battlements and a moat that had long since been drained andgraveled. A tower house, Oliver told her, in Scottish parlance—a thirteenth-century keep that had grown wings during the Renaissance. It had witnessed the Jacobite defeat at Culloden, not forty miles to the north, and harbored Bonnie Prince Charlie during his flight to the Continent; and when the tartan and the bagpipe and the clans were banned as a result of that failed revolt, Inverlaggan passed to English owners. Allied soldiers were garrisoned in its fastness during the Second World War, but since then, the place had fallen into disrepair.
“This whole bit of country round about Loch Lochy was used for commando training in the last war,” Oliver said as he tramped down the wild western shore of the lake in his dark green Wellies. “There’s a memorial to them in bronze over at the foot of Spean Bridge. Parachute drops, live ammo, stealthy raids by night—assassins and decoder rings. Perfect setting for Krane and Associates’ corporate training center.”
“Walt Disney could not have done better,” Stefani agreed. “But why the Highlands? Are your people Scottish?”
“Good Lord, no!” he replied in tones of shock, and heaved her booted foot out of a boggy patch with one hand placed deftly at the elbow.
“The will,” he said two nights later, as he handed her a few sheets of paper, “direct from Roderick’s lawyer, Jeffrey Knetsch.”
The first thing she noticed was the date: February 12, 1967. Jack Roderick had drafted his final testament a little over a month before he disappeared. She shuddered involuntarily. She had never written a will. She was certain she would die if she did.
The bequests were brief and to the point. A few minor monetary gifts to persons of multisyllabic Thai names that meant nothing to Stefani—a collection of Bencharong porcelain to
“my houseboy, Chanat Surian, in recognition of his faithful service”—and
three hundred shares of privately held stock in the Jack Roderick Silk Company to
“my beloved friends, the Galayanapong family.”
Midway through the first page, the document came to the point.
I, John Pierpont Roderick, being of sound mind and body, leave the residue of my estate and all my worldly goods and chattels, including thirty percent of total shares in the Jack Roderick Silk Company (“the Estate”) to my son, Richard Pierce Roderick. In the event that Richard Pierce Roderick predeceases me, the Estate shall go in equal parts to his heirs and assigns.
She glanced over at Oliver Krane. “Richard Pierce, I presume, was nicknamed Rory?”
“The traditional diminutive of Roderick. Correct.”
“I thought he died
after
his father.”
Oliver shrugged. “Who’s to say? Jack Roderick wasn’t declared dead until a full seven years after his disappearance. No one can fix the time or place our Jack slipped this mortal coil. But Rory’s death was witnessed—by rather a lot of his flying buddies. So the Estate ought to have passed directly to Max.”
“I see.” Stefani frowned over the document in her hands. “But this will was lost for more than thirty years? And then just … resurfaced?”
“Jack Roderick’s sister Alice, who must have been ninety if she was a day, died quietly in Delaware last year. Her grandchildren subsequently cleaned out the matriarchal attic. In an old mailing tube—the sort that’s used for rolled pictures—they found the blueprints of a house. Jack’s house in Bangkok. The will had been slipped between two elevation renderings. He must have droppedit on the pile of blueprints by mistake, and sent it on to his sister.”
“He doesn’t sound like the sort of man to do anything by mistake.”
“He was the soul of deliberate cunning. A.B., Princeton Class of ’28, then University of Pennsylvania for graduate work in architecture.” Oliver would know Jack Roderick’s date of birth, his Social Security number, lifetime traffic violations and each specific
“This whole bit of country round about Loch Lochy was used for commando training in the last war,” Oliver said as he tramped down the wild western shore of the lake in his dark green Wellies. “There’s a memorial to them in bronze over at the foot of Spean Bridge. Parachute drops, live ammo, stealthy raids by night—assassins and decoder rings. Perfect setting for Krane and Associates’ corporate training center.”
“Walt Disney could not have done better,” Stefani agreed. “But why the Highlands? Are your people Scottish?”
“Good Lord, no!” he replied in tones of shock, and heaved her booted foot out of a boggy patch with one hand placed deftly at the elbow.
“The will,” he said two nights later, as he handed her a few sheets of paper, “direct from Roderick’s lawyer, Jeffrey Knetsch.”
The first thing she noticed was the date: February 12, 1967. Jack Roderick had drafted his final testament a little over a month before he disappeared. She shuddered involuntarily. She had never written a will. She was certain she would die if she did.
The bequests were brief and to the point. A few minor monetary gifts to persons of multisyllabic Thai names that meant nothing to Stefani—a collection of Bencharong porcelain to
“my houseboy, Chanat Surian, in recognition of his faithful service”—and
three hundred shares of privately held stock in the Jack Roderick Silk Company to
“my beloved friends, the Galayanapong family.”
Midway through the first page, the document came to the point.
I, John Pierpont Roderick, being of sound mind and body, leave the residue of my estate and all my worldly goods and chattels, including thirty percent of total shares in the Jack Roderick Silk Company (“the Estate”) to my son, Richard Pierce Roderick. In the event that Richard Pierce Roderick predeceases me, the Estate shall go in equal parts to his heirs and assigns.
She glanced over at Oliver Krane. “Richard Pierce, I presume, was nicknamed Rory?”
“The traditional diminutive of Roderick. Correct.”
“I thought he died
after
his father.”
Oliver shrugged. “Who’s to say? Jack Roderick wasn’t declared dead until a full seven years after his disappearance. No one can fix the time or place our Jack slipped this mortal coil. But Rory’s death was witnessed—by rather a lot of his flying buddies. So the Estate ought to have passed directly to Max.”
“I see.” Stefani frowned over the document in her hands. “But this will was lost for more than thirty years? And then just … resurfaced?”
“Jack Roderick’s sister Alice, who must have been ninety if she was a day, died quietly in Delaware last year. Her grandchildren subsequently cleaned out the matriarchal attic. In an old mailing tube—the sort that’s used for rolled pictures—they found the blueprints of a house. Jack’s house in Bangkok. The will had been slipped between two elevation renderings. He must have droppedit on the pile of blueprints by mistake, and sent it on to his sister.”
“He doesn’t sound like the sort of man to do anything by mistake.”
“He was the soul of deliberate cunning. A.B., Princeton Class of ’28, then University of Pennsylvania for graduate work in architecture.” Oliver would know Jack Roderick’s date of birth, his Social Security number, lifetime traffic violations and each specific
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