Rings of the Templars

By B. Eugene Ellison

In the Rings of the Templars, Jim Kirkwood, a self-indulgent and at times unsympathetic profiteer, joins forces with the Chief of a Scottish Clan and a beautiful Archeologist in search of lost treasure in the snow-covered highlands of Scotland. Hidden for over five hundred years, the treasure reaches back into biblical times and contains truths that, if rediscovered, would unravel the fabric of the Christian era. Betrayals and lies attempts to derail his quest as the grave of an ancient Knight surrenders the encrypted keys setting the stage for deception, murder and the greatest archeological find of all times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462098767

B. Eugene Ellison

B. Eugene Ellison, FSA Scot., lives in Knoxville, TN. with his wife Susan. After a career in Engineering, Gene now enjoys: writing, painting and travel. The Rings of the Templars is his second Jim Kirkwood adventure novel.

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© 2002 by Burlan E. Ellison

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an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

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Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

ISBN: 0-595-24050-X (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-74420-6 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9876-7 (ebook)

Contents

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 1

Shortly before three in the afternoon, two days after his eighty-second birthday, Chubby MacLorren made his way to the corner grocery two short blocks from his home, a distance he traversed three times a week. After buying two cans of soup, a bag of chips and three cans of tuna; two for himself and one as a treat for his cat, Boxer, Chubby retraced his steps, put his purchases away, and then laid down for his afternoon nap. He passed away peacefully in his sleep. The meals-on-wheels lady found him the next day. There was nothing suspicious, the facts were as clear as a cool mountain spring. The old man’s time had come.

Robert Chubby MacLorren had lived a full life, enjoying no more happiness nor experienced more sadness than anyone else. Chubby was a good man of little prominence with few material possessions, and only a handful of close friends. Not surprising, his passing went virtually unnoticed, even in the small community of Newport, Tennessee, where he had spent most of his life. It would have remained that way if not for the extraordinary gift he left and a dusty old camel back trunk that had been in his family for over two hundred years.

Thinking back now, I first heard of Chubby’s passing on Friday, January 3rd, the first Friday of the New Year, 1992. I remember clearly that I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. New Year’s Eve had fallen on Tuesday causing havoc with the workweek. After the mid-week revelry, a short Thursday and Friday was all that remained before a much-needed weekend, a challenge for most but not for me. I no longer toil for a living, not in the truest sense of the term. Through an incredible chain of events that I won’t go into now, I came into a small fortune, then built on it. Seven years ago I jumped headfirst off the corporate merry-go-round and never looked back. To the amazement of those who care, I spend the majority of my time tending to my diverse investments, looking for adventure in the mildest sense of the word and painting. I love working in oils; doing mostly landscapes. It’s a hobby that I’ve been attempting to master with growing success for several years.

By that Friday evening, the effects of the numerous New Year’s Eve parties, a full schedule of Wednesday New Year’s day football games and a party that carried over to Thursday had taken their toll. My body and mind begged for at least a single day sabbatical from the few individuals that I considered dear friends and the often too many acquaintances that always seemed to find us when there is a good time to be had. I had promised myself a quiet evening alone, a lite home cooked meal with a bottle of 1978 Masi Amarone, and a newly remastered tape of Ella Fitzgerald performing with other jazz greats on a recording known as J.A.T.P. in Japan; Live at the Nichigeki Theater 1953.

It was a little after eight in the evening and I was well on the way to a scaled down recipe for Coquilles St. Jacques when the phone began ringing. I had just added a half-cup of inexpensive chardonnay and a half-pound of Alaskan baby, sea scallops to the boiling court bouillon. The interruption couldn’t have come at a worse time. Coquilles St. Jacques is, for the most part, a simple dish of boiled scallops in a white sauce served over seasoned French creamed potatoes. However temperature and timing is everything. In six short minutes heavy cream must be added, returned to a soft boil then cooled; any delay would turn the scallops into something just shy of shoe leather. On the third ring, I set the cooking timer to five minutes, for a split second considered not answering, hesitated, then against my better judgment picked up the receiver.

It was a small voice; a Reverend John Ferguson identified himself then told me that he was Chubby MacLorren’s minister. He began by apologizing for the interruption, then went on to tell me that Chubby had died the day before yesterday. Somewhat short of breath he launched into a tale that spanned six months, the bottom line being that Chubby had made a list of those he wanted contacted if or when anything happened to him. On his very short list were his closest friends, I was both surprised and honored to be included. The preacher closed by saying that Chubby’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, then apologized for not calling sooner. I promised him that I’d be there.

