Chapter Twenty Two
Scott watched the firelight reflect off the amber liquid swirling inside the fine cut crystal tumbler as he contemplated what he had learned last night. The household staff and deliverymen had provided a wealth of information and he couldn't believe the changes in the short time he had been gone. He forced himself not to attribute the changes to his leaving, and yet he couldn't quite shake the guilt. Would Grandfather still be alive now if he had not left? Sadly, he would never know.
He took a sip of the expensive Scotch, remembering the first glass of Scotch he had had here in this very room, when Grandfather had called him a man for the first time. It had been a wonderful moment, one he still kept close to his heart. There were far too few of those good memories. And what had Harlan Garrett's memories been of his grandson? It surprised and hurt Scott that his grandfather had felt so embarrassed by his decision to travel to California to see his estranged father that he had made up the story of traveling instead to Europe. Why had it been so impossible for his grandfather to understand that he needed to know who his father was and why Murdoch had never attempted to contact him?
"Hey, take it easy!"
Johnny's voice startled him out of his reverie and he turned to see the petulant look on his brother's face. A sheet was draped over his shoulders, as Weatherly cut away at the long strands of ebony black hair.
"Sit still, Sir!" Weatherly admonished. "I know what I am doing."
Scott couldn't help but chuckle. "Listen to him, Brother. He's cut my hair for years."
Johnny gave him a disgusted look. "I remember that haircut you had when I first saw you on the stage. I like a little hair on my head." A knowing smile came to his lips. "Besides, the ladies like running their fingers through my long hair."
"They won't have much of a chance to run their fingers through that long hair of yours if you're behind bars," Murdoch said. "The wanted poster describes a man with dark unkempt hair. We can't change the color, but we can make it look a bit more presentable."
Johnny sent a razor-edged stare toward Murdoch. "You're enjoying this too much, old man."
Even though it was still early in the afternoon, Scott quickly headed for the liquor cabinet and poured both his brother and father a glass of Scotch. He knew from experience how quickly easy their banter could turn into an argument.
To his surprise, Murdoch said gently, "I'm just relieved to have both of you together again." He turned his gaze toward Scott. "I hope we can stay together."
Scott handed his father the drink then turned away. It was an unfair aspiration. Too much had happened. It would take more than just 'hope' to regain the trust that had been lost on both sides.
Sam walked into the parlor with a black sling and the holster Jelly had jerry-rigged for Johnny.
"I will deny it to my grave if you say one word to Jelly, but on occasion, he is handy to have around."
"That he is," Murdoch said distractedly, still staring at Scott, his voice echoing the pain.
"There now." Weatherly carefully folded the sheet covering Johnny to avoid spilling the mounds of black hair.
With his hair shortened and expertly trimmed, Scott couldn't help but think that Johnny looked even younger. "Johnny, you must feel ten pounds lighter."
Johnny scowled and tentatively reached up to feel his hair. It was still longer than Scott had worn his when he was living here in Boston, but far shorter than Johnny's usual style.
"It feels funny," Johnny said, picking at the shortened locks.
"It looks good on you, Son," Murdoch nodded toward a mirror hanging on the wall above the liquor cabinet. "And it will keep you out of jail. Hopefully."
Everyone watched Johnny approach the mirror cautiously. To Scott's surprise, his brother studied his reflection in the glass and finally nodded. "It'll grow out, but for now it'll do. Thanks, Weatherly."
"You are welcome, Sir." Weatherly turned to Scott. "I hope you don't mind Sir, but I took the liberty of shortening a pair of your grandfather's trousers just a little for Mr. Johnny."
Johnny glared at Weatherly. "Would you stop calling me, Mr. Johnny! And I don't know if I want anything that belonged to the old man. And," Johnny added, as an afterthought, "those trousers better not be plaid."
"I will try, Sir. And I picked a nice charcoal black. I believe it will go nicely with your sling. I also found a pair of shoes that should fit you and a jacket."
"I ain't going out there looking like some dandy," Johnny protested.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "What did Teresa do the second day I was at Lancer?"
Johnny shrugged, the movement looking awkward with his heavy cast.
"She took me to Baldamero's to buy new clothes. She said I looked like the topping on one of those wedding cakes she saw in her wish book."
