“MANY EYES FOLLOW us,” Sheila said, grabbing his arm to navigate spiked heels down the Bean’s steps. “Where we headed—your place?”
James nodded. “Might start a few rumors.”
When she’d first sat down at his table, whispers had started up around them. Hefty women of color—ebony skin, blue blouse, strand of purple hair, sparkly fingernails—weren’t exactly a common sight at the Brenton Bean. Joe’s law partner had never visited the island before.
“That’s right, none of your neighbors knows I’m a lesbian!” Sheila pulled her soft hip in against his. “How ‘bout you—got a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
“Alrighty then, lead on!” She even rested her head on his shoulder.
James grinned. Joe enjoyed shocking people, too.
Sheila had called yesterday morning, saying she had some new information she wanted to share in person. As soon as he’d explained that he wasn’t allowed ashore, she’d promised to be on the next morning’s ferry—and when she walked up to the Bean, she’d stood out from the crowd like a peacock surrounded by seagulls.
At the top of the ferry landing, they turned right—and the gallery owner paused his window-washing to stare. James’s spine felt like a target, until the road finally bent out of sight to the right and Sheila dropped his elbow. Though she continued to make flirty small talk, all the way to the sagging steps of his cottage.
He dragged an extra chair into the kitchen so Sheila could sit down at the head of the table. Before dropping her massive handbag to the floor, she pulled out a familiar tan-and-green pamphlet.
“Last Christmas, I received my very own copy of The History of Brenton Island.” She held it up, framing it with those sparkly fingertips. “Guess who?”
“Had to be Joe.”
“He also sent handwritten research notes on who really set the fire. As the man himself used to say, ‘Sometimes knowing the history makes. . .’”
“All the difference,” James finished. “Want something to drink? I don’t. . .”
“Water’s fine.” The pamphlet disappeared, back into her bag.
James filled two glasses from the tap and sat down on Sheila’s left.
“On the drive down to Newport, I took a little side trip to Narragansett,” she said. “Made a teensy-weensy donation to Pierce Borba’s new church steeple, which loosened his tongue quite a bit. He told me he’d invested in a new development out here and would be moving home any day now, once some family business got quote ‘straightened out,’ unquote.”
Asshole. But wait—“Development?”
Sheila extracted several sheets of legal paper, covered in dense round handwriting. “I also stopped in at the Newport County records office, had a chat with a very nice young man. As of three years ago, everything on paper has been transferred to their online database, including a deed for West Brenton dated—”
“No wonder Joe recommended you! Did you find the agree—”
“That agreement’s not notarized. You could’ve typed it yourself, dipped the paper in tea to make it look old. Only thing we have that’ll hold up in a court of law is the deed, and that says West Brenton is owned by some entity known as the West Brenton Land Trust. So all your friend Lloyd had to do was buy a URL, maybe print up some business cards, and bingo. . .”
She dug out her phone, sliding the granny glasses hanging around her neck onto her nose. The tip of her tongue stretched up to cover her top lip, and one purple thumbnail scrolled, tapped, then scrolled again.
“Here it is—page was just updated yesterday. There’s three trustees.”
“Trustees?” Looping gold script read West Brenton Land Trust; below that was a picture of waving grasses that looked more like corn belt than New England.
“Fancy name for investors. Scroll down—recognize anyone?”
Alison Wainwright. Pierce Borba. Jesus, Joe’s brother in cahoots with Lloyd!
And—Dean Moreland.
“Not a very big world, is it?” Her brown eyes were rock-hard. “How does it feel to be working for a guy who’s working against you?”
He handed back her phone. “So Lloyd has a legal claim to West Brenton,” he said, ticking off each problem on a finger. “Joe’s brother is helping him. And my new boss is also in bed with—”
Sheila held up a hand. “It gets worse.”
“Worse!” His scar started to throb.
Sheila pulled out another manila folder.