After jotting down a few directions, I hung up and hurried back to my nouvelle cuisine, making it with less than a minute to spare.

The next morning, a little after seven, I left the northern suburb of Atlanta that I called home and headed for Newport, Tennessee. The next four and half-hours took me up Interstate 75 past Chattanooga, through the city of Knoxville then east along Interstate 40 into Cocke County and the Great Smoky Mountains. I exited at 440: Wilton Springs Road. Following the directions that I had jotted down on the back of an envelope, I headed south about a mile then turned left onto a muddy road that led into a run down farm. I had been told to drive past the house, turn left behind the green barn and drive up and around the steep hill. There, under three leafless oak trees, I would find a forgotten, overgrown family cemetery that overlooked the French Broad River to the east. I parked at the end of a line of five cars headed by a black hearse. A few minutes later, I stood uncomfortably in a soft cold rain with seven strangers, a lone piper dressed in full Scottish attire and a polished oak casket, all waiting to commemorate Chubby’s first few hours of eternity. It was obvious that the small group of mourners had been waiting for me to take my place at the foot of the grave. Within seconds a man in a dark raincoat, whom I assumed to be the Rev. Ferguson commenced the service that would conclude with Chubby being laid to rest beside four generations of his people.

Chubby was a Scotsman at heart. Scottish blood had run through his veins. Although born only a few miles from where his mortal remains would be interred, he belonged to the Highland’s of his ancestors. He often claimed to be a direct descent of the first Chief of the Clan MacLorren, a claim that no one had ever been able to prove, or disprove for that matter. It was said, usually by Chubby himself that he could trace his family back to the 1680’s, back to the lands of the Clan MacLorren in the Argyle region of western Scotland, to Kintyre and Campbeltown. Before that date, he readily admitted that his family history was based more on Clan lore, undocumented legends and intuition than hard facts. Whether or not he was a descendent of the great Chief really didn’t matter. He believed it with all his heart and he was my friend.

I first met Chubby five years earlier at the Grandfather Mountain Highland games that are held every July just outside of Lynnville in North Carolina. A few months before that, I had become interested in my own family history and had found a rich Scottish heritage. While my family name, Kirkwood, proved to be very English, my mother and my grandmother on my father’s side were pure Scottish. My mother’s maiden name was Macmillan and my grandmother was a McLorren. Chubby, in the warmest way, was happy to illuminate for me the fact that McLorren and MacLorren were one and the same. I can still hear him laughingly pointing out how sorry he was that my people just didn’t know how to spell.

Chubby was the first male MacLorren I ever met who wore a kilt. A big man, over six two and every bit his namesake. Strange as it may sound, there was an instant bonding between us, a kinship at first sight. There was an easiness about him that spoke volumes of kindness. From the beginning he called me Sonny Boy or sometimes simply Son, seldom Jim, my given name. At first, I wondered if he remembered my first name but over time it didn’t matter.

The day we met he was dressed in the kilt of the Clan MacLorren and wearing a military style shirt. The left breast was covered with World War II and Korean War vintage ribbons. As if it were yesterday I remember introducing myself to him and telling him that my grandmother was a McLorren. His face lit up like a six-year-old at Christmas. He reached out with his oversized mitt, took my hand into his then whipped my arm up and down as he called me Cousin with a warmth that bridged generations of ancestors. Thinking about it now, as the rain softly drummed against the funeral home canopy that covered the small gathering, I realized just how much his friendship had meant to me and how much I and the Clan MacLorren Association of America would miss him. For the last twenty years or so of his life, the members of the Clan MacLorren, those who shared the names associated with the Scottish family MacLorren, had been his only family. He had spent most of his time writing old members, sending greeting to new ones and sharing the history of the Clan and his family with anyone who would listen.

Chubby had outlived his wife by twenty-three years. Their only child had died at the age of 12 in 1944 while he was serving in the 8th Army Air Corps in England. Both lay under our feet waiting for him to join them. As I listened to the words of comfort delivered by the minister, I felt the loss of a dream. Chubby was the last of his people. Although he shared the name MacLorren with thousands, he was the last of his family, the last in a long line of Scots.

After the haunting but sweet sound of the Scottish lament for the dead, Flowers of the Forest piped Chubby to his maker; Rev. Ferguson broke his ecclesiastic demeanor and informally addressed the few who had gathered to say good-bye on this gray day.

