She took a deep breath. “I had to stop being the attorney for the Historical Society because my maiden name is Oakes—I’m one of the captain’s direct descendants.”
“Oh,” Ben said.
A second later, Jill said it again—“Oh!”
Because that meant she was part of the group that had sold its property rights. This woman had been paid half a million dollars by the town of Edgeport.
Mrs. Burgess looked back and forth between them as she talked. “I was against the Glennley plan back then, and I still am. But the town offered the heirs money in exchange for all future claims against the property, and a number of my relatives really needed that cash. And I can’t blame them—five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money for most people. I mean, it’s a lot for me, too, but I’ve had a good career for a long time, and so has my husband. I didn’t need that money the way some of my relatives did. So I went along with the group of heirs—it was that, or have my own family mad at me forever.” She looked out the window. “It was an ugly situation.”
She paused again, looking past Ben into the sky behind him. “But do I still wish there had been some way to stop the deal? You bet I do. I’m not some preservation nut who wants to lock Edgeport into the past, but the kind of changes this theme park is going to bring? I just don’t think the town council members did their homework on this deal—or else they all stand to make a lot of money from it. Either way, it’s bad—and either way, it’s too late now.”
Ben tensed up. He looked over at Jill, and she was looking at him, one eyebrow lifted. Was this someone they could trust?
Ben turned back to Mrs. Burgess. “I’ve got another legal question. If a kid tells something to a lawyer, does the lawyer have to keep that confidential?”
Mrs. Burgess smiled. She seemed glad to talk about something less personal. “Well, that depends. If the state appointed me to defend the rights of a young person accused of a crime, then yes, everything we talked about would be held in strict confidence. Or if parents hired me to protect the rights of their child? Same thing—full confidentiality.”
Jill rustled around in her backpack, and Ben thought she was looking for a pencil. But she pulled out a dollar bill, reached across the table, and handed it to Mrs. Burgess. The lawyer looked puzzled, but she smiled a little.
Jill smiled back and said, “Okay, let’s say a kid just walks into your office and hands you a dollar, and says, ‘Here, I want to hire you and ask you some legal questions.’ And then you talked. Would you have to keep everything the kid talked about a secret?”
The lawyer’s smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked from Jill to Ben, and then back to Jill again. With a voice that sounded hard and flat, she said, “Tell me what all this is really about. Right now.”
Ben leaned forward in his chair as Jill and the lawyer faced each other, eye to eye. And Jill didn’t blink. She was magnificent.
“First,” Jill said, “answer my question.”
In the same tough voice, Mrs. Burgess said, “All right. I’m going to talk like a lawyer now, so stop me if you don’t understand. I am an active member of the Massachusetts bar, which means I am authorized by this state to try civil and criminal cases in open court. Therefore, I am also considered an officer of the court. I am also a law-abiding citizen of the Commonwealth. As a citizen or as a lawyer, if I learn that some crime has been committed, I am legally bound to report it to the proper authorities—and I would. But if a person is my client, then there is a circumstance called attorney-client privilege. This means I have to keep whatever my client says a secret. So that’s the general rule about confidentiality. With me so far?”
Ben had a question, but he kept quiet and nodded. So did Jill.
“Now,” the lawyer said, looking Jill in the eye, “you have outlined a particular situation to me. So now I shall speak in specifics. A minor, a person under the age of eighteen, comes to my office and offers me payment for a service—my legal advice. Therefore, this specific situation means that a minor and a lawyer are entering into a formal agreement—which is called a contract. In Massachusetts, and in most other states, no one under the age of eighteen can enter into a legally binding contract. Therefore, legally speaking, the short answer to your question is no—no, you cannot hire me as your lawyer, because you are too young to enter into a legally binding contract. And since you cannot make a contract and become my client, the rules of attorney-client privilege or confidentiality would not apply. Legally. Understand?”
Jill nodded, trying to keep her face neutral. But Ben could see the disappointment.
“However,” the lawyer said, raising one finger, “I have one more very important point to make: As long as I do not learn of any crime that has been committed, then I would consider myself ethically bound to keep whatever was said to me in the strictest confidence forever—because that would be the right thing to do. And in my own practice as an attorney, doing what is ethically right is at least as important as doing what is legally correct.”
She handed the dollar back to Jill. “So . . . remembering what I’ve just said about criminal activity, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Again, Ben and Jill looked at each other. Jill nodded first, and Ben nodded back.
He reached into his backpack, pulled out a single piece of paper, and slid it across the low table to Mrs. Burgess.
She took a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her jacket. She perched them on her nose and picked up the paper.
Ben watched her eyes. Starting at the top of the sheet, they scanned from side to side like the needle on a lie detector. And her eyes opened wider and wider as she got to the bottom of the page. She repeated the whole process, and by the end of the second scan, her eyes were still wide open—and so was her mouth.
“Where did you get this?” she gasped. Then, “No, wait, don’t answer—I don’t want to know that. Here’s a safer question: Is it your hope that this document could be used to keep the Oakes School from being torn down?”