Johnny snickered at that. "You did look pretty."
"And so will you, little brother, when we drop in on Latchford and Moore."
"Who are Latchford and Moore?" Johnny asked, turning from the mirror and looking toward Scott. "Friends of your granddaddy's?"
"You could hardly call them friends, Johnny. They were his business associates. There was no room for friends in Grandfather's world. Business was his life. He would surround himself with only the upper echelon…the people in power like himself. If they slipped, then he would discard them as quickly as he could." Scott looked toward Murdoch, "Even marriage was arranged within the elite. My mother…she was spoken for before you arrived on that boat from Inverness. It was an arranged marriage, not for love, but to strengthen their domination in the business world."
Scott saw Murdoch's face pale. "She never told me that."
"Because she didn't know." Weatherly said softly, stepping forward. Scott could see the confliction of emotions, his dedication to his former employer vying with the need for truth. Weatherly turned to Murdoch. "Miss Catherine had no idea of her father's plans. And then you appeared out of nowhere. He tried his very best to dissuade her, but she was in love." Weatherly looked toward Scott, lowering his eyes to the carpeting. "Your mother knew Mr. Garrett very well, and what lengths he would go to get what he wanted. She promised him, if anything happened to you, that she would never speak to him again. He knew she was serious. Miss Catherine was the only one who ever went against Harlan Garrett's wishes and won."
"What lengths would he go to keep his grandson?" Johnny asked, looking from Weatherly to Scott.
The question hung in the air demanding an answer.
"Mr. Garrett was not a man who accepted defeat."
Scott knew Weatherly was right. Grandfather would do anything to ensure his success.
"Has this all been just an elaborate plan of Grandfather's to bring me back home? Was he the one to contact the Pinkertons?"
"I believe he was, Sir. He had a plan that, at some point, went terribly wrong. I could see it in his eyes. Mr. Garrett was losing control of the situation."
All eyes were on Scott, waiting for him to digest Weatherly's confirmation that his grandfather was behind at least part of this nightmare. Scott knew that his grandfather was capable of doing almost anything to get his way, but he had never thought he would be on the receiving end of one of Harlan Garrett's schemes.
"Well, I for one, am getting damn tired of chasing my tail. I want answers. Johnny, get dressed. We have business to attend to."
Johnny sat beside Scott in the darkened cab that had appeared, seemingly without summons, behind the mansion. It brought back uncomfortable memories of the last time he was in a closed buggy like this. That time Heddy had been shot.
Scott shifted beside him and Johnny saw the glint of a derringer as his brother slipped it from the pocket of his overcoat to his jacket pocket. He checked his own gun hidden inside his sling. While a derringer could kill a man at close range, it held only two rounds. Johnny much preferred his six-shooter.
"How well do you know these two, Latchford and Moore?" Johnny asked. He really didn't want to know, but the silence in the cab was making him feel uncomfortable. Scott was never an overly talkative man, and most times Johnny appreciated the quiet times between them. But today his brother's silence filled the cab with an uncomfortable foreboding.
"They were both young apprentices when they joined Garrett Enterprises. That was fifteen years ago. They worked their way up the corporate ladder and became associates."
"You mean friends?"
"No, just business partners. They would attend social functions, but I don't believe I ever saw them at the house unless it was on business or a social event hosted by Grandfather. Though Grandfather owned seventy percent of the company, they each held fifteen percent. In a company as profitable as Garrett Enterprises, that is a lot of money."
Johnny was doing his own math, and added greed into the equation. "Maybe they wanted more."
"I've thought about that, Johnny. But unless Grandfather signed over his shares to them while he was still alive, they still have only fifteen percent each."
"Maybe they found a way to change the will."
"I can't see how they could do that. Grandfather was very prudent. He would have had an ironclad will. No one could change it."
"Not even his lawyer?" Johnny asked.
Scott smiled. "Not even his lawyers. He worked with more than one lawyer. They would all have to agree to the forgery, and I don't see that happening."
"Somebody doesn't want you around to get in their way. Me either, it seems."
The cab came to a stop and Johnny felt the buggy sway as the driver climbed down from his seat and opened the door.