Chubby made a request of me shortly before he died, he made me promise. You all know how persuasive he was, then he paused as if to give each of us a moment to reflect. He asked that we, his closest friends, drink a toast to Scotland for him. Much to my surprise came a muffled chorus of here, here as the country preacher took a bottle of twenty-five year old Macallam scotch from a small black bag at his feet.

Holding it out for everyone to see, he continued, Chubby once told me that this was his pride and joy; he said it was twenty-five years old when he bought it in 1946. Almost as old as he was. Ferguson’s voice softened with sentiment. He wanted all of you to share it with him today. And share it we did. From the same bag he withdrew crystal tot whiskey glasses shaped like the flower of the thistle, one for each of us, the last one he set atop Chubby’s coffin. He broke the ancient seal that had protected the 71-year-old reddish amber water of life, worked the corked top out. Then after filling Chubby’s glass, he poured the man on the left a generous dram then continued around the circle until all were served.

Holding his glass high, he began to read from a yellowed sheet of lined composition paper. These are the words Chubby wanted me to say. He paused and straightened as if drawing himself to attention. We all followed.

To Scotland! The home of our ancestors who fought and died for her freedom against the English—To all Scots who were forced from their homes in the Highlands and who came to this great land—To Scotland! He paused as he raised his glass a little higher into the air, To the home of our Prince Charles Edward Stuart and all who died at Culloden—To Scotland! May God see fit to set her free—To Scotland!’ There was a moment of silence before he continued, "and may I add, to Robert ‘Chubby’ MacLorren, my friend."

I felt an uncontrollable tear as we drank to the memory of a fine man and the country he loved. This solitude, this moment of silence was broken by the sound of the lone bagpipe playing the sweet refrains of Amazing Grace. Its notes filled the bleakness of death with promise. The resonance of the pipes cut through the mist and rose to the heights of the Smoky Mountains and settled to the valleys below us.

Without words, each of us reflected on the moment as the music gently held the gathering and filled the rainy, misty Highlands of east Tennessee. Two men dressed in dark suits got out of the hearse and began the task of lowering the coffin into the ground, taking care not to spill a drop of Chubby’s drink. After the casket came to a rest, each mourner in turn tossed a handful of dirt into the grave then turned and walked away. I was the last.

I turned, snapped open my umbrella and started back to my car alone.

You must be Jim Kirkwood, the Rev. Ferguson called out to me. His voice retained the same soft monotone delivery that he had projected during the service. I stopped and turned back toward him. Chubby talked a lot about you and what a fine young man you are, he continued. I’m John Ferguson. I called you.

Ferguson was a short, overweight man in his late thirties whose voice, soft with flat round tones, was too small for his size. Coal black hair and reddish cheeks that had been accented by the cold weather. I’m glad you called, I forced out; I would have hated not being here. Chubby will be missed. I tried to sound sincere and reserved at the same time. Everyone knows that real men don’t show their true feelings.

Yes he will. I want to thank you again for coming all the way up here from Atlanta. I know how much it meant to Chubby.

It was no problem, I paused as my emotions tightened in my throat. It was the least I could do. Chubby was my friend. I tried to smile.

The preacher began again telling me about Chubby’s last days and how much he would be missed. Rambling was his calling and he was good at it. He continued talking through several of my attempts to leave, finally I eased far enough away that he got the message and stopped his reiterations. Gesturing back behind toward the open grave as if to remind me why we were here he said, He wanted you to have what was left. Then he handed me the bottle of Macallam.

I held the bottle with great care and studied it. Its label was tattered from age. Thanks. I—I’m not sure what to say. I’ll use it to toast Scotland on special days.

He’d like that. Yes he would, I whispered. I shook his hand, which felt like a cold dead fish, then turned and walked, back to my car.

Back at exit 440, I stopped at a Gulf station, filled up, bought a diet coke and a local newspaper. Sitting alone in the car with my thoughts, I turned to the obituaries. There were three. The second one read.

MacLorren, Robert Chubby Houston, a life long resident of Newport, died suddenly Wednesday, January 1, 1992 at his home. He was a member of the First United Methodist Church of Newport, a retired schoolteacher and an Army Air Corps veteran of World War II. Chubby MacLorren was a lifetime member of the Clan MacLorren Association. Preceded in death by his wife, Mildred V. MacLorren and son, James D. MacLorren. Funeral services and interment at the MacLorren family cemetery at 12:00 noon Saturday January 4, 1992 officiated by Rev. John Ferguson.

