by Geoffrey Stirling
I've stayed in better hotels than The Fishermen's Rest but generally at someone else's expense. On this occasion I'm paying myself and I could be here for a month, so I am being careful. Not that I will need to be for long if this thing works out as it should. In a couple of months I should be able to stay anywhere I want for as long as I want and not give a toss about the cost. The Fishermen's is in downtown Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island, and I'm here to visit my attorney. That sounds really odd - my attorney - particularly coming from the mouth of a Belfast boy, but it's true. Of course until two weeks ago I'd never heard of Henry Finklestein of Finklestein, Corliss and Corliss Attorneys; but then I got the letter telling me that my Great Uncle George, whom no one in the family had seen for at least thirty years, had died and appointed me executor of his estate, a property empire worth several million Canadian dollars. What was more, I was the principal beneficiary. Could I please come to Charlottetown to help sort the estate and get it either transferred into my name or realised? Of course I bloody could!
There were dark mutterings from family members, everyone except my sister Bess who was deeply envious of my destination.
"I can't believe you're getting to Prince Edward Island, you jammy bugger. I've always wanted to go there; Ann of Green Gables has a lot to answer for."
"I'll pay for you to come out when I've got my hands on the cash."
Without a backward glance at the British Isles, I flew to Montreal and travelled on to Charlottetown.
On my first morning in town, after a more than generous breakfast at the hotel, I set off to find the offices of Finklestein, Corliss and Corliss in Union Street, on the edge of the historic quarter of the city and near the waterfront. On the way down, I walked, it was no more than a mile according to my city plan, I passed the imposing edifice that is the Confederation Arts Centre and noticed that it contained a public library. I would investigate that later as, if I was going to be here for a month, I would like to know something about the history of the place.
FCC were on the first and second floors of an oldish building above a seafood restaurant. The interior décor was rather brown and the lady behind the reception desk was rather grey. One wall was taken up with law books so old they were bound in gold tooled leather and were undoubtedly of no use to anyone other than a stage manager or interior designer. This did not inspire me with confidence. Mr Finklestein however, 'call me Henry', was a small, dark, Jewish, whirlwind of a man who no sooner had he met me in reception than he whisked me off to his office, plied me with unbelievably strong coffee, and started to tell me all about my Great Uncle. In him I had confidence, already.
At the end of half an hour I was reeling. If anything Finklestein had downplayed my legacy. I was never going to have to work again if I didn't want to. There would be the usual legal delays and the paperwork would take months to complete, but I was soon to be a very rich man and huge vistas of possibility were opening up in front of me. But I had to take this slowly, the last thing I needed was for the money to go to my head. But I knew I'd be moving out of The Fishermen's that day. I'd go to the library and research the nearest, poshest hotel.
Finklestein had produced a thick A4 booklet, a bit like an estate agent's brochure, listing all the properties, with maps, photos and details of the tenancies. He suggested that at present I should spend some time familiarising myself with the estate and that I might want to visit Dan Sawyer, the valuer he had used, to discuss those valuations and help me decide upon a strategy. He had taken the liberty of setting up an appointment for me that afternoon. Dan's office was only two blocks away. For the rest of the morning Henry had organised a room for me so I could sit and read the brochure.
I declined the room, agreed to come in again the next morning, and set off for the library. There was an Information Centre on the first floor and I soon established that the Fairholm Inn was the place to stay in downtown Charlottetown. A quick phone call to establish that they had rooms available and I promised to drop in at lunchtime and make a reservation for the night, and all subsequent nights until further notice.
Having sorted accommodation suitable for my new status I wandered upstairs to the reference section and reading room. A single librarian guarded the second floor, from a large round console of light coloured wood within which was her desk, a CCTV screen with views of the aisles, and a trolley loaded with books. I wished her good morning and she directed me to the local history section.
She was rather attractive. About thirty I would say, with blonde hair hanging loose to her shoulders, a winning smile and what I would describe as American breasts: large, well formed and only just constrained by her pale green jumper. Pinned to her right breast was a name badge announcing that her name was Tammy Sharpe. Peering surreptitiously over the wooden barrier I saw that she was wearing a tight pencil skirt in black to just below her knees. With her large black framed glasses she looked the perfect librarian.
When I raised my gaze Tammy was regarding me with one slightly arched eyebrow. Her expression indicated she was well aware I'd been checking her out - it was both sardonic and appraising. With any luck she liked what she saw as much as I did. I grinned at her and turned towards the relevant aisle.
