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It had been his experience that talk of wills and inheritances following the death of a loved one was usually greeted with choked sobs. Amos was not a sentimental man himself but that was not to say he didn't understand emotion. Anticipating the shock and grief the loss of her father would bring, he'd telephoned the girl, prepared to offer soothing words of condolence and assistance.
But Kathryn Russell hadn't wanted either. She'd wanted answers about the property she'd inherited. What was it worth? And how quickly could she sell it?
Amos had tried to be diplomatic. Elizabeth Island was not what one would call a tourist mecca. It was too far off the holiday path. And, though its beauty was spectacular, its amenities were few.
As for Charon's Crossing itself—the kindest way to describe the house was to say it needed work.
Amos hemmed and hedged and finally said that the house's value was dependent on a variety of factors, beginning with its condition.
"I am afraid, Miss Russell," he'd said politely, "that Charon's Crossing requires repairs before we can assess its worth."
"I see," she'd said, but he felt certain she didn't.
With that in mind, Amos had offered to determine the cost of making necessary repairs to the house. Russell's daughter had responded in a way that still had him bristling.
"Thank you, Mr. Carter," she'd said, "but I prefer to do that myself."
What she'd really meant was that she could not entrust something so important to a stranger but Amos did not consider himself a stranger. He was her father's executor.
The only thing that offended him more than dealing with a client who did not trust his honesty or his competency was dealing with a woman.
The world had changed. It was filled, he knew, with women who insisted on being treated like men, but Amos was of the old school. Attorneys advised the female of the species, they did not take orders from them.
Kathryn Russell, as subsequent phone conversations had proved, was superb at giving orders.
He was to draw up a list of local contractors.
He was to draw up a list of local real estate agents.
He was to arrange to have the house cleaned in anticipation of her arrival.
He was to arrange for her to have use of a rental car.
He was to have a taxi meet her plane.
And he was to understand that she had only a week to spare.
Amos scowled, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his head again.
Kathryn Russell was as ignorant as she was presumptuous.
Contractors? There was a man in town who had a truck, a few pieces of equipment, and a brother-in-law who was his sometime crew. Realtors? There was even one of those, too. Olive Potter had been selling houses on Elizabeth Island for more years than anyone could remember.
One house a year, at least. That was about the market turnover.
A taxi, to meet her? The only taxi on the island was sitting where it had been sitting for as long as he could remember, down on a little back road near the beach and slowly turning to rust.
As for the Russell woman's assumption that you could get anything done in seven days in this part of the world... that was almost enough to make him laugh.
Amos had thought of telling her so. He also thought of telling her other things, that there were disquieting stories of some dark force that roamed the huge, empty rooms of the house she'd inherited.
But each talk with Trevor Russell's daughter only went further to convince him that she would take nothing he said at face value.
And so
he had told her nothing. Let her learn the truth for herself, that the island was a sleepy backwater, that Charon's Crossing was a gloomy ruin, and that she'd be lucky if she could sell it for a fraction of what she obviously thought it was worth.
His duty was to implement the terms of Trevor Russell's will, nothing more.