A few minutes later I was on interstate 40 on my way back to Atlanta.

C H A P T E R 2

Two weeks to the day after Chubby’s funeral, I stood before three full length dressing mirrors in the drawing room adjacent to the master bedroom in my home in Atlanta. I was putting the final touches to my finest before an evening of Scottish entertainment and dining. It was the night of Atlanta’s Robby Burn’s Supper, an annual event that I both enjoy and dread. The evening promised the ultimate opportunity to romanticize Scotland with the regalia of sights and sounds of a time gone by yet shared with anyone who could afford the price of admission: an odd commentary.

Standing before the mirror contemplating the good, the bad and the unpleasantness that lay before me, I realized how quiet the house was. An eerie quiet, a low hum of silence surrendered to solitude. I bought the house on Brandy Wine, in Sandy Springs, a suburb of Atlanta, in 1979, the year I was promoted to Vice President of Engineering at Pacific Systems. It had been a financial stretch at the time but, in light of today’s market, one hell of an investment. I’m not sure what drew me to it at first, maybe vanity. The idea of owning a huge house in a prestigious part of town appealed to my inflated materialistic ego. Back then when I didn’t have much, I wanted everything. My desire for success and power was insatiable. Funny how things change. Today material things seem far less important.

From Brandy Wine the house appears to be two stories setting on a gentle rise, but in reality there are three. The lower level that I use as my studio is a full walk out floor cut from the hill, framed with glass walls overlooking the swimming pool and hot tub that I added two years ago. The master bedroom, with its panoramic view of the pool and the two-acre estate, is over 900 square feet alone. I had the entire top floor remodeled into a suite of loosely defined areas. Across from the dressing area is the fireplace and sitting room. Double sliding hide away doors at the east end of the room open to my study with its easterly verandah.

I lived alone, for all practical purposes, for the first three years I owned the house. That was before Susan. After a year of growing together and the saga of Sea Island we married and started growing apart. Thank God when our version of marital bliss came to an end, she didn’t consider the house as common property. After four years, we parted friends. Odd as that may sound; it’s the truth. I think the idea of being a dynamic, criminal lawyer with the mantel of a single mother was more her cup of tea than being the wife of a corporate dropout, no matter how much money he had. The details of the divorce were settled over a couple of scotches before dinner. I retained the house and the full amount of my windfall inherence. We divided equally what we had made from investing. She got the beach house and I put an additional million in a trust fund for our son. Susan walked with three point two million cash. I was left with this simple roof over my head and a little over eight million.

Looking in the mirror at the image of the clock on the dresser behind me, I could see that it was almost six. I had only a few minutes before I needed to leave for the party that would begin at 7:00 with a reception followed by dinner. The Burns Supper, for all of you who aren’t Scottish is a celebration in honor of the great Scottish poet Robert Burns. It may be stretching the point a bit, but Scots have never been accused of understatement when it comes to extolling the greatness and accomplishments of their heroes; and at the top of the list stands Robby Burns. Wherever Scots have settled around the world, they have left behind the Burns Supper as an annual tribute to the extraordinary poet, wit, philosopher and minstrel who was born in Alloway, Scotland in 1759. The Scottish Society of Atlanta always scheduled its Supper as close as possible to his actual birthday on January 25, as close to that date as an appropriate sized facility was available. This year’s event was on the 18th.

I made a final check of my formal Scottish attire before I was off to pick up my date, the beautiful and vivacious Sheila Conners. Sheila is the only woman in the world who probable will be late for her own funeral. In the seven months that we’ve been seeing each other I doubt that she has been on time once, not that I really care. She always has the loveliest excuses.

Looking at my reflection, I was pleased. At six-foot and 164 pounds, dark blond hair and gentle hazel eyes that at times take on a blue tint, I consider myself a man of above average looks. Most women consider me handsome but not in the way that causes them to come running. Having a shy side and not being extremely forthcoming when it comes to the opposite sex, I can honestly say that I’ve never had to fight them off, but then again, I’ve never been alone either. I guess I’d say I have individual appeal rather than universal. At forty-two years old, I have a look of confidence that comes with maturity and few unexplained touches of gray that support an air of dignity. Due to a healthy life style, I show little effects of the twenty years or so that have passed since my graduation from college. I find great satisfaction in tennis, golf, working out in my private gym and my morning five-mile runs. I confess I’m dedicated but not fanatical. Hell, I never run in the rain, enjoy vintage wine and rich food, a fine cigar now and again, and late nights with beautiful women.