Johnny stepped out of the taxi behind Scott. His laced shoes – 'Oxfords' Weatherly had called them - were comfortable, but they lacked the heel he was used to. The pants were pressed and fit like they were made just for him. Weatherly had cut out the left sleeve in the white silk shirt he wore. Only his dark charcoal jacket gave evidence to his cast, draped over his left shoulder hiding most of the black sling. While the clothes felt alien to him, the gun sitting securely in the special holster inside the sling felt comforting.
"I will wait for you under those trees over there, Sir." The driver pointed to a stand of oak trees fifty yards away.
"Thank you, Jacob." Scott shed his overcoat and threw it back in the cab. "Are you armed, Jacob?"
"Of course, Sir."
"Good."
Scott nodded and turned back to Johnny. "Grandfather's office is on the ground floor. He hated climbing stairs."
They stood in the shadow of the back side of a five story gray brick building, its windows reflecting the dark rain swollen clouds as they slowly drifted by. Johnny hated these huge brick buildings, they seemed cold and lifeless. The estancia at home seemed to breathe like a living being. Here everything was dead. He looked around quickly, noting that the weeds were cut down and the bushes trimmed. But he saw no one. It seemed that life only existed on the streets in front of the buildings.
"Shall we go in unannounced?" Scott asked, holding up a key. Johnny saw the moment of hesitation in his brother's eyes. He couldn't even comprehend how difficult this was for him. "It's your place now, ain't it?"
Scott nodded soberly as he unlocked the door and turned the knob. The smell of beeswax, cigar smoke and printing ink spilled out of the building. Johnny could never live like this, cooped up in this stagnant air all day. He doubted Scott could ever again stand to spend his days here, not after living in the wide open spaces of Lancer.
They stepped in and Scott closed the door silently behind them. A long hallway stood before them opening into a large lobby at the front. Johnny could only see the two wide glass doors and beyond that the busy streets outside. The right hand side of the hallway had three doors. To the left there was only one. Johnny followed Scott down the hall, his hand resting inside his sling. They reached the massive cherry wood double doors, the letters HG carved in each door. There was elaborate scrolling in the trim that framed the doors. Johnny had a feeling that the door alone cost more than the entire Lancer hacienda.
Scott took a deep breath, squared his shoulders beneath his expensive business suit and turned the knob. The heavy doors opened effortlessly. The room was just as he remembered it, with the rosewood paneling, the thick oriental carpeting, the crystal chandelier and wall sconces. His heart skipped a beat knowing it was not the same. His grandfather was no longer head of the company. He was. Until this very moment he didn't realize how much he missed the old man. Truculent, abrasive and self-serving, Harlan Garrett had still done did everything he could to raise his grandson. Education was paramount, and Scott had been tutored under the best teachers. He was groomed and primed to take over the business, but not like this. He would have given anything to hear "Scotty, my boy," just one more time.
He stepped into the reception room with Johnny at his side. The thick carpeting muted the sounds of their footsteps as they walked across the room toward the massive desk sitting toward the back of the room. A man in his mid forties stood up slowly from behind the desk. He was dressed in a three piece black business suit, the points of a stiff black bowtie poking at his jaw line.
"May I help you, Gentlemen?" he asked. "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Latchford or Mr. Moore?"
"I hardly need an appointment in my own office." Scott said flippantly. "Where is Howard?"
If the secretary understood what Scott had just said, he didn't show it. Instead he sniffed dismissively. "Mr. Wymark was asked to leave after Mr. Garrett's untimely death. I am the new secretary. I'm sorry, but both Mr. Latchford and Mr. Moore are out of the office. If you would give me your name and state your business, I will tell them that you called."
Scott smiled, but there was no humor in it. "My name is Scott Lancer. Scott Garrett Lancer. Harlan Garrett's grandson. And I believe that is my office." Scott nodded toward one of the two doors leading to offices behind the desk.
The secretary raised an eyebrow. "I hardly think so, Sir." Scott watched him casually sit back down behind his desk. "I'm afraid I must insist that you leave immediately." Scott didn't see where the derringer came from; it just seemed to appear in the man's hand. He didn't see Johnny reach for his gun either, but Johnny's Colt was cocked and pointed directly at the secretary's head.
"If you shoot Scott, I'll shoot you." Johnny said matter of factly. "If you shoot me, believe me, I will still shoot you. Either way you're dead."