The Men of Thorne Island

Candy Applebaum’s oath came from the reception room just before the administrative assistant stuck her head in Sara’s office. Her red hair was piled on top of her head, secured by a bright orange elastic band that did nothing to prevent over-moussed strands from sticking out in all directions. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Sara,” Candy said. “I almost made it on time, except I had one catastrophe after another this morning. My cat climbed on the table and swatted at the birdcage. The feed tray fell out of the rungs and all the bird seed went everywhere, and I had to…”

Sara smiled. “It’s all right, Candy. I just got here myself.”

Candy glanced at the credenza and grimaced. “I did it again, didn’t I? Forgot to turn off the coffeepot. Was it really gross?”

“Well, it—”

“No problem. I’ll take care of it.” Candy headed for the bathroom, but stopped at Sara’s desk and dropped a crumpled sack onto the cluttered surface. “Before I forget, this just came for you. Mr. Papalardo delivered it personally.” She sighed as she went into the bathroom. “He’s the sweetest man.”

Sara set down the FedEx envelope and stared in horror at the brown paper bag. He’d done it again. After she’d warned him repeatedly, he pulled the same trick every year. She could just picture the world’s “sweetest man” waiting on the sidewalk until she’d entered the building and then slinking inside. The security guard would greet him cheerfully. The janitor would wave hello. After all, everyone loved Tony Papalardo.

A dull ache centered itself behind Sara’s eyes. She picked up the bag and turned it over, foolishly hoping it would be different this year. It wasn’t. Bundles of paper loosely bound with rubber bands and paper clips scattered onto her desktop. Some scraps were actually identified with official Pappy’s Pizzeria stationery. Most of them were barely legible receipts smudged with tomato sauce or memos scratched on chianti-stained napkins. Sara put her head between her hands.

“Something wrong, Sara?”

A rhetorical question. “Candy, do you think Mr. Papalardo has any idea that he’s not my only client and today is April twelfth? Only three days to the deadline.”

Glancing over her shoulder at the mess on Sara’s desk, Candy said, “Oh, not again. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

“Thanks.” Sara glanced toward a pewter mirror across the room. She could almost visualize herself tugging every pin from her French twist and pulling out each strand of blond hair by the root. But she didn’t have time. Instead, she picked up Tony Papalardo’s paper bag and crushed it in her hands. “I’m going on vacation with my friends in five days, Candy,” she said. “Nothing is going to stop me from getting on that plane to Aruba. I’m really leaving.”

Candy grinned with delight. “Well, of course you are, Sara. And you’ll have a wonderful time. Isn’t that new guy you’ve been dating part of the group?”

Sara answered with caution, knowing where the question was leading. Candy was always trying to secure a happily-ever-after for her boss. “Yes, Donald is going, but don’t jump to conclusions. We’ve only had four dates.”

“Okay, but when you two stroll along those moonlit beaches, who knows what will happen?”

Sara shook her head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

The phone rang in the outer office, and Candy scurried to answer it while Sara picked through the pile of pizzeria flotsam. She was interrupted when her intercom buzzed. “Yes, Candy.”

“It’s for you, Sara. A Mr. Herbert Adams from Cleveland. He said you’d be expecting his call.”

Cleveland? Of course, the envelope. Sara reached for the FedEx package with one hand and grabbed the phone with the other. “Hello, Mr. Adams? This is Sara Crawford. I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to open what you sent. I have it right here, though.”

The voice on the other end was crisp and competent. “Miss Crawford, I was Millicent Thorne’s attorney.”

It took a moment for the name to register, but when it did, Sara smiled. She hadn’t seen her mother’s Aunt Millie for fifteen years, since the summer she’d turned fourteen—the summer her mother died. But she remembered the disciplined woman with her sensible shoes and pearl-buttoned cardigan sweaters. “Of course,” she said. “How is Aunt Millie?”

There was a pause. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Miss Thorne passed away five days ago.”

Sara had only seen Millicent Thorne a half-dozen times in her life. Millie traveled a great deal, and Sara had been busy with school activities. Still, the news of her death sent a wave of sadness through her. Mr. Adams, a stranger, called to tell her that a member of her family had died, a woman she barely knew. There ought to be a sin covering this kind of situation. The sin of missed opportunities because at this moment Sara did indeed feel as if she’d let some part of her life slip away, and there was no way to get it back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m aware that you and Miss Thorne were never close.”

“How did she die, Mr. Adams?”

