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“The house is drafty and dismal. Unless Seamus loosened his pocketbook, it needs repairs that will cost more than I’ll earn in the next ten years. Sell the bloody place.”
“Oh, no.” Ian’s thumb tapped the papers on the desk. “Why don’t you wait to make that decision? Recover from your grief.”
Liam wasn’t grieving. The only grief remaining was the lingering wisps of sorrow for his parents.
“Mrs. Needles has committed to stay through year end. My office handles Seamus’s financial affairs. We could continue that plan,” Ian added. “And there’s some money that goes along with the manor house.”
“I’ll wait a while.” He didn’t want to deal with decisions on the manor. “But I doubt I’ll change my mind. Keep up his arrangements.”
He could sell the mausoleum next year. Seamus couldn’t have left him enough money to keep him here. There wasn’t enough money in all of Kilkee to tie him to his childhood nightmares. “The only thing I’d like is my godfather’s cameras.”
As a child he’d never been allowed to touch the Hasselblad or Rolleiflex.
Ian shifted in his seat. “About the cameras.”
Liam’s shoulders sank. Were they gone? Had Seamus been that spiteful? “What did he do?”
“It’s not what Seamus did.” Ian rocked forward, and the chair let out a long screech that clawed up Liam’s spine. “He wants you to do something.”
“What?” Liam spit the word out.
“A few years ago, your godfather started working on his family tree.” Ian leaned back and the darn chair squealed again. “I helped him with the software and some research. He traced a branch of the FitzGerald family to Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Where was that?
“Savannah. It’s in Georgia,” Ian said. “The family runs a B and B there.”
“Georgia? By the Black Sea?”
“No. America.”
America? “Did Seamus leave the cameras to these relatives?”
“No. No.” The chair squeaked again.
Liam was bringing an oil can if he met with Ian again.
“He had letters he wanted to give to his American relatives, the Fitzgeralds,” Ian said.
“American relations?” Ian wasn’t making any sense. He’d never heard of any relatives.
“Seamus found letters from his great-great-great-uncle James in America to James’s brother, Michael, who stayed in Ireland. James was the second son and decided to make his fortune somewhere other than at the Irish quarries. Michael stayed here.”
Liam’s head reeled from all the relationships. “I need a road map.”
Ian pulled out a family tree and spread it on the table.
“James moved to America before the famine, around 1830. His brother, Michael, stayed in Clare.”
“Why was Seamus so interested in these... Americans?” He took a sip of his now-cold coffee.
“It seems James did well for himself, first with shipping, then banking and real estate. The family was able to hang on and prosper after their civil war.”
Liam waited. “And?”
“Seamus talked about visiting the family. Showing them the letters, but his doctor said no.”
“My godfather wanted to meet them? He hated people.” Liam couldn’t believe Seamus would pursue something this crazy. “Did he lose his marbles in the last few years?”
Ian shook his head. “He was of sound mind.”
Liam paced to the window and stared at the pub across the street. A pint might help him swallow this strange tale.
“His faculties weren’t impaired.” Ian was being kind.
Liam bet the solicitor had felt the sting of Seamus’s tongue more than once in their working relationship. “This doesn’t affect me. I’m not related.”
Ian frowned. “Seamus wants you to take James’s letters from America back to his relatives.”
“Why bother?”
“Because it was a dying man’s wish.” Ian handed him a file. “I’ve copied the pertinent facts for you and included the material Seamus put together on the family.
“The will is specific.” Ian took a deep breath. “If you don’t take the letters to the Savannah Fitzgeralds, you don’t get the cameras.”
