“He must have had a soft heart to be concerned about someone’s feelings.”
“Oh no, no, no. There wasn’t anything soft about him.” Nessie shook her head and said, “I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I have to admit Mr. MacCarthy was difficult, impatient, and distrustful. He locked his door even when he went to the washroom or lunch. I think he thought I would sneak cleaners into his office while he was gone. He didn’t want anyone touching anything. He was terribly secretive and yet he was also quite nosy. He had to know everyone’s business.”
Once Nessie started talking about MacCarthy, she didn’t hold back. She had a lot to say and none of it was complimentary.
“If Mr. Abernathy hadn’t been here, I would have quit. He and Mr. MacCarthy were partners in the firm, but as different as night and day. Mr. MacCarthy’s behavior didn’t bother me because Mr.
Abernathy was so nice to me. He always said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and he praised me for doing a good job. I hated to see him go.”
“Where did he go?”
“He was ill,” she said. “He never complained, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling well. He cut down to two days a week, and he referred most of his clients to other solicitors, but there were several clients he kept. His friend Mr. Gladstone took over the office and his remaining clients. Mr.
Abernathy was able to retire then. He was quite pleased with Mr. Gladstone stepping in for him. He felt guilty, though, because he deliberately failed to mention that his partner, Mr. MacCarthy, was so difficult.”
“Are you pleased with Mr. Gladstone?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said. “Mr. Gladstone is a prince to work for. He never raises his voice like Mr.
MacCarthy did.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Nessie folded her hands as though in prayer and said, “It’s so odd to me. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it? Nothing is ever what you expect. Mr. Abernathy looked so pale, and he was so thin and slow on his feet. Mr. MacCarthy was the complete opposite. He was robust and full of energy. He kept liquor in his office. He claimed it was for his clients, but I knew he drank with them. He closed down Jolly Jack’s pub nearly every night. I heard that he had a heart problem, but I didn’t give it any substance. He looked as healthy as an ox. Though I really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Mr.
MacCarthy was quite the womanizer.”
Since Nessie was looking at her expectantly, Isabel said, “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Nessie said. “And look at them now. Mr. Abernathy is still walking around, and I hear he’s feeling better since he’s retired. And Mr. MacCarthy? He keeled over dead. I don’t think he had any warning.”
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack,” she answered. “He was slumped over his desk with a full glass of whiskey in his hand. The coroner said it must have been quick because he didn’t spill a drop.”
“Who found him?”
“I did,” Nessie said with a slight shiver. “I came in the other morning, and there he was. He gave me quite a fright, and I had a good scream before I called for help. I thought he might have passed out from whiskey or fallen asleep, but when I nudged him and called his name, he didn’t move. I touched him, looking for a pulse, and he was stone cold.”
“Then he died the night before,” Isabel concluded.
Nessie nodded. “That’s what the coroner thought. I’ll tell you, it was difficult to walk in his office after he was carted away, but I felt I should at least straighten his desk. I put the papers in two stacks and left everything else alone. I would have locked the door, but I don’t have a key.”
Nessie stopped talking when Michael and Sinclair appeared in the doorway.
Isabel raised her hands as though she expected to be chastised for being there without permission.
“The door was wide open,” she explained. “Don’t worry. I didn’t touch anything.”
Michael surveyed the chaos of files and papers in front of him. “There’s a lot here to go through, but so far Sinclair hasn’t found the original copy of the orders MacCarthy gave Ferris. However, he has discovered a great deal of other incriminating evidence against MacCarthy in his personal files.
Evidently, he had a secret side business protecting some pretty shady characters.”
“MacCarthy didn’t just bend the law. He ignored it,” Sinclair stated.
Isabel didn’t press them for details. She would wait until later to find out what MacCarthy had been up to . . . besides taking on a client who wanted to kill her.
Sinclair leaned against the desk and asked Nessie, “What is it you do here?”
“I answer the phones and take messages. I also do computer work and filing. I assist both of them.”
“Do you book appointments?”
“Yes. I make all the appointments for Mr. Gladstone, but I only scheduled some of Mr.
MacCarthy’s.”
“Why is that?” Sinclair wanted to know.
“He was very private about a few of his clients. Most of those came to see him after work hours. I always left at five.”
“Did you ever get any names of these later clients?”
“They rarely gave their full names. If they happened to call during the day when I was here, and if Mr. MacCarthy was in his office, I put them through. If Mr. MacCarthy wasn’t here, John or Harry or Matthew, or whatever name they gave, would ask for him to call back. No last names and no phone numbers, which made me think some of these clients were up to no good.” She was quick to add,
“Though I never had any proof. I was left out of those dealings.”
She rushed back to reception to answer the phone.
Sinclair moved to MacCarthy’s desk and scanned the papers that Nessie had neatly stacked. One of the documents caught his attention and he bent lower to examine it. He silently read for a few seconds then lifted up and said, “Michael, I think you’ll find that first document quite interesting. I believe MacCarthy may have dropped dead on top of it. It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Michael picked up the paper, read it, and smiled. “You’re right. It is interesting.”
“What is it?” Isabel asked.
“It’s a petition to the court stopping you from taking ownership of Glen MacKenna until Clive Harcus’s case as the rightful heir can be heard.” He added, “He’s contesting the will.”
“Why does that make you smile?”
“MacCarthy died before he could present it.”
Isabel rushed to his side and read the paper. “This will enrage Harcus, don’t you think? May I be the one to tell him?”
“Let him figure it out on his own.”
Looking around the office, she said, “How will we ever find out if it was Harcus behind the kill order? The original has to be somewhere.”
“We’ll keep searching,” Sinclair assured. “It’s not in his house. We’ve already looked top to bottom.”
“Then it has to be here . . . if it exists. Ferris could be lying. I don’t think he was, though.”
“Donal Gladstone will have to go through each file.”