“MacCarthy didn’t just bend the law. He ignored it,” Sinclair stated.
Isabel didn’t press them for details. She would wait until later to find out what MacCarthy had been up to . . . besides taking on a client who wanted to kill her.
Sinclair leaned against the desk and asked Nessie, “What is it you do here?”
“I answer the phones and take messages. I also do computer work and filing. I assist both of them.”
“Do you book appointments?”
“Yes. I make all the appointments for Mr. Gladstone, but I only scheduled some of Mr.
MacCarthy’s.”
“Why is that?” Sinclair wanted to know.
“He was very private about a few of his clients. Most of those came to see him after work hours. I always left at five.”
“Did you ever get any names of these later clients?”
“They rarely gave their full names. If they happened to call during the day when I was here, and if Mr. MacCarthy was in his office, I put them through. If Mr. MacCarthy wasn’t here, John or Harry or Matthew, or whatever name they gave, would ask for him to call back. No last names and no phone numbers, which made me think some of these clients were up to no good.” She was quick to add,
“Though I never had any proof. I was left out of those dealings.”
She rushed back to reception to answer the phone.
Sinclair moved to MacCarthy’s desk and scanned the papers that Nessie had neatly stacked. One of the documents caught his attention and he bent lower to examine it. He silently read for a few seconds then lifted up and said, “Michael, I think you’ll find that first document quite interesting. I believe MacCarthy may have dropped dead on top of it. It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Michael picked up the paper, read it, and smiled. “You’re right. It is interesting.”
“What is it?” Isabel asked.
“It’s a petition to the court stopping you from taking ownership of Glen MacKenna until Clive Harcus’s case as the rightful heir can be heard.” He added, “He’s contesting the will.”
“Why does that make you smile?”
“MacCarthy died before he could present it.”
Isabel rushed to his side and read the paper. “This will enrage Harcus, don’t you think? May I be the one to tell him?”
“Let him figure it out on his own.”
Looking around the office, she said, “How will we ever find out if it was Harcus behind the kill order? The original has to be somewhere.”
“We’ll keep searching,” Sinclair assured. “It’s not in his house. We’ve already looked top to bottom.”
“Then it has to be here . . . if it exists. Ferris could be lying. I don’t think he was, though.”
“Donal Gladstone will have to go through each file.”
“May we help?” Isabel asked.
Michael shook his head. “Gladstone was a partner and can act as solicitor for all of MacCarthy’s clients. Nessie was MacCarthy’s assistant, so she can help Gladstone. We can’t.”
“That’s right,” Sinclair agreed. “We’ll have Gladstone and Nessie sort out any privileged information. And now that we’ve discovered the other activities MacCarthy was involved in, we’ll pack up everything else and take it to Inverness for investigation.”
Isabel leaned into Michael’s side and whispered, “Will they take the painting, too?”
“Why? Do you want to buy it?”
“Good God, no.” She looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Then again . . .”
“What?”
“It might be a nice housewarming gift for Kate and Dylan.”
He had a good laugh. “You wouldn’t.”
“No. It’s fun to think about, but I’m not that cruel.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Nessie called out. “Mr. Gladstone is here.”
? ? ?
DONAL GLADSTONE WASN’T AT ALL WHAT ISABEL EXPECTED. THE SOLICITOR HAD A NICE SMILE
and a quiet voice that was at odds with his size. The man was at least six feet seven or eight inches tall and built like a linebacker. He was younger than she had imagined, probably in his early to midfifties. His cheeks were ruddy, his handshake firm, and his piercing gray eyes didn’t seem to miss much of anything.
Compared to MacCarthy’s cluttered pigsty, Gladstone’s office was austere and squeaky-clean.
There was an old weathered desk polished to a glossy shine. Two captain’s chairs upholstered in dark blue leather faced the desk, and another chair sat by the window. An old-fashioned beige metal file cabinet was on the opposite wall. There weren’t any paintings or photos on the walls or on the desk, and there weren’t any clowns, which told Isabel that Gladstone wasn’t a nutcase.