Tonight’s dinner is considered the high point of Atlanta’s Scottish social calendar, an event that requires that I wear the Dress kilt of the Clan MacLorren, so called because it is only worn at the most formal affairs. There are other kilts for other times but none so elegant. The Dress tartan is a gray and black sett with cross lines of purple and gold on a field of white. White hose of pure Scottish wool turned down just below the knee with flashes that match the kilt and black Ghillie Brogue shoes with the strings that tie above the ankles and around the lower calf. Tucked in the top of my right hose with two inches of its handle showing is a Sqian Dubhs, a small semi-hidden knife carried for some forgotten reason. A wide black belt with a silver thistle buckle from which hangs, on the right side, a jeweled dirk, a sixteen-inch short sword. In front, held by a silver chain strap, a three-tassel white mink evening sporran. A Scottish purse in reality and a necessary part of the attire; kilts don’t have pockets. Everything was as it should be. I slipped on a short waist Prince Charlie jacket over the tuxedo shirt, picked up a Clan MacLorren Dress tartan woman’s sash, finished my dram of Glen Ord scotch and headed out to wait on Sheila.

Sheila is the latest of my so-called girlfriends; so called because at my age, girlfriend seems like such a juvenile term. In the five years since my divorce there had been numerous I’ll call you in a couple of days affairs but only a few in which I actually did. Sheila was one. Most of my companions had been professional woman; two, like Susan, were lawyers. Sheila is a breath of fresh air. At thirty-five, she is an RN without inhibition who seemed as happy helping me work in the gardens as going to formal shindigs like the one tonight. I suggested, or to be more precise I asked her to wear the simple little black dress I bought her for Christmas; a Calvin Klein rosette-back satin bodice original with georgette skirt. Its draped neckline allowed more than a hint of her abundant cleavage to show. It is open down to the small of her back; it leaves little for the active imagination. If the past is any indication of things to come, under it she will be wearing thigh-high, lace topped stocking that somehow stayed up by themselves and nothing more. My contribution tonight to her fashion statement will be the final Scottish touch, a tartan shoulder sash to match my kilt with a jeweled brooch.

Almost an hour and a half later we stepped off the elevator at the ballroom level of the Peachtree Hotel, late as usual, and into the reception that preceded dinner. On the hurried ride downtown from her apartment near Lenox Square, she graciously allowed me to confirm my preconceived notions about her undergarments or lack thereof.

The cocktail reception before the dinner was being held in the ante-room outside the main ballroom. Cocktail bars manned by at least two hotel bartenders in white shirts and black bow ties graced three of the four corners of the room. The lines waiting to be served were five to six deep. The promise of free liquor always draws a crowd. Down the center of the room was a long table of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, anchored in the center with a huge swan ice sculpture that, to my eyes resembled a Mallard duck trying to fly. In the fourth corner was a four-piece Celtic music ensemble made up of a fiddle, a bodhran, a type of Celtic drum, a guitar and a young woman playing the lowland Irish pipes. No one seemed to care that they couldn’t be heard over the conversation of the crowd. I left Sheila with a contingency of friends and headed for the bar determined to get a small portion of my fair share.

Shortly after returning to Sheila’s side with a Zinfandel for her and a double shot of questionable quality scotch for me, Thomas MacLorren and his wife Shirley made their way through the crowd. I saw them coming too late. Tommy and I were dressed alike, the predictable standard for the Clan MacLorren males, alike except for his sporran. His looked like a Tennessee raccoon road kill. Shirley was wearing a full-length skirt of the same tartan; a white blouse and a sash like the one I had brought for Sheila.

Jim how nice it is to see you. Did you guys just get here? Tommy interrupted our conversation with his bellowing announcement. The one thing he was not was tactful.

As I shook his hand I rambled off a number of plausible excuses including the traffic and lack of parking, then stepped toward Shirley to accept her motherly kiss on the cheek. Tommy and Shirley live in Orlando and made a point of always driving up to Atlanta for the Burns Supper. They have three children, the youngest, a daughter; Bonnie was married to an Insurance executive. They lived in the Buck-head area, Atlanta’s Mecca for young and beautiful yuppies. Every year since David Carson’s transfer here from Miami; the MacLorrens had attended the Atlanta Burns Supper as one of their annual family gatherings. Where’s Bonnie? I said, knowing that Tommy was dying to be introduced to Sheila.