Keeping one eye on Ms Sharpe I perused the bookshelves, selected a few tomes and made my way back to the librarians' console. "Sorry to disturb you, but I can only find volume 1 of this History of Prince Edward Island, does the second volume exist?"
Tammy was now seated at her PC and glanced up at me. She had her 'dealing with the public' smile rather too firmly on her face. Her forehead wrinkled when she noticed my accent. "You sound very familiar... but I just can't place you." She looked puzzled.
"Well I'm sure that we haven't met. I'm out here to tidy up the affairs of a relative who lived here for decades and passed away recently. I'm from Belfast."
Now a genuine smile broke on her face. "You mean George McVeigh, don't you?" I smiled and nodded back - this was good. "I was so sorry to hear about his passing, he was a lovely man, a proper gentleman. We were very fond of each other; he called in to see me at least once a week, until very recently." Then a frown knitted her brow. "I always wondered why no one in his family ever bothered with him?" This was framed as a question and whilst the tone was not accusatory, it was no longer friendly. Not so good.
Never one to miss an opportunity, I said, "Well I could give you all the family background if you allowed me to take you out for dinner tonight?"
Her face said it all. She thought I was a right chancer. "That's very kind, Mr...?"
"Anderson, James Anderson - Jimmy for short."
"Mr Anderson, but regrettably I have neither the time nor the inclination."
I almost took a step back in surprise; I was not used to that reaction from women. It must have shown on my face because a slightly smug expression crossed Tammy's features.
Immediately I determined to wipe that expression away. "Well I'm very sorry about that. Strange cities are such a bore without company. It was presumptuous of me. But never mind, I'll try to change your inclination and then, I'm sure you will find time."
She smiled again slightly more warmly, a reward for my persistence. "And how might you do that Mr Anderson? Presumably you will have to be a fast worker, you can't be here for long?"
"Familiarity. I intend to spend quite a bit of time in the library and I'm going to be here for at least a month. Anyway, I need to do some reading - work related. The books, and my charm offensive, can wait until tomorrow but if you could locate that second volume it would be most helpful."
Delighted that her answer had not been that her husband or boyfriend wouldn't like it I took a seat from whence I could observe her and opened the portfolio. It really was rather thick and covered a great deal of property, local and not so local. There were apartment blocks, industrial parks, some large stores and even some development land. Most interesting to me was a large area of Canadian forest with a couple of miles of shoreline. The soon to be property tycoon thought that would be a great place for a summer cabin. I've always fancied a place out in the wilderness. I like to play quite noisy sex games and it would be great not having to worry about the neighbours. Perhaps Tammy would like to visit? I smiled at my own optimism and turned back to the portfolio and in particular the probate valuations that had been inserted at the bottom of each entry. The forest alone was valued at well over $1m.
I wished Tammy goodbye with my most winning smile and in reply to my query was told that she would be there again tomorrow. Lunch was a Sub sandwich, grabbed at a fast food bar on the street and then, after a quick visit to the Fairholm to secure a room and a phone call to the Fishermen's to tell them I was moving out, I went to find Dan.
When I found him, I didn't like him. He was a complete contrast to Mr Finklestein. Shady and evasive - I didn't trust him to honestly show me round any of my new properties and I fairly quickly decided I'd be doing the viewing on my own. I trusted my own gut instinct and felt that this man would try to fleece me if he could. The only useful thing he was able to tell me was that George McVeigh had built a holiday cottage right on a lake in his forest, complete with every mod-con imaginable.
I went to the Fisherman's to collect my stuff, then by taxi to the Fairholm to get checked in, and spent the evening with maps, the portfolio and car hire websites. I also decided to call home and see if there was any additional information about George McVeigh. My mother was not forthcoming, She was obviously still in a huff because the estate had been left to me.
"To be honest son, I was told he left under a cloud and no one other than his ma ever really had contact with him after that. He kept in touch with his mother, your great granny, until she died and then no one heard from him again."
"Did anyone in Belfast try to contact him?" I was still remembering the look Tammy had given me.
"No, son, I don't think anyone did."
I can't say I was proud of my family that night, but could at least console myself with the fact that I hadn't even been born when he left Belfast. I was determined that Tammy would know I bore no responsibility for the perceived neglect.
I dropped off to sleep thinking of a particular librarian bent over her console with a tight black skirt concertinaed around her waist while I wiped that smug smile from her face, spent a very comfortable night, breakfasted like a king, picked up my hire car and went back to the library.
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