A Bullet to the Heart Page 7

  The invigorating walk to town was exactly what she and Frizzle needed. The air was brisk, cold, and damp. She didn’t care, at least now she could finally breathe. She’d be lucky if she didn’t have to dodge a downpour on the way back but returning for an umbrella was out of the question. Jo kept an eye out for Wyn, but, disappointingly, he was nowhere in sight. How busy could a small island cop be, for goodness sake? Then she chastised herself. Victor had been shot on the island.

  Up and down the main street, carved pumpkins, witches, and skeletons made out of Bakelite decorated window displays from the Stone Ground Bakery, to the post office, to the Cobblestone Café.

  In a blink, her path was blocked in front of the café. Frizzle let out a low growl and she instinctively reached for his collar.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Weatherford.” Reverend Knox’s monotone vocalization was not reserved for just sermons and funerals. His cadaverously thin frame was tall and imposing. Jo had not regularly attended services on the island for years, and his deep-set eyes accused her of that negligence, or was it outright sin?

  “Hello, Reverend.”

  “As a leader of this fine community,” he said in his raspy tenor. “I feel it is my God-given duty to advise you against spending an inordinate amount of time with Wyndel Smith, Miss Weatherford.”

  Jo gasped, too stunned to speak.

  “Yes, my dear, I saw him take your hand at the graveside service for Mr. Montgomery the other day. It was positively shameless. I’m certain your uncle would say the same. Smith is a dangerous man. A very dangerous man.” His bony, uncovered hand took hers in an unrelenting grasp.

  Frizzle’s growl turned menacing and vibrated the air, but the clergyman held fast despite her not-so-subtle attempt to escape his grip. “My uncle was being buried, sir, at that moment,” she said through clenched teeth. Her hand grew damp and clammy, as panic feathered her senses—her instinct to fight or flee. Reverend Knox needed to let go before she had an anxiety attack right there on Main Street, or before she let go of Frizzle and encouraged his attack on the good reverend.

  Knox squeezed her hand. “Take heed, Miss Weatherford. He killed my Penny.”

  Panic seized her ability to speak rationally. Jo had to quell her urge to scream. “I’m sorry about your daughter, sir. So very sorry.” She tugged at her hand again, this time not so gently. It came away with a slight jerk.

  He stepped back.

  “Have a good day, sir.” She looked down at Frizzle. “Stay here a minute, boy.” She opened the door to the café and slipped in before either dog or man could further delay her.

  The heat inside hit Jo with a blast and was almost overwhelming after the cold wind chafing her cheeks. She was chilled to the bone. She shivered beneath her heavy coat.

  “Josie! Get in here. Heck, you might as well bring that hound in too.” Melinda met her just inside, widened the door and invited Frizzle in. He didn’t hesitate.

  A genuine smile filled Jo. Melinda was one of those individuals who had never met a stranger. She’d befriended Jo that first summer she and her sisters had come to live with Victor and Mary.

  “Hey, hon. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday at the manor. I have a coffee cup with your name on it. Sit anywhere. As you can see, all the townsfolk are busy preparing for Halloween festivities, which does not include the Cobblestone.”

  Jo shrugged out of her coat and hung it on a brass coat tree near the door. “Thank you, coffee would be great.”

  Frizzle followed her to a booth near the windows.

  She slid into the seat and trained her gaze to the street outside while Frizzle wriggled his large body beneath the two poles holding up the table.

  Two young children prematurely dressed as goblins clung to their mother’s hand, jumping up and down from an early onslaught of candy they’d likely wheedled out of her. A small smile touched her at the sight.

  “I saw the mighty reverend waylay you outside. You okay? That man gives me the heebie-jeebies. I gotta tell you.”

  Jo flashed her a smile, silently agreeing, but didn’t respond, looking again out the window. Right behind the kids, a man strolled down the street, his mud-colored fedora angled low on his brow, his brown tweed suit, immaculate, his tie straight. Not Wyn. She pulled her gaze away.

  Porcelain on the wood tabletop jarred her attention to Melinda who was studying her with an intensity Jo usually shied from. “You sure, you’re okay, Jo?”

  “It’s been…stressful, of course. How could it not be? Tell me. How is business?”

  “Well, it’s slow for a Saturday afternoon, that’s for sure. Usually, we have a few stragglers who’ve come in on the ferry. But with Halloween tomorrow, it appears all the parents are busy making other plans.”

  The bell over the door jangled.

  “Mm. mm. ’Scuse me a minute, hon.” She turned to the newcomer. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Josephine—oh, there you are.”

  “Julius? I’d heard you were on the island. What are you doing here?”

  “To see you, of course. May I join you?” He slid in across from her without waiting for a response.

  A growl emanated from under the table.

  “What the hell?” He leaned back to peer underneath.

  Jo tipped an innocent grin at him. “That’s Frizzle.”

  He frowned. “What’s a dog doing in a restaurant?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind. What am I thinking? I’m sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? Too familiar. Not okay. “Thank you,” she murmured narrowing her eyes on him.