She and David are over there somewhere with Gerry and Lynda. I’ve arranged for all of us to sit together tonight. That didn’t exactly excite me, but somehow I wasn’t surprised. At Scottish gatherings, birds of a feather seem to be required to flock together. An unwritten law I assume.

Shirley turned her attention to Sheila. She made an obvious gester of giving Sheila’s dress an approving eye. I’m Shirley MacLorren, she offered with a firm handshake. I don’t want to describe the look Tommy was giving her.

I was trapped into a long overdue introduction. Sheila, this is Thomas and Shirley MacLorren. Tommy is the President of the Clan MacLorren Association here in the States and Shirley is the better half of the team. May I introduce my date? This is Sheila Conner.

It was obvious that Tommy hadn’t lost his eye for a beautiful lady. After a not-too-discreet survey of Sheila’s physical attributes, he was all over her. Shirley remained undaunted until he broke his slightly less than fatherly hug before commenting on how nice the sash looked with her dress. It wasn’t the sash that he was admiring.

It’s Jim’s; he brought it for me to wear. I hope you don’t mind, I mean, I’m not a MacLorren.

Oh don’t be silly, Tommy jumped in. I’m sure we are related somehow, kissing cousins or something like that.

You look fine, my dear. The MacLorren colors are very becoming to you, Shirley added.

Thomas was elected President of the Clan MacLorren Association, USA two years ago. The Association is a non-profit organization whose objectives are to cultivate a spirit of kinship among its members and provide a means of communication with one another. In essence, to promote our Scottish heritage. It is suppose to encourage the collection and preservation of historical and genealogical records, folklore, literature, music and properties of the Clan and of Scotland. However more often than not its primary purpose is to provide a good reason for members to get together and party.

Sheila, will you excuse Jim and I for a minute. I’ve got something very important to discuss with him, Clan business. You understand. His comment surprised me. I couldn’t think of anything that warranted a private audience. My involvement with the Association leaned more toward the social, when I could tolerate its members, than service. Although I had been asked on several occasions to become involved beyond paying dues and drinking, I had always steadfastly refused.

Before she or I could answer, Shirley piped in; You men don’t mind us girls. We’ll just go over and find Bonnie and David. I want everyone to meet her. We’ll see you guys later. Don’t forget we’re at table seventeen. We were victims of a pre-planned conspiracy. Sheila smiled at me with a look that I recognized as surrender to her kidnapper before she was whisked away. Tommy checked his watch, then suggested that we get another drink before the bars shut down. He turned and led the way across the room.

We made our way through the crowd of over four hundred guests, about half dressed in Scottish attire and stood in line for a minute or two before we were face to face with the bartender. After ordering two double scotches, neat, Tommy walked me over to the edge of the room. He leaned close as if to protect our privacy; I got a letter Thursday from a law firm in Newport, Tennessee. It was from a guy named Scott Huxley. It said his firm is acting as executor of Chubby’s estate.

The mention of the subject surprised me. Hell! I didn’t even know that he had an estate.

Not much of one. According to Huxley it won’t exceed ten grand.

Ten grand isn’t peanuts. I sipped my drink wondering why Tommy and the Association were involved in Chubby’s business.

You’re right about that. He paused and lowered his voice, Huxley said Chubby left everything to the Association. Tommy was trying to be so dramatic and secretive that his voice faded under the noise of the room.

What?

Chubby left everything to the Association.

I knew Chubby had been a lifelong member and active in his own way, but leaving everything to the Clan? Can he do that? I understood that Chubby didn’t have any immediate family but surely there is someone.

According to Huxley everything is in order. It seems that there isn’t anyone left of Chubby’s people—at least not that he knows of. There is one thing; the gift comes with a stipulation. He paused to let the idea sink in, According to the will, we have two choices as to what to do with the money. Chubby wanted for us to either have a grand party in his memory, then give what is left over to Roddy for his education or, you’ll like this, if we want—We can divide it up equally among the members.

Who is ‘we’?

The Executive Committee.

I took another sip of the cheap bar scotch and wondered what all this had to do with me. What are you going to do?

Don’t know yet. If the estate were worth only ten grand or so, it’d cost too much to divide it up. Hell, we’ve got almost a thousand members on the books. That would only be about ten bucks apiece. On the other hand, we could have one hell of a party at Grandfather Mountain. You know Roddy is going to be there. He’s one of the honored Chiefs of the Games this year.

Roderick Roddy MacLorren is the 23rd Chief