“Just out of curiosity, I looked up the oldest island deed.” She licked her forefinger to page through the papers. “Dated 1913, the year after the East Harbor breakwater was completed. The owner was a Mr. Peter Crosby—”
“Anna’s place.” She already knew more about Brenton real estate than he did.
“Here’s how the deed defines that property: ‘Bound to the east and running one hundred feet along the Atlantic Ocean, also known as Rhode Island Sound. Bound to the west and running one hundred feet along the Indian pathway. Bound to the north by a large boulder of granite. . .” she dropped the paper into the file. “Just distinctive land details, no latitude or longitude.”
Get to the point. Instead he said, “You’ve done your homework.”
“Property law is my first love.” Sheila pulled out a handkerchief, wiped each temple dry, and patted at her forehead.
Her glass was empty, so James refilled it and set it back down on top of the papers. He drained his own glass in one gulp, sweat beading up from every pore. The sun beamed in through the sink windows, which were painted shut like all of them. His mother hadn’t thought marshy harbor air was healthy—but neither was this sweatbox of a closed-up house. Once Sheila left, he’d figure out how to get some air circulating in here.
Sheila sipped at the water glass and set it down a safe distance from her folders. “Now, here’s the real kicker. That old agreement reads the same way; a boulder here, an ocean there. Doesn’t even mention the dividing path—only the Atlantic Ocean. So—”
“So Wainwright owns the whole goddamn island?”
Outside, a golf cart whined. James stood up in time to see Mayor Frank staring so hard at the house, he almost ran into a tree.
“Your flirting worked.” He wiped sweat off his forehead, wondering if he should go out there and explain—but the island rumor mill was the least of his worries right now, so he sat down again.
“All the houses in East Brenton have valid deeds,” he reminded Sheila. “No way the locals would allow Lloyd to take over anything east of—”
“I know. He could look like a perfect gentleman.”
“Huh?”
“After pointing out to the judge that he really could lay claim to the whole island, he’d probably agree to ‘settle’—” Sheila made quotes with two purple fingernails “—for just West Brenton.”
“Jesus.” James dropped his forehead into his palms. “Got any good news?”
“Yes. First off, our friend Lloyd doesn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer, so he probably hasn’t figured out the boundary thing. Second, the guy’s so far underwater financially he’s gonna have to grow gills. His wife’s the one with the money, so ever since she started divorce proceedings he’s been on the edge of bankruptcy. That’s why he brought in Pierce and Dean; they must’ve provided some working capital.”
“And that’s good news?”
“Yup. Lloyd’s undoubtedly made those folks a string of empty promises, and it won’t be too long until that bites him in the toockus. His inbox was hacked yesterday, by someone other than your teenager. Which means—”
“How’d you know he’s a teenager?”
Sheila’s lips curled up into a smile. “Couldn’t be sure, until now.”
So damn quick! Good thing she was on his side.
“What’s your fee for all this, anyway? I can’t—”
“You’re taking care of Joe, right?”
“I stop by every day. Mavis and—”
“So, make these last days as easy as you can.” Dark eyes locked on his. “This is his fight. And. . . he doesn’t make friends easily.”
While James tried to come up with a response, Sheila realigned the corners of her folders.
“I’m going to ask for an injunction,” she said at last, “to get Lloyd’s name removed from the land trust. But it’s quite an unusual situation. Until he actually damages the property, it’s hard to prove malicious intent. If he does enough damage, there’ll be nothing to protect. So we need some more time to figure out the best approach. And none of it will matter one bit unless you keep the sit-in going.”
“We’re all starting to burn out,” James admitted.
“Any summer people who could help? Sounds like you need some fresh blood, and they won’t want their island paradise ruined.” She glanced at her watch, stood up. “Shoot, if I’m going to fit in a quick visit with Joe before the afternoon ferry, I’d better hit the road. Hang in there, James! We’ll get this sorted out—maybe not as quick or as clean as he would’ve, but we’ll manage.”