A Bullet to the Heart Page 5

  “Wyn!” He turned to see the proprietor of Stone Ground Bakery, Catherine Pascal, come running up from the wooded path. “Oh, thank God. Melinda said she saw you head this way.” She bent at the waist, hands planted above her knees, panting. “There’s a fight broke out. At the tavern. Jackson’s drunk again. It’s bad, Wyn. He’s liable to get himself killed this time.”

  “Who now? Lorimer? Stanley?” He cast one last glance over his shoulder toward the lighthouse, then with a sigh, he jogged after Catherine back toward town.

  The riot going on inside reached Wyn. He pulled himself up straight. As the town’s sheriff, it was time to quit mooning over a girl who would never see him as more than who he was. Small-time. Out of her class.

  He pushed through the door in time to see Jackson take a swing, miss, and go spinning like a clumsy ballerina. The man he’d aimed for stepped aside and put up his own fist, catching Jackson’s chin, knocking him out cold. Jackson dropped like a rock.

  Wyn studied the man. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Julius Styles.” He shook out his hand, looking at Jackson with abhorrence.

  “Well, hell,” Wyn muttered. This was the pansy Jo was engaged to? “If he’s dead, I’m charging you with murder. The rest of you, go back to your business. Garrick,” he barked at the tavern’s owner, “help me get Jackson on my shoulders.” He snorted in disgust. “Guess, it’s another night in jail for you, Jack.”

  Jo huddled in her old room, but the comfort she normally took there had deserted her. Esther would be devastated if she voiced that thought aloud. The papered walls of ivory silk were patterned with little canaries flitting about. The swirling pink marbled fireplace was dark, clean, and prepared for a new fire for the upcoming winter. Multipaned French doors led outside to her own private balcony. She meandered to the chaise lounge in the corner. Jo plopped down like a spoiled child banished to her room without supper, only she had no appetite.

  Her life was falling apart. Victor was dead and now she found herself under the same roof with the one woman in the world she’d sworn to never see, think of, or give voice to. Ever again. The nice man she was dating would never do. She couldn’t stomach the thought of Julius touching her, let alone her thoughts constantly barraged Wyndel Smith, Jr.

  Oh, God. She dropped her head in her hands. The only sight floating through her mind was that of the brooding sheriff. She had to find a way to get past her ridiculous infatuation for Wyndel Smith. He saw too much, and she hated it. It had been six months since she’d last seen him. Six months since his mother, Anabelle Smith, had warned Jo off her only son. As if Anabelle had anything to worry over where Jo was concerned.

  None of that mattered. Nothing Annabelle could say would sway Jo from Wyn if she didn’t believe he deserved someone much better. Someone unbroken who didn’t need fixing.

  Jo kicked off her shoes, dragged the chenille throw over her legs, and hugged it up to her chin with her feet curled under her. She laid her head back against the headrest and trained her gaze out the balcony doors to watch the oncoming dusk.

  There were some good things, she reminded herself. Like how lucky she was to have a father who’d found her, anxious to have her in his life. Still, sadness gripped her at all the years they’d lost. And learning she had a father had its downside. It set her apart from her sisters, sisters she genuinely loved. Who would eventually resent her. Another strike against Eleanor.

  The door crashed back against the wall. Tevi barged in and threw herself across Jo’s pristine, fastidiously made bed. Lydia followed in more ladylike fashion. Both wore expressions that spelled trouble for Jo.

  Explanations.

  Lydia toed off her own shoes and pushed at Tevi to make room for her on the soft pink counterpane.

  Jo cringed at the mess. She hated messes. She was all about keeping things neat and orderly.

  “We have a few questions,” Lydia said.

  “Yes, I suppose you do. But we have more pressing matters than Bobby Kingsley.”

  “You mean the fact that you are betrothed and didn’t see fit to mention it?” The sugary, melodic tones Tevi purred made Jo wince.

