CHAPTER 7 #2
I gesture for the guy with the aviators to go first. “I’m Magnus McGregor, but I don’t understand why we have to take roll.”
CJ lifts his pointer finger. “I’m CJ.”
“I’m Ryan,” Ryan says.
“And I’m Royal,” Mr. Muffin says.
I don’t know what the listening version of a double take is, but I’m not sure I heard him right. Mr. Muffin is Mr. McGregor? Mr. McMuffin?
“Royal?” I repeat.
“Royal McGregor.”
An unusual and unexpected name. Then again, seeing Mr. McMuffin going on three times in going on thirty-six hours is equally so.
“Looks like we’re all here.”
“What about Chip?” Ryan asks.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any refreshments, but when we’re done, you can head over to the Plundering Pelican. If I recall, they have nachos.”
“Our grandfather, Carlos ‘Chip’ Almeida,” Royal says.
My attempt at a sunny expression falters. “I’m sorry. We’re here to read his Last Will and Testament.”
Magnus smacks his thigh with his palm. Ryan gazes at the window. CJ looks at me like this is sad but old news.
Royal leaps out of his chair and gets in my face, accusing me of trickery. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Do you think this is funny? Some kind of joke?”
Before the last word is out of his mouth, three pairs of hands draw him back and shove him into the chair.
Magnus remains on his feet, standing guard.
Ryan’s eyes are damp.
Drawing on my own losses, I say, “I’m sorry to be the one to deliver this tragic news. I wish I could tell you otherwise.” I want to add about how hard and confusing death can be. How prayer can help. But I remain seated, quiet, and let the brothers handle Royal’s outburst.
“I had a feeling this wasn’t a birthday party,” Magnus says.
“Should’ve read the card,” CJ adds.
“You knew?” Ryan asks.
CJ nods and his mostly sunny expression shadows with a combination of sadness and something else. Magnus catches it and watches his brother carefully as if trying to solve a puzzle.
“Miss, we’re sorry for being out of sorts, aren’t we, Royal?” Magnus says.
“It’s understandable. Receiving shocking and unexpected news is never easy.”
Magnus grunts.
Royal glares.
Ryan looks lost in the clouds.
CJ, the guy who dusted sand all over Mr. Edmonton’s desk when he kicked his feet up, sits surprisingly still as if he knows what’s coming.
Magnus lowers into the chair and says, “Please proceed.”
I read the cover page and all the formalities before I get to the section that’s unique to the brothers. Clearing my throat, I say, “To the eldest, Magnus, I leave my father’s pocket knife and a pillow.”
Pausing, I see all eyes are on him.
He shrugs. “Don’t sleep well.”
Continuing, I say, “To Twin Royal, I leave the family Bible and a book of matches.”
“Don’t you dare burn that thing,” Ryan says.
Royal looks like he’s about to deck his twin. “I would never.”
“To Twin Ryan, I leave my journal and a pen.”
Ryan frowns. “A pen?”
“Maybe it’s a magic pen,” CJ says. “It’s the one with the plume.”
We all look at him.
“To Chip Junior, I leave my sextant and the Salty Skeleton.”
The other three guys chorus, “The Salty Skeleton?”
His shoulders lift and lower, but his subtle smile and the light in his eyes suggest he knows exactly what that means.
“Where’s he buried?” Magnus asks, rather somberly.
“Chip had a mausoleum built at the point,” CJ says.
After a beat, Royal asks, “So that’s it? One of his usual puzzles and nothing else?”
“Don’t sound so entitled,” Magnus fires back.
Ryan says, “These all seem like relatively arbitrary things. Chip left me a pen?”
I flip through the pages to see if there’s more. The next list is brief. “There are what look like several properties allotted to each of you as well, along with instructions.”
They lean in.
“The Junk goes to Magnus with a dollar amount next to it allotted for repairs.”
“Junks, plural?” Magnus asks.
I reread the line. “Yes, my apologies. Why would he leave you junk, though?”
“A junk is a type of ship. He named his properties after boats. The Junks are some cottages on the other side of the island,” Magnus explains.
I tell him the total amount afforded for repairs. He scoffs like it’s laughable—either they’re little more than junk or that’s not enough money.
“Next is the Sloop, to Ryan.”
Royal chuckles. “He left you the little ship?”
Ryan shrugs. “I always liked the Sip & Scoop, aka the Sloop.”
“So, you got the building containing what could be a thriving business?” I say pointedly because Royal is being a jerk. “There are also funds designated for its revitalization. Next, the Galleon and the entire Driftwood property go to Royal.”
He leans back and slings his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t want it.”
“There is a sizable dollar amount here for repairs,” I continue, ignoring him. “Last but not least, it says, and I quote, ‘CJ gets anything left that floats.’”
He smiles like that’s great news.
A sticky note is on the top of the next page, printed with the word ship and a string of numbers.
I wish sister telepathy were real. I look around the room as perspiration dampens my forehead.
Did she mean shop? Then my gaze lands on a painting in an alcove.
While the brothers banter back and forth about the meaning of the bequests, I get to my feet and cross the room on shaky legs.
I carefully tug on the frame of the painting of a ship in a storm. It’s a nice piece, a bit dark and foreboding. Not something you’d necessarily want to stare at every day in a coastal area prone to storm surges.
Sure enough, the painting swings open on a hinge, revealing a safe. I punch the numbers from the note into a keypad and retrieve the items Chip left his grandsons and give them to each of the guys, well, except for the last item.
“What is a Salty Skeleton, anyway?” Ryan asks as if reading my mind.
CJ smirks. “Not a Salty Skeleton. The Salty Skeleton.”
Royal glowers. “Save it, CJ. We don’t want to hear your stupid stories.”
Something tells me that his grandfather and the youngest McGregor brother were closer than the others. Perhaps they shared secrets of the skeletons in the closet variety.