Ben and Jill both nodded.
“Well, then I have bad news.” She tapped the sheet of paper. “This remarkable little piece of history is called a codicil—a new provision that is being added to a will. In order for a codicil to have any power at all, the will that it’s being added to must also be in force. And the captain’s will, at least the part related to the school and its property, is as good as dead. The heirs gave up their rights under that will by accepting payments from the town, and the town has accepted partial payment from the Glennley Group. Full and final title to the school property will pass from the town of Edgeport to the Glennley Group the day after school’s out in June—which is how far away?”
“Twenty-one days,” said Jill. Ben smiled slightly—it was just like Jill to have the timeline all worked out.
“Which means,” the lawyer went on, “that in three weeks, the captain’s will and this codicil will both become completely meaningless—dead.”
That last word hung in the air for about five seconds.
Then Ben said, “But if the whole deal isn’t completely settled, couldn’t we take the actual codicil to a judge tomorrow? Wouldn’t that work?”
Mrs. Burgess nodded. “It might—but if you take this to the Essex County Probate Court over in Salem tomorrow, by Monday morning a squad of Glennley’s lawyers are going to be all over it. Motions, counterfilings, allegations of foul play—you name it. They will swarm and snap at this with every tooth they have. And don’t forget the media—this would be a big news story, and it would be exploited. And the legal process of sorting everything out? That could take a long, long time.”
“But wouldn’t that still stop them from tearing down the school?” asked Jill.
“It might delay the demolition, at least for a while. But there are so many question marks, so many ways to attack this codicil—issues of authenticity, questions about the witness and the date, not to mention the fact that there’s no individual
named as the new inheritor here, only ‘the bearer’—legally, it’s a big mess.”
The lawyer paused, looking at both of them. “Also, if you wanted to put this into play, I couldn’t be involved. It’s called conflict of interest. I have already benefited from the Glennley deal, and for me to turn around now and represent someone who opposes it? That would cause . . . complications. But if you choose to go ahead with this, I’ll be very happy to give you the name of a good person who can help.”
Again, Ben and Jill exchanged looks.
Ben said, “We need to think about it.”
Mrs. Burgess stood up. She handed Ben the copy of the codicil. “That sounds like the wise thing to do.”
They walked to the door of her office, and she shook Jill’s hand.
“Thank you for your time,” Jill said, “and for the advice.”
“My pleasure,” said Mrs. Burgess. “Meeting you two has been the nicest thing that’s happened in this office for months. And I wish both of you all the best.”
She turned to Ben, and as they shook hands he said, “Could I ask one more question?”
“Of course.”
“If we did want to try to use the codicil, when do we have to get it to the courthouse in Salem?”
“That’s an easy one,” she said, all business again. “You’ve got exactly twenty-one days.”
CHAPTER 12
For Real
After a night of tossing and turning, Ben woke up early Friday morning in a cold sweat. What if that original codicil had fallen out of the old book? And what if Lyman had found it, lying on the floor by the reference shelves, or maybe in the library workroom? Or what if Robert had looked through that book once more, spotted the codicil, and decided to feature it in his super report? And then there was also the chance that Ms. Shubert might have read it and taken to the principal right away . . . or to a lawyer.
As he lay there looking up through his window at the clouds, he imagined one nightmare scenario after another.
But the thought of Lyman discovering the codicil? That was the fear that yanked Ben up and out of bed. He was showered, dressed, and downstairs at quarter of seven.
His mom was already sitting at the kitchen table in her robe and slippers, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea, the local paper spread out in front of her.
“My goodness!” She glanced at the clock. “I must be dreaming!”
Ben smiled. “I’ve got to go to the library before school.”
“This early?”
He nodded. “For that history project. There’s a reference book I need—I can’t check it out.”
“Well,” she said, “sit down and have a bite of breakfast.”
“Can’t—I have to be there when the doors open.”
He took a banana from the counter and a granola bar from the pantry and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. On his way past the table he leaned over and got a kiss on the cheek.
“Have a good day, sweetheart.”
“I will, Mom. You too.”
He walked into the front hall and stopped to pat Nelson.
“And don’t forget, we’ve got that movie tonight.”
“Right, The Sea Hawk—can’t wait!”
He pulled the front door open.
“Call me if you’ll be late, all right?”
“I will.”
He pushed the storm door wide.
“And watch the traffic on Central Street.”
“I always do. Bye.”
He pulled the front door shut, and as the storm door wheezed, his mom called, “Bye-bye!”
Sheesh! Had she always been like that? Or was it worse in the past few months, since Dad went to live on the boat?
Hard to say. As he pulled back the peel and took two big bites of banana, he told himself that it didn’t matter.
He had only taken about ten steps along the sidewalk when he began picturing the school library in his mind. He located his target, that large book—A Man of the Sea, A School for the Ages, which he thought was a great title. He knew right where it was kept.