  “Cup of coffee, black,” he said, his gaze never wavering from Jo. “You left the city before we could talk.”

  “I had a death in the family.”

  “Right, yeah. Of course.” He fumbled over his words. He glanced up at Melinda. “I thought I asked for coffee.”

  Heat crawled up Jo’s neck as Melinda stomped away. She hadn’t remembered him being so condescending. “Don’t talk to her like that.” Jo poured sugar in her coffee, added milk and stirred.

  His brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Was he serious? She cut her gaze on him, then let out a sigh. She was terribly afraid he was.

  “Hi, Melinda.”

  “Hey, Sheriff. Coffee?”

  Jo flinched. She’d been so focused, she hadn’t heard the door’s jangle.

  “I hear you’re stuck on this island,” Julius said. “I’ve taken a room at the Island Inn. There’s no reason why we can’t keep seeing one another.”

  Jo stared at him.

  And his lips were still moving. “I’d like to marry you. Like I said, you left before we could talk.”

  She didn’t know how her mouth had not come unhinged and was not hanging open at his shocking proposal. His sheer audacity. She’d known him, what? A matter of weeks?

  “Hello, Jo.” Wyn’s shadow from the overhead lighting fell over the table.

  She looked up at him and blinked. His uniform was in slight disarray, his hair badly in need of a cut, but windblown back from his face. He sipped at the cup he held.

  Julius frowned, scanning the near empty diner. “Where the devil is that waitress? I should have had my coffee by now.”

  Jo ducked behind her cup to hide her mirth, wondering what she’d ever seen in him.

  Julius shrugged. “Never mind. Sheriff, is there something you wanted? You can’t very well charge me with murder. As I understand it, the drunkard who started that fight the other night survived.”

  “I can’t charge you. Yet. But you’re still on the island. There’s plenty of time and I’m a patient man.”

  Wyn was taunting him with a brooding coldness that unnerved her. She hardly recognized the man he’d become from the boy she’d known.

  Julius looked at Jo, then back at Wyn. “Yeah, I guess I can see you wanting her for yourself,” he said.
“Of course, you would.” He raked an insulting look over Wyn. “Don’t you think she’s a bit out of your class?”

  Wyn speared her with a look that took her breath away, one she hadn’t seen on his face before—thunderous? Possessiveness?

  Melinda gasped.

  Jo’s cup clattered to the table’s surface and toppled. She stumbled out of the booth, tripping over Frizzle who jarred it even more with his frantic ramble to escape. Wyn grabbed her arm, righting her.

  Melinda tossed a wet cloth on the spilled coffee, not leaving her side. “I think it’s time you left, sir,” Melinda bit out. “You’re not welcome here.” Melinda had Jo’s arm and pulled her back, giving Julius a wide berth.

  It didn’t occur to Jo to jerk away.

  “Josephine, sweetheart. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. You know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “It’s time you beat it out of here, and when I say here, I mean be on the next ferry to the mainland.” Wyn tugged the sleeve of his uniform back and peered at his watch. “You have about two hours before the next run. That should give you enough time to pack and check out of the Island Inn.”

  Julius moved out of the booth, took a step toward Jo. “Sweetheart, please—”

  Jo matched his step going backward. “—I think you should leave.” She spoke softly, then let Melinda lead her out through the kitchen. “I’m sorry he treated you like that.”

  “You think someone like him bothers me? I could take him with two hands tied behind my back. Why, I’d kill him myself if I didn’t have an irrational fear of small, enclosed spaces. You know, like a cell.”

  A burst of sharp laughter erupted from Jo. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ah. I see what you mean.”

  “I, uh, heard you were already engaged. Was it to him?”

  “I was never engaged.” Now that she’d seen in the light of day, so to speak, she could never marry Julius Styles. Not to save her life, not to save the terms of the will. Would she? No. A chilled shudder crawled over her skin. Would it always be like this? Men coming after her because of what she was worth—and that was only if Jackson and her sisters complied with the terms as well. What if she married someone and one of the others didn’t comply? Then she’d be stuck. What had Victor been thinking?

  Oh, God. “What am I going to do?”

  Melinda hugged her.

  It took everything in Jo not to recoil. Instead, though, Jo forced herself to pat Melinda awkwardly on the shoulder before she stepped away. “I should probably get back to the manor.” But being cornered by Eleanor was worse than being stalked by some gold digger. Frizzle pressed against her leg.

  Melinda leaned back against the enormous, antiquated oven, with her chin resting against the back of her hand, considering Jo as if she were a bug under a microscope. “You know what you need? A night out. I’ll close up early, and we can go to the tavern. Have a couple of cocktails.” She glanced at Frizzle. “We might have a problem with the dog.”

  The door jangled again, and voices sounded from the dining room.

  “Hang on, hon. I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey, Ms. Weatherford. What are you doing in the kitchen? Did Melinda hire you? I hear’d she was hiring a new waitress. You need the money?” Davin was Cobblestone’s longtime cook. If memory served, he’d worked for Melinda’s parents when they ran the café. His bald head was a beacon, but his bright, gap-toothed smile flashed a happy welcome. He completely ignored the fact that her dog was standing in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Davin. No—” Wait, what if she did work for Melinda? How hard could it be? It would go far in alleviating any boredom. It wasn’t like she could rush to the city for her job back at the MET. “Um, uh, yes. I’m the new waitress.”