  Jo moved her gaze from the window and narrowed it on her sisters. “For your information, the man has not asked for my hand. I barely know him.”

  “Where did you meet him?” Lydia said. She wasn’t looking at Jo. She was studying her freshly polished nails at the ends of her curled fingers.

  “At the MET.” No reason to tell them it was on the sidewalk outside the museum. Exasperation hit her with a thud. “As I mentioned, we’ve got more important issues, in case you’ve forgotten. Wyn said Victor was shot.” She blinked back a sting of tears, surprising herself. “I can’t believe it. Who would want to murder Victor?”

  “You mean, besides us?” Tevi responded.

  “Not funny, Victoria Tevis,” Lydia said.

  7

  Gravesite

  O

  ne day later, leaden skies and a steady downpour made the day perfect for a funeral. The question had gnawed at Jo all night, so of course she hadn’t slept a wink. Who wanted Victor dead? She studied the surrounding mourners through the black lace of her veil and didn’t see anyone who didn’t belong. Annabelle Smith, Wyndel’s mother, leaned heavily on her husband, Wyndel, Sr. Esther and Thomas, Lydia and Tevi, and a few other stragglers had braved the weather after the service at the chapel.

  And Jackson. For once he appeared sober and genuinely distraught. It was no secret he and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye. Jo lay the fault at Aunt Mary’s feet who had overindulged Jackson to the point of ruining her own marriage. Despite Jo’s feelings about Jackson, she believed Victor genuinely loved his son, but Mary had weaponized him against his own father.

  The only person missing who should have been there was Eleanor, but her ill health would never survive a bout of pneumonia. So, Lydia had escorted her from the chapel back to the house. The traditional send-off at manor house would be the next day after the reading of Victor’s will rather than today. Jo was glad of the reprieve.

  Reverend Knox’s sinusy drone went on and on. Putting her fingers in her ears would not go unnoticed, but if he didn’t stop soon, Jo couldn’t promise her screams would not erupt like a teakettle-full of water on an unsupervised fire. She was cold and she was scared. “…kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” The reverend’s words jarred her to the damp seeping in her bones.

  Another rash of tears stabbed her, and these she was unable to hold back. A rush of warmth touched her shoulder, ran all the way down her arm and interlocked her fingers. She looked down at the ungloved hand. She recognized the strong masculine hand and her stomach clenched. She raised her gaze, meeting Wyn’s and her heart swelled. Was there a chance?

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, you’ll rise again, in this I trust.” Knox tossed dark soil into the grave, his head bowed.

  Moments later the crowd dispersed. Jo pulled her hand from Wyn’s, not meeting his eyes, and walked with her sisters to the waiting limousine. She followed them inside and felt a hand brush her back. She hurried and fell into the seat, scooting into the farthest corner. Jackson tumbled in behind her. The smirk on his face had her wanting to slap it off. He didn’t say anything, just pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and took a long swig.

  “You’re going to kill yourself before your time,” Tevi told him.

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you. All three of you.” He wore his bitterness like a great enveloping cape.

  Jo wouldn’t mind so much. She turned her gaze out the window. “That’s enough,” Jo said, her breath fogging the glass.

  Lydia spoke for the first time. “Did you kill Uncle Victor?”

  “Why the devil would I kill him? I’d be better off killing the three of you.”

  Jo couldn’t believe it, but she felt the tug of a smile pulling at her. It came out of nowhere. “As much as I hate to admi
t it—” she turned around, facing the louse, “—I think he’s right.”

  Wyn pulled his collar up against the wind and rain and watched until the limo disappeared from sight. He’d declined the ride back to town with his parents. Catherine and Garrick also offered, but he’d opted to walk. He had some thinking to do, questions to ponder, questions like who had reason to shoot Victor Montgomery? Had the force of the bullet to his heart knocked him over the cliff? Victor had been a hard ass, for sure. The man had too many enemies to count. Hell, everyone in town had reason to off the old man. Even Wyn’s own father, if Wyn believed his mother.

  Then there was Styles showing up. That one bothered Wyn the most. Why now? That was easy—Jo was on the island. Styles could be effortlessly dealt with. Wyn could take him blindfolded, he was disposable.

  What about that Kingsley character? And word in town was that Lydia had it out with Wallace Hayes on the ferry. The questions just kept piling up.

  Stan worked on the ferry, and any juicy tidbit of information old Stan came by was his to share. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his own life.

  Small towns, you had to love ’em… if you didn’t succumb to the urge to blow them up first.

  8

  Reading of the Will

  T

  he rich mahogany of Victor’s study was usually one of the warmest rooms in the manor house. Today, however, it rivaled an igloo in Greenland. Jo hadn’t been able to enter the room since learning of Victor’s death. Now, she had no choice. The whole house felt like a tomb, but in this room she felt as if she were being buried alive.

  She glanced up, fought for air and stumbled to the nearest chair. Simon Guthrie, the family’s attorney, sat behind the massive desk, bringing the reality of the situation front and center.

  Uncle Victor was truly dead. He was never coming home.

  Jackson had seated himself at the end of the row. She kept a wary watch on him from the corner of her eye never looking directly at him.

  A hand settled on Jo’s shoulder. She glanced up then flinched. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Hello, my darling,” she said softly.

  Jo crushed any sympathy at her obvious frailty. “Where’s Lydia?” she said coldly, glancing about.

  “Here I am.” Lydia then turned to Eleanor’s nurse and nodded at her. Jo didn’t know the nurse’s name, nor even cared. She just watched the nurse assist Eleanor into a chair at the back of the room. Lydia dropped beside Jo. Jo had nothing to say to her middle sister at the moment and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.

  The room began to fill, mostly with servants, those from the city’s penthouse and the island. There were a few Jo didn’t recognize that must have accompanied Tevi from the Catskills.

  It was all surreal. Victor dead. Eleanor alive.

  At the end of the line Wyn strolled in.

  Jo drew in a sharp intake.

  “What’s he doing here?” Lydia said.

  “I have no idea.” Jo whispered, narrowing her eyes on him. “Victor was shot. Maybe he’s here in his official compacity.” The thought aggravated her, though she couldn’t say why.

  “Where’s Tevi?” Lydia whispered.

  “Next to old Simon, practically hiding in the curtains. What do you suppose that’s about?”

  Tevi’s nervousness was palatable. “We’ll know soon enough. Did you see Jackson?”

  Jo suppressed any ounce of emotion. “Yes. He looks horrible. But I can’t seem to drum up any sympathy for him.”

  “Me neither,” Lydia said.

  They lapsed into silence.

  Simon, Sr. cleared his throat. “It's with heavy heart that we gather here today.”

  “Well, I guess this is it.” Jo turned and caught sight of Simon’s son, the other Guthrie of Guthrie & Guthrie, off to the side. He sat with an open attaché case on his lap. His hairline was high enough to indicate a pattern of baldness similar to that of his father though he was some thirty years younger. Both sported wired framed spectacles, sitting atop straight noses and thin lips. The Guthries had the other large house on the island, but it had always been considered their summer home and usually sat unoccupied this time of year.

  Jo and her sisters had reason to visit the Guthries’ home in the city on occasion. It was located not far from where Uncle Victor’s Montgomery penthouse was off 5th Avenue. Victor and Simon, Sr. went back years. Perhaps attended Harvard together. Jo couldn’t remember. She didn’t care much for Simon’s son. Make that repulsed the two or three times she’d been forced to shake his hand, it had been clammier than hers. She shuddered.

  The elder Simon’s gaze traveled the crowded room with tension dense as fog over the streets of London depicted in the horror novel Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “First, I shall read the affirmative statements, then move on to the staff and personal bequests. Finally, at Mr. Montgomery’s request, only the immediate family shall remain for the rest.” He rubbed his pointed beard, moving his gaze to each of them in turn. “Is everyone present?”