“Peacefully in her sleep, and she wanted for nothing. Your aunt lived comfortably, thanks to a lawsuit she won a few years ago. Her last years were spent in relative luxury.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.”

“She had a sizable estate,” Mr. Adams said, “and a will that clearly stipulated her wishes. She had a good many friends and helpful neighbors, whom she remembered in her will. And she remembered you, Miss Crawford.”

“Me? Why me? I hardly knew her.” Sara’s headache intensified. “I can’t accept an inheritance, Mr. Adams. If it’s money, perhaps you could arrange for one of Miss Thorne’s charities—”

“It’s not money, Miss Crawford. It’s Thorne-family property, and Miss Thorne very definitely wanted you to have it. She said she remembered you as a levelheaded girl. She thought you could manage it quite well.”

Property? What did Sara know about managing property? Ever since she’d left her father’s cozy bungalow in Brewster Falls, Ohio, she’d lived in college dormitories and rentals until settling a couple of years ago on the sixth floor of a Fort Lauderdale condominium. She’d given up fireplaces and front porches for the efficiency of a one-bedroom dwelling. She didn’t have time to handle more than a few hundred square feet of ceramic tile. “Where is this property, Mr. Adams?” she asked.

“Open the envelope and see for yourself.”

“Oh, of course.” She cradled the phone between her cheek and shoulder and cut through the envelope flap. After removing the contents, she pushed aside a standard legal-looking document and reached for a colorful brochure. “Own a Piece of Paradise,” was written across the top. There was a photograph of a lush green oblong of land in the center of a field of blue water. Underneath it said, “Beautiful, unspoiled Thorne Island.”

“Thorne Island?” Sara said into the phone. “I’ve inherited an island?”

“Indeed you have, Miss Crawford. An island about five miles off the coast of Sandusky, Ohio, in Lake Erie.”

Sara’s jaw dropped. She grabbed the phone before it slipped from her shoulder. “I can’t believe this, Mr. Adams. An island! I lived in Ohio most of my life, yet I’ve never heard of this place. The Bass Islands, yes. The resorts such as Put-in-Bay, of course. But Thorne Island? Where is it exactly?”

“Less than a mile from Put-in-Bay. The island played a role in the Battle of Lake Erie. I’m told Commodore Perry used it as a lookout. It’s a small property, only forty acres total, but if the pictures in the brochure are any indication, it’s quite lovely.”

Sara opened the brochure. A quiver of delight replaced the shock as she gazed at the glossy photos of Thorne Island, her island. One picture showed a small harbor with a narrow dock jutting into the lake. Another was of a charming Colonial-style cottage surrounded by a picket fence. A wooden sign over a gate read Cozy Cove Inn.

The rest of the brochure was sales propaganda written by the Golden Isles Development Corporation. It consisted of glowing reports of the island’s natural beauty, maps and details of how to reach it, various plots for sale and phone numbers of the development-company personnel.

“When was this brochure written, Mr. Adams?” Sara asked. “How long has the island been developed?”

“Actually it never was. I doubt there’s been any change there since the original few buildings were constructed over a hundred years ago. I mentioned a lawsuit a few minutes ago. It was a class-action suit filed by owners of various Great Lakes island properties against the Golden Isles Development Corporation. Company executives purchased several islands under fraudulent circumstances. The corporation was exposed in the Cleveland Plain Dealer a number of years ago. Miss Thorne and her cosuitors reaped an impressive financial award in the judgment. And the chief executives of the corporation are, to my knowledge, still cooling their heels in jail.”

“Wow. So does anyone live on the island now?”

“There were a few residents, people who paid rent to Miss Thorne, although no rental income has been deposited into Miss Thorne’s account recently. I haven’t kept up with the current population of the island. I found the brochure in Miss Thorne’s papers and included it in your package so you would have some idea of the property.”

“Do you know more about the island’s history, Mr. Adams?”

“Miss Thorne once told me it was discovered by a missionary on an expedition paid for by the king of France. The island was originally called Bertrand Island after the missionary. Your aunt changed the name a few years before she died.”

Sara couldn’t help herself. She was falling in love with the old missionary’s discovery. The peace and tranquillity of the island beckoned her like an oasis in the desert. Suddenly she knew she wouldn’t be going to Aruba in five days, after all.

“I’ll arrange to fly into Cleveland on Saturday,” she said, rifling through the papers on her desk and finding the deed to her property. “Is there any reason I should see you before I go to the island?”

“Well, there is the matter of property taxes owed at the present time. I’d be glad to handle that for you if you like.”

Property taxes? “How much is due?”