  “You better get changed into your uniform then. With Halloween on the horizon, things are gonna get purty spooky.” His chortle boomed against the kitchen walls.

  “What are you saying? You can’t work here!” Melinda told her ten minutes later. “Lord have mercy. I’ll be the laughingstock of the town when they learn I’m paying Victor Montgomery’s heir a measly nine dollars a week. Not only that, winter’s comin’.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “No business, hon. No business, no money.”

  “I don’t want to do it for the money,” Jo said, exasperation hitting her after a full thirty minutes of arguing with Melinda. “I can’t stay in that house hour after hour with nothing to do.” Jo’s arms crossed her waist. “Come on, Mel. Help me out. I’m stuck here. Please?”

  “What kind of experience do you have?”

  “I was working at the MET.”

  Melinda’s brow lifted.

  “The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “Right…” She dragged the word out with all the sarcasm of one of the Marx Brothers.

  Jo waited out the long silence that followed, anticipation oozing through her veins, holding her breath. She didn’t want to ruin her one chance.

  “Fine.” She threw up her hands. “All right. You win.”

  Jo’s exhale whooshed from her so quickly, spots dotted her vision. “Thank you so much,” she breathed.

  “You can start on Monday. Be here at eleven.”

  “I’ll be here. Come on, Frizzle.” Jo darted out front filled with a new sense of purpose and grabbed her coat off the rack.

  “And wear comfortable shoes.” She pointed at Jo’s impractical flats.

  “Got it. See you Monday.”

  11

  W

  hatever Jo had previously thought of waiting tables, the word easy would never ever come to mind in the future. Monday’s lunch crowd was rowdy and talkative, and Jo was reticent by nature. She was no nonsense. But it seemed as if everyone in town had come by because they’d heard one of Victor’s heirs was working at the Cobblestone Café and they had to see it for themselves. They all stopped in, everyone from Thelma of Island’s Beauty to Oscar from the Hobby Toy Store.

  “More coffee over here,” Melinda called out.

  Jo grabbed the pot and hurried over.

  “Hey, Miss Josephine.”

  “Hello, Sigmund.” Sigmund owned the one service station in town. She filled his cup.

  “Wanna go out sometime, Josie.”

  “That’s really sweet of you to ask, Sigmund, but…well…”

  “That’s enough, Sigmund. Jo’s with me.” Wyn’s voice growled across the dining room, sending shivers skittering up her spine.

  Jo’s head snapped up and she met his eyes, that hypnotic voice of his driving her mad. It was everywhere. In the café, on the path outside her home, in a line to grab food, in her dreams. It was deep, husky, and rippled over her like warm, calm tropical waves.

  “Damn shame, if’n you ask me,” Sigmund grumbled.

  Jo was not blessed with a lightness of soul. She had no sense of humor to speak of and let the words roll over her as she moved from table to table, filling cups, scrambling for water and soda, bringing plates, clearing tables. Sweeping, mopping, wiping down countertops until she thought her feet would fall clean off.

  “Heard ol’e Victor got shot after you saw him,” Felix called out across the diner to Theodore.

  Theo grunted. “The old fool.”

  Felix chuckled.

  Jo stormed over to Felix. “You think it’s funny that my uncle was shot?”

  “Why, sure.” Felix stuffed his mouth full of his BLT, chewed then swallowed. “The whole town could’a heard their squallerin’ all the way to New York City.”

  “They had an argument? About what?” Jo spun, facing Theo.

  “He cursed me. Said I messed up Mary’s prescription. Good as accused me of killin’ his wife.” His face flushed a dark red up past his receding hairline. “But I didn’t kill his wife. She’d probably had enough of him and offed herself.”

  “Are you saying…” She swallowed hard. “You think Mary killed he
rself?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ of the kind.” His mouth clamped into a stubborn line. He rose, dug money out of his pocket, tossed it on the counter and stormed out.

  The remaining patrons burst out in roars of laughter, leaving Jo standing there stunned. She’d show them. She’d find Victor’s killer. If only she had an idea of where to start.

  Just before dusk, Jo pushed her hair out of her face and went out Cobblestone Café’s front with Frizzle on her heels, to a breeze that had turned frigid. She clutched her cloak at the neck and climbed the hill towards the forest that lead to the bluffs. Frizzle followed her up the slight incline to the edge of town that boasted some of the prettiest scenery on the island then turned off the street on a graveled path lined with evergreen pines and tall firs. Once one reached the cliffs, there were only two directions one could go: to the left that led to the manor; to the right to Serpent’s Point and the lighthouse on the peninsula.

  The gloomy weather within the trees lowered the visibility to almost nil, but she and Frizzle knew the route well. Wind stirred the branches overhead as if making soft conversation, but the feeling of isolation made Jo antsