hundred-year-old rumor seemed more than fair. The question was if offering anything substantial would convince Reg that the treasure was real and that it was worth more than the bribe.
“Do you need me to write up an agreement or something?” Tom asked.
“Not yet. This is a little tricky. Another reason Rawley Park might have been a better location for this holiday.”
“Just don’t blame me. I only suggested the two of you go somewhere remote and maybe out of Jellicoe’s comfort zone.”
“If I’d known Reg was still obsessed over something none of us have even mentioned over the past eighteen years, I would have decided differently.” As for Samantha’s comfort zone, he hadn’t yet found the edges of that, either.
“You know, I’m a pretty good lawyer. If you tell me what you need, I might actually be able to help you.”
“I appreciate that. It’s not my tale to tell. I gave my word.”
“It’s been eighteen years? You would have been what, fifteen? Whatever you did or said or agreed to isn’t legally binding. Not when a minor is involved.”
“Spoken like a true attorney.” Richard tapped the brakes as a trio of deer bolted across the road. “It’s morally binding. I’ll deal with it. It just might take a good portion of that two million.”
“Okay. My feelings are a little hurt, but okay.”
“ Your feelings? Just imagine Reg and Samantha’s.”
“Jellicoe’s part of this, too?”
“She’s dabbling. I don’t know how serious she is about it. Not very, hopefully. Because if she went in full bore she would run circles around Reg, and I wouldn’t be able to buy her off.” Given the limited visitor population at this time of year, the blame for any treasure discovery would land on his doorstep. Whatever happened would be his responsibility – and with two stubborn, independent people refusing to listen to him and making him scramble to keep some semblance of control, this was maddening.
“You think Jellicoe’s here to pull a job?”
“No. Of course not.” He grimaced. “Probably not.” Not until he’d half pushed her in that direction, anyway.
In fact, now that he considered it, he couldn’t conceive a reason why Samantha would have given up on this chase. He’d mostly denied it existed, had refused to give her any information about it, and had then more or less challenged her to do her worst. Yes, he’d seen to it that she had no access to more facts and no real chance, but that didn’t mean she’d given up. If she was still hunting, though, she’d certainly been very low key about it.
A shiver ran down his spine. She saw a puzzle and a challenge. She knew nothing about the stakes or the consequences. How much could he even tell her that wouldn’t cause him to break his word – or worse, convince her that this was something she couldn’t resist?
“We’re um, going very fast again.”
At Tom’s high-pitched protest, Richard slowed down once more. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t solve anything one way or the other, unless he ended up dead. And he had other plans.
Just as they stopped at the head of the drive, the sky opened up. Christ. He’d thought it had been raining hard before. Another half dozen degrees colder and it would have been sleet. As it was, every drop stung like ice, and it came down thick as a waterfall. Swearing, he shoved Tom into the foyer ahead of him, and then stumbled in behind.
“Ye’ve seen some Highlands weather now, I reckon,” Yule said, trading Richard’s light jacket for a rough towel. “We’ll have snow by sunrise. A month early, this year.”
Richard didn’t doubt it. “Tom, use my office and try to get hold of Mansour. Make sure those last amendments went through. Do it quickly; you know what the power’s like here in good weather.” In fact, he was surprised they still had the lights on. The house was missing a legitimate excuse to go dark.
“I’m on it,” Tom said, and started upstairs.
“Yule, where is everyone?”
“Yer uncle’s in the billiards room, yer aunt’s reading in the library, Master Reginald and Miss Nyland are in their room, and Miss Sam and the new fella are still in the attic.”
Reg wasn’t digging up floorboards? If he’d given up looking for the damn map that would solve several problems Richard hadn’t anticipated in coming to Scotland, but nothing had been simple or easy so far. There was no reason for anything to change now. He could go see what his cousin was up to, but that would have to wait until after he’d looked in on Samantha and Walter.
“I’ll be in the attic,” he said aloud. “Have they eaten lunch?”
“Aye, m’laird. Miss Sam brought up a tray of sandwiches an hour or so ago. I was about to inquire if they wanted more sodas. I’m glad ye called ahead to have us stock ‘em; Miss Sam seems very partial to diet Cokes.”
“That, she is,” Rick returned, angling for the kitchen. “I’ll bring some up there.”
He pulled three from the large refrigerator even if that definitely felt like one too many. For as long as he needed Tom about, though, he would be reasonably welcoming to Walter Barstone.
The attic door was closed when he reached it, and he pushed down the handle with one elbow. “Any leaks up here?” he called, raising his voice over the roar of rain hitting the roof just a few feet above his head.
“Just the same one in the corner so far,” Samantha returned. They sat in mismatched dining room chairs, Samantha with her feet up on an old gaming table, her ankles crossed. Walter wore headphones, while Samantha’s hung down from her neck.
“Still listening to last night’s recordings?” he asked, handing out the soda cans before he settled one hip on a mahogany credenza.
She was right about the roof; despite the noise, the only water visible came from the near corner and plopped into a quarter-full metal bucket. Samantha popped her soda top, toasted him, and took a long couple of swallows. “Yep, still listening. You’re not gonna believe some of the stuff we found.”
“That’s true. I very likely will not believe it.” He looked over at Barstone. “Did she even give you a chance to unpack?”
“Nope.” The fence – or “broker”, as he referred to himself – gestured at the duffle bag resting against the stair railing.
Ah. No doubt that would be his so-called “go-bag”, like the one Samantha had kept beneath their bed until a few weeks ago. Something always ready, filled with cash, a change of clothes, and whatever else thieves and thief-adjacent people required if they needed to flee quickly.
It did make him wonder what Samantha had told Walter to get him there so quickly and with nothing but his go-bag. “There are some spare clothes and dress jackets in the dressing room at the top of the main stairs, if you get tired of what you’re wearing. My relations like to dress for dinner on occasion – which generally means when it’s the least convenient for everyone else.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” the broad-shouldered cross between Hulk Hogan and Diana Ross said, holding one side of the headphones away from his left ear. “I’m not doing formal dining with your relatives just so you can scare their conservative little hides with the big black man.”
“That’s a bit hostile and Anglophobic, isn’t it?” Richard countered, unsurprised. “Whatever their conservative little hides might think, my only concern about your presence is that you haven’t given up the business from which Samantha has recently retired.”
“Yeah, like I’m the one who’s nearly gotten her killed twenty times over the past year.”
“It hasn’t been more than three or four times,” Samantha butted in. “And most of ‘em had more to do with my past than Rick’s. Or with his present. I know you both adore me, but I’m a bad influence on myself. Stop trying to give the credit to each other.”
Richard didn’t like giving up the argument, mostly because it was one he would win. Samantha’s life might not be as exciting as it was a year ago, but it did have its moments. And she was much, much safer these days. He inclined his head. “Fine. Join us if you like, Walter, and dress as you like. I trust you will be leaving when Tom Donner departs.”
“I’ll give you one thing. You Brits have the nicest way of telling someone to beat it.”
“Yes, we do. I am being nice. Remember that.” He straightened. “How much longer will you be up here today?”
“Another hour or so. Then we have to go through the stationary camera footage. I figure we’ll have something for you guys after dinner. And it’s kind of spooky. You should probably tell Norway to take a Xanax.”
“And miss out on another stunning performance of abject fear and helplessness? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Samantha tilted her head. “You know she’s faking it, then?”
He started down the staircase. “Of course I do. Your former line of business isn’t the only one where it’s useful to be able to decipher people. If she’s auditioning for a reality show, she’s wasting her time here. You and I have this one covered.”