First he’d have to find the document, fastened in the back of the book . . . hopefully. Then he’d have to remove it from the book. Without damaging it. Without damaging the book, either. Then get it into his backpack . . . carefully. He’d have to keep it safe the whole day—where could he put it during sixth-period gym? When he got it home after school, then he’d need to hide it somewhere completely secure. Like up in his room behind his dresser—somewhere Nelson wouldn’t be able to sniff it out and chew it to bits.
It was a lot to do. No point in worrying, though—until he got to school. Which meant he had about six minutes. But the fear made him pick up his pace. He took one last bite of banana, stuffed the peel back into his jacket pocket, and broke into a quick jog .
Ben switched his eyes and feet onto autopilot and tried to think about nothing in particular.
Movie night coming up—The Sea Hawk. He remembered watching it with his folks for the first time back when he was seven. Lots of action, huge ships, big battle scenes with cannon fire and swordplay, and sailors swinging on ropes above the burning decks.
The hero in the movie . . . Captain Thorpe . . . hmm. Was he based on someone from real life? And . . . if Thorpe was a real-life sea captain, could Captain Oakes have met him, met the real Sea Hawk? He’d have to check the dates—but then Ben remembered a scene where Captain Thorpe met with Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. So a meeting of the two captains would have been impossible. Elizabeth was queen way before the American Revolution. Way before Duncan Oakes was even born.
Amanda Oakes.
Amanda Oakes Burgess. The lawyer.
When she’d told that about herself? Amazing. And what she had said about the money the town had offered her and her relatives? Ben couldn’t imagine how rich that lady was, not if she had actually wanted to turn down the five hundred thousand dollars they were offering . . . would he have done that? If someone said, Here, Ben, here’s half a million bucks right now, today, and all you have to do is forget this Keepers of the School stuff, just forget about it and walk away—what would he do? Ben felt pretty sure he’d say, No way! Pretty sure . . .
As they’d walked to Jill’s building after yesterday’s meeting, both of them had been quiet, thinking about what the lawyer had advised.
Then, at her doorway, Jill had said, “If we use that codicil, everything about the Keepers will have to come out into the open, right? So . . . I think it should only be used as a last resort.”
He had agreed with that, but then they’d had an argument about how long to wait before going public. Jill finally accepted his timeline: They would hold off using the codicil until Tuesday, June 16—the last day of school. They also decided to start figuring out the next clues right away, and he’d been glad to see her get excited about searching for the other safeguards.
As he trotted across School Street, he smiled. That argument about the codicil had felt good to him—it was like the old Jill was back in action.
Still . . . he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was worried about something else, something big. The weird moods, that outburst on Wednesday—and then yanking out all those surveying stakes? That was just plain crazy.
Yeah, she seemed better, but there was trouble brewing. It felt like a storm that was twenty miles off the coast—no damage yet, but the waters were churned up, and something bad might hit any moment, a real disaster.
But he couldn’t think about Jill anymore, not now.
Ben had never arrived at school this early before. There were only six cars out back in the faculty parking lot. Even the “Reserved for Principal” slot was empty, the nurse’s, too.
Best of all, he didn’t see Lyman’s truck anywhere. It was usually backed into the loading dock beside the janitor’s workroom. On Monday after the funeral he had gotten a good look at it, parked on Union Street. It was a big Ford pickup, dark gray. It had red leather seats with wood grain
finish around the dashboard. Double hub rear wheels too—two tires on each side. Nice truck. Expensive—a truck that might be hard to afford on a custodian’s salary.
Lyman probably used it to haul his sailboat around.
Ben hurried past the loading dock and went around to the front of the building. The main door wasn’t open this early, so he pushed the button to ring the office. He waved to Mrs. Hendon through the glass and held up his yellow hall pass. She gave him a cheery wave and buzzed him in.
Mrs. Sinclair smiled when he came into the library, and he headed right for the reserved books. The reference area wasn’t very far from the front desk, but Ben had already worked out a plan. He set his book bag on the table closest to the reference shelf. Then he took off his jacket and laid it on top of his book bag .
The book he needed was right there, just three feet away.
It was good Ms. Shubert hadn’t come in yet. She might have paid closer attention to Ben. She might have noticed him pulling that book off the shelf—the one she had recently repaired.
He set the heavy volume on the table in just the right spot. If Mrs. Sinclair happened to glance his way, the book would be hidden behind a large orange backpack and a blue windbreaker.
Ben turned the book over and opened the back cover. Beginning at the very last page, he worked fast, flipping first through the index, then page after page of footnotes. After that came a short note about the author, and finally—a page that up until two days ago had been completely blank.
Ms. Shubert had done a fine job taping the codicil exactly in the center of the large page, but Ben didn’t have time to admire her work.
He took a quick look at the front desk. Mrs. Sinclair was busy at the keyboard, eyes locked on her screen.
He pulled out his small steel ruler and slipped the edge under one corner of the document, then pried gently upward. He did the same thing at each of the other three corners, and just like that, the codicil came free. There was still some tape on each corner, but there’d be plenty of time to deal with that later.