Page 31 of Safeguarding the Witness

Erin threw in her opinion. “I’m all for that.”

Oliver Cameron took his place at the head of the table. A stack of documents was arrayed in front of him. He peeled off a single sheet of paper for each of them. “Oregon Rules of Evidence state that I need your consent to record our meeting. Sign these papers and return them to me.”

Mollie scanned the tabletop. “I don’t see any recording equipment.”

“Over there.” Bethany pointed to the antique English pine breakfront behind Oliver’s back. “Second shelf from the top, there’s a camera and microphone aimed at the table.”

“Whoa,” Erin protested. “You haven’t already been recording us, have you?”

“Not without your permission,” Oliver said. “That’s why I need for you ladies to sign these papers and give verbal consent, as well. I use these recording devices often when I work from home.”

“This isn’t his first rodeo,” Bethany said.

Obviously, the business-oriented Bethany had more dealings with Oliver Cameron than either Mollie or Erin. She’d always been the responsible Clover, the sort of person who planned ahead and maintained intelligent focus.

Mollie signed the document and studied the older gentleman whom she’d grown up with and considered to be a sort of grandfatherly figure. In spite of his familiar grin and his cozy-looking cardigan, Oliver was all business as he gave the time, date, location and names of those present for the recording.

“In her will,” he said, “Irma Winchell requested this meeting prior to the formal reading of the many bequests to friends, employees, family and charities. You three cousins are the primary beneficiaries, and she wanted you to have a chance to discuss terms with me, her executor, without complications from others. Feel free to stop me at any time for clarification.”

Bethany spoke for all three. “We understand.”

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll start with Erin because her inheritance is the easiest to explain. In broad terms, Erin Eckhart receives sole ownership of Cloverdell Orchards, including the two-hundred-acre hazelnut orchard as well as the processing operation and adjacent farm with livestock, farmhouse and outbuildings.”

Erin’s jaw dropped. “All of it?”

“As we used to say in my day,” Oliver said, “the whole kit and kaboodle. Since you already live in the house. That’s no surprise. As soon as we can implement the transition, you will be CEO of operations. You’ve been part of the hazelnut orchard all your life. Therefore, you are uniquely trained and prepared for this position.”

“But I never expected to own it.” Erin shot a glance toward Bethany. Then toward Mollie. “Are you guys okay with this?”

“Absolutely,” Bethany said. “As you know, I’ve been acting as chief financial officer for the past three years, paying all the bills and your salary. You’ve done an excellent job. Aunt Irma agreed. If you want me to stay on, I will. But I’d be happy to shift those responsibilities to someone else.”

Oliver held up his hand, signaling a stop. “Until all the paperwork clears probate, the current arrangements will continue unabated.”

“Except I’m the boss.” Erin rose to her feet, planted her fists on her hips and tilted her head back. “I’m a doggoned hazelnut heiress. Yowie. Hot dog.”

Mollie saw more mature expressions than “hot dog” flickering behind Erin’s proclamation and figured that her cousin kept the language clean to discourage Amy from mimicking. She offered, “Congrats, Erin.”

Her curly-haired cousin raised her coffee cup, took a sip and announced, “I need champagne.”

“When we’re finished with this meeting.” Oliver changed his focus to her. “Mollie, it’s your turn.”

She straightened her posture. Somehow, her lemonade had gotten to her place at the table. When she picked it up, the ice cubes clinked against the glass. “Ready when you are.”

Oliver flipped open a folder that lay beside his stack of documents and removed a sheet of lined notebook paper. He held up a pencil sketch of Irma Winchell. “Your great-aunt appreciated your artistic talent.”

Though touched that Irma had bothered to keep a casual sketch, Mollie couldn’t accept the praise. “It’s a hobby.”

“Understood,” Oliver said. “Irma also appreciated your devotion to your studies before you disappeared into WITSEC. In keeping with your dreams, she is leaving you the Rainy Day Art Gallery in Salem, including all the current works on display and on consignment, and the Gargoyle Building it occupies.”

Though Mollie had heard that money can’t buy you love or make dreams come true, this outrageous generosity came close. For a magical moment, she allowed herself to believe this could happen. The owner and proprietor of an art gallery. Was it possible?

Needless to say, she hadn’t been there for the five years she’d been in WITSEC. Three years before that, she’d helped Irma set up the operation, including the wildly successful one-woman show by Selma Firebird. “Is it still located in the Gargoyle Building in the Salem Historical District?”

Oliver sorted through his stacks of papers and pulled out a copy of a deed. “You would also be the owner of the four-story stone building with a full apartment on the second floor. As with the hazelnut orchard, the gallery and the building maintenance would continue as currently handled until otherwise designated by probate court.”

She’d need to visit as soon as possible. Was the apartment available? Who were the artists? At one time, she and Irma talked about opening an art school in one of the adjoining spaces.

Wait! She slammed on the brakes. Her plans and questions came to a screeching halt. She and her father had been in hiding. The threat to her continued. “I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve been hiding in the shadows for five years. It might be dangerous to step into the light.”