  No one spoke, but no one objected either.

  “Very well then. I, Victor Montgomery, of the town of Stone, the county of Clover, and the state of Connecticut, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills and Codicils by me heretofore made. I direct that all my just debts and funeral expenses be paid as soon as practicable after my decease. I do hereby bequeath...” Simon, the elder, had perfected the solicitor drone Victor had always teased him about. His monotone voice faded in and out, making it painful for Jo to keep her eyes open.

  Jo thought she would die before Simon finally cut to the commentary. She could feel Wyn’s gaze stabbing her between her shoulders as if he wielded a jagged blade.

  “This completes the staff bequests,” Simon concluded.

  Finally.

  “Promised funds shall be distributed by the first of the year. If I can have you step out at this time, I believe you’ll find refreshments in the front salon.” He pointed to Junior who tipped his head in accord. “Please verify your contact information with my son. Any questions should be directed to my office.”

  The myriad staff had almost completely departed when a skirmish ensued outside the crowded doorway.

  Wallace Hayes shoved through the throng. “What the hell is going on here? Where’s that damn lawyer? I’m here to represent my wife.”

  Jo recoiled from the sight of her mother’s second husband. The acrid scent of his body odor mixed with spearmint and pine permeated the study. The contents of her stomach, which contained mostly acid since she hadn’t eaten a thing, recoiled.

  Lydia shot to her feet. “Get out of here. I told you, you’re not welcome. You’ve done enough.”

  Jo shot her a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”

  Tevi leaned down and whispered in the elder Simon’s ear then rounded the desk, joining Lydia. Jo gathered her courage and slowly moved to Lydia’s other side.

  Wallace’s malice-filled eyes bounded between the three of them, narrowing when they landed on Jo.

  Lydia took up the torch. “Why are you here?”

  He ignored her question “Where’s Eleanor?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Hayes, is that you? Lydia said I never had to see you again.”

  Jo looked over her shoulder.

  Her mother hunched in her chair, trembling like a feather in the wind, her hand splayed at the base of her throat.

  Wallace surged forward but Wyn glided in to intercept him. “Eleanor, these people are only after your inheritance,” Wallace growled.

  The old Simon pointed a gnarled finger at Wallace, his voice soft yet firm. “Let him stay.” He nodded at Wyn. “I’m not worried about trouble.”

  Wyn didn’t move so much as a muscle. He wore his dark uniform proudly, black trousers, white shirt, tie tucked neatly beneath his overcoat. He held his hat, clam
ped down under the other arm.

  Seeing him standing so staunchly emboldened Jo. She went to the door and shut it on the gathered spectators.

  Wallace shifted to where he was facing the desk.

  Jo, however, maneuvered her position. Never again would she turn her back on the likes of Wallace Hayes.

  “Mr. Hayes, since you insist on being present, we might as well deal with this now.” Simon’s gaze moved from Wallace to Eleanor with an apologetic smile while he resumed his seat. He scanned the document in front of him. “To my sister Eleanor, I have provided a means by which your needs shall be met for the duration of your lifetime. That being said, no monetary inheritance shall be forthcoming to you.” His eyes settled on Eleanor. “Shall I give Lydia the correspondence from Victor?”

  Eleanor nodded and the younger Simon rose and placed an envelope in Lydia’s outstretched hand.

  The elder Simon pinned Wallace Hayes with a stern look. “As you can see, sir. You are not a beneficiary.”

  The room stilled at this shocking announcement. No one uttered a sound. Jo would have laughed, but laughter from her would need a good oiling to make her mouth, her throat, work properly.

  Wallace’s fury, as he surveyed each of them, was a living, breathing organism, landing lastly on Jo.

  The urge to back away shook Jo, but her eyes darted to Wyn. He stood at the ready. Prepared to fight her demons. His power stiffened her spine and she glared at Wallace. You can’t scare me.

  But Wallace grew defiant. He rose from his chair and leaned in her direction.