“Damn it,” I murmur, my eyes pinching shut. “Now I’m teary-eyed? What the heck is wrong with me?”
I grab my bag and settle it on my shoulder, opening the door of the black BMW that I’d inherited from my father, while my mother’s white Mercedes still sits in the garage back at the mansion. Even their cars were opposite, I think. They were opposite in all things. I stand, and the card I’d balled in my hand earlier falls to the pavement. I bend down and pick it up, standing to straighten it and read: Nick Rogers, Attorney at Law. Mr. Rogers. Right. Well, he’s no sweet, sweater-vested kid’s television personality, for sure.
Deciding to ask my attorney about the notorious “Tiger,” I stick the card inside the pocket of my briefcase and get moving. I hurry under one of those overhangs to travel past a candy store, a candle store, and then finally reach the law office I seek. As I’m entering the office, the receptionist greets me.
“Hiya, sugar,” Betty greets me, her red hair glowing maroon where last week it had been more of an orange hue, her bold style in contrast to her boss—a true case of opposites attract. But my mind goes back to Tiger and me. I don’t think we’re opposites. Thus the dark energy. “Frank’s on a conference call,” she says, bringing me back to the here and now rather than last night. “He should be done any moment.”
“Thank you,” I say, claiming one of the half dozen leather seats in the small, familiar lobby I’d often frequented with my father in my youth, hanging out here until he finished meetings, which was when we’d then grab ice cream. Usually when my mother was nowhere to be found.
My throat thickens with that memory, and I’m about to set my bag down when Frank appears in the doorway, looking fit and younger than his sixty years in a well-fitted black suit, his gray hair neatly trimmed, his face lightly lined. “Come in, Faith.” He backs into his office to offer me room to enter.
I’m on my feet before he finishes that statement, crossing the lobby and entering his humble office with a desk, two chairs, and a window. It’s simple, but it’s personalized with a collection of University of Texas memorabilia as well as his diploma. But he doesn’t need to be fancy. He grew up in Sonoma and took over his father’s trusted practice, becoming a local favorite about the time I was born.
Frank lingers behind me and shuts the door, that thud a trigger for my nerves to bounce around in my belly. So, okay. I do feel things. I’m not numb about anything but my mother’s death. I claim a seat, and he rounds the desk to sit down, elbows on the wooden surface, his gray eyes steady on my face. “How are you?”
“Better when I know what this meeting is about,” I say. “Did the state finally approve you as executor of my mother’s estate?”
“I’m afraid not,” he replies. “The bank filed a formal objection based on my role as your attorney, which, they claim, works against their best interests.”
I scoot to the edge of my chair. “But I’m the rightful owner of the property with or without my mother’s will. She inherited it from my father with the written directive that I inherit it next.”
“The bank claims otherwise,” he says.
“It states it in his will.”
“They claim the debt allows them to supersede that directive.”
“That note my father took is large, but it’s not anywhere near the value of the winery. Can they even make this claim at all?”
“They can claim they own the White House,” he says. “That doesn’t mean they do. Your mother failing to register a will complicates this, but your father’s will specifically stated that she inherited the winery on the condition that you were next in line. But you do need to pay the bank debt your mother left behind. We’re at six months tardy at this point.”
“Five,” I say, my role as acting CEO not much different than my role the past two years. And I still don’t have access to the empty bank accounts. “I made a payment.”
“Is the winery making money?”
“Yes. I’ve run that place and kept the books since my father died.”
“Then why was she four months behind on the bank note when she died?”
“I don’t know. And not just the bank note. Everything. Every vendor we use wants money. I can’t catch everyone up at once. I need time. Or I need access to her personal accounts. That has to be where the money is.”
“I’ve filed a petition with the court to appoint a neutral executor appointed with no allegiance to the bank,” he says. “But they could easily come back with names we have to reject.”
“Which is what the bank wants,” I assume, and suddenly there is a light in the dark tunnel. Not necessarily an end quite yet, but a light. “They think time will place me so far in debt I have to surrender the property. That would be insanity, and I’m not insane. It would be easier to get my hands on the money my mother pulled from the accounts, but I told you. The winery is making money. If we drag this out long enough, I’ll pay off that note. Drag it out.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I say firmly.
“Have you had any luck at all finding the money she pulled from the company?”
“None,” I say. “Have you had any luck finding anything that might point me in the right direction?”
He reaches into his drawer and sets a card in front of me. “You need a private investigator. He’s good and affordable.”
“I can’t afford to hire a private detective.”
“You can’t afford not to,” he counters.
“We’re making money. I just need you to buy that time.”
“What if you have another surprise you don’t expect?” He slides the card closer. “Call him. Talk about a payment plan.”
I reach for the card and stick it in my purse. “I’ll call.” My mind goes to my newest surprise. “Do you know Nick Rogers?”
He arches a brow. “The attorney?”
“Yes. Him.”
“Why?”
“A couple of bank goons showed up last night, and he was at the winery. He stepped in and scared them off.”
“He’s a good friend and a bad enemy.”
“There’s no chance that was a setup and he’s already an enemy?”
“Nick Rogers doesn’t need to play the kind of games that comment suggests. He has the prowess of—”
“—a tiger.”
“Yes,” Frank says. “A tiger. He’ll—”