Page 25 of Trick of Light
Carson had always been the designated heir, the one their father was training to understand the vast Carmichael fortune. It wasn’t just the hotel, which was a minor part of the Carmichael estate. Ever since the first John Carmichael had launched his real estate development career, using a fortune handed to him from one of the old Gilded Age robber barons, the numbers had only grown. Investments, land holdings, trust funds, it all added up to dizzying amounts of money.
With his business degree and training on Wall Street, Carson understood that world. Barnaby, with his restless adventurous nature and time spent on humanitarian projects in various parts of the world, did not.
“I’m not equipped,” he finally said. “I don’t have the business chops.”
“You can hire people for that. But if the Carmichael name is going to survive, we need another family member at the top. Right now, you’re running low on family members.”
True that. Carson was in jail, without bail. Fiona was in the midst of a plea-deal negotiation. Luke had a full-time job as constable, and even though things were warming up between him and their father, so far, John had made no moves to bring him back into the family business.
Barnaby wasn’t sure Luke would even want that.
The only other siblings not implicated in the recent set of criminal actions were Rufus and Ruby, who were still in college. Granted, Ruby was studying business and Rufus was interested in the law. He’d be all for them taking over when they were ready. But they deserved to be able to finish their education first.
That left Barnaby. The second son, the one who’d run away, the one with a secret, the illegitimate one.
He wondered, suddenly, what his birth certificate said. He’d never actually seen it. Would it make a difference that he wasn’t a product of a legal marriage? Would someone—maybe Carson or Celine—have grounds to challenge any decision he made?
If he had durable power of attorney, would he be able to access records that would normally be off limits to him? What about hospital records related to Sophie Brown?
What really happened to my Sophie?
“I’ll do it,” he told the team of lawyers in a quiet voice. “But only with my father’s full awareness and consent. Before witnesses. On video. I don’t want anyone claiming I’m a scammer or a fake.”
12
The next rainy day, Gabby transferred all the photos she’d taken of Amelia Burnhauser’s notebook to her laptop, where they would be easier to read. She and Heather holed up in Gabby’s room at the Lightkeeper Inn, raindrops spattering against the windows like a lullaby.
John Carmichael had offered her the room as compensation for the work she’d done for him, and so far Barnaby hadn’t rescinded that offer. She hoped he wouldn’t, since this room was by far the most luxurious place she’d ever stayed. Every step on the carpet was like a foot massage, and she could get lost in that mesmerizing ocean view.
As they sipped the lemon sodas Sally had given them in thanks for their hours of painting, they pored over the list of names in Amelia Burnhauser’s book.
“I recognize lots of these names,” Heather mused. “But so what? Are we thinking one of these people killed her?”
“No, not necessarily. It’s just something to check out. Are they all islanders?”
“I don’t think so. Some of them are from off-island. Amelia was a famous pianist, after all, though I had no idea about that when I took lessons from her. I just thought she was a grumpy old lady who smelled like peppercorns.”
“Peppercorns?”
“I can’t explain it. That’s what I remember. Also, her teeth were very yellow. I remember wondering if I should tell her about those Crest White Strips.”
Gabby tried to imagine a former world-class pianist being lectured on dental products by a scrappy little island kid. “Did you?”
“No, but I did clip out a coupon from a magazine and discreetly dropped it after a lesson. Come to think of it, she canceled my lessons after that. Or my mom pulled the plug, one or the other. We didn’t have a piano so I couldn’t practice much.”
“I never liked piano lessons either. No wonder we’re friends.”
They shared a smile, both knowing their friendship wasn’t based on anything resembling piano lessons. They’d first become friends when they’d worked on a class assignment together and discovered they had equal levels of drive and desire to work hard. They also cracked each other up. But the true test of their friendship had come when their project—a story about a divisive local union election—had caught the attention of a regional magazine. They’d contacted Heather because she was listed first—McPhee before Ramon. Heather had refused to even have a conversation without Gabby on the line with them.
And then there was the biggest test they’d faced in the years they’d been friends. Heather had come to lunch with Gabby and her mother during one of her fly-by visits to Boston. At first things had gone well enough, with State Senator Paulette Ramon doing most of the talking.
But then the conversation had swung toward Gabby, and her mother had launched into one of her well-worn lectures about Gabby’s choice of profession.
And Heather had pushed back. Hard. She’d talked about the importance of journalism, Ida B. Wells—the first famous Black woman reporter—the importance of choosing for yourself, and on and on. It was all a blur to Gabby now.
“What was that?” she’d asked after her mother’s town car had driven away.
“I was defending you. You’re welcome. I’m used to it because of my mom.”
