"At tax time? That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?"
She shrugged. "Strange are the ways of clients. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or maybe a Coke?"
"A Coke would be good."
She nodded. "I’ll bring it in."
"Thanks." I walked down the short hallway to Mike’s office, which dominated the back half of the small house. Unlike the rest of the downstairs area, which tended to be modern in its feel and furnishing, stepping into Mike’s office was like stepping into another century. From the huge mahogany desk to the massive, Georgian-style, glass-fronted bookcases, the leather-and-mahogany chairs, and the wooden filing cabinets, the place looked—and smelled—old. And Mike only added to this impression, wearing close-fitting pants that looked suspiciously like breeches, a double-breasted waistcoat, a white linen shirt, and a plum-colored cravat. His hair was black but cut short, the dark curls clinging close to his head. I was never actually sure of Mike’s age—he didn’t look old, and yet he didn’t seem young, either. And his eyes—a clear, striking gray—seemed to hold eons of knowledge behind them.
But then, Mom had once commented that he had a genius-level IQ, so that was to be expected.
He was standing near the bookcase as I entered, but turned around and gave me a wide smile of greeting.
"Risa," he said, his voice low and pleasant. "Lovely to see you again."
"And you." I kissed his cheek in greeting, then sat down on the chair he held out for me. "We haven’t seen all that much of you recently."
"No." He walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down elegantly. "And I have very much missed my weekly dinners with your mother—" He paused for a moment, sadness flitting across his aristocratic features. "I suppose you’ve heard nothing more from the Directorate?"
"No. But the case is still open and they are working it."
"Ah." He sighed, then reached for several manila folders. While his secretary had the latest in technology and everything they handled went to the tax office electronically, Mike still preferred his old-fashioned ways, doubling up with actual paperwork and proper signatures rather than just electronic ones. "I just need your signature on these to complete the transfer to your name."
He opened the folders and indicated where I was to sign. I skimmed them all, noting the three businesses involved were the last three Mom had bought—the boutique hotel in St. Kilda, the ski lodge in Falls Creek, and the health spa in Hepburn Springs. All of them good, thriving businesses that didn’t need a lot of input from me. Which is why I’d kept them rather than adding them to the pile I was selling off. Mom was hands-on—but I had enough on my hands just managing my café.
I signed in the spots indicated, then pushed the folders back. He collected them and said, "It’ll take about a month for these to be fully finalized. Even in this instant age of ours, everything still seems to take forever."
I grinned and glanced around as Beatrice came in, carrying a tray holding a can of Coke and a mug of what smelled like seriously burned coffee. She placed the tray on the table, gave us a smile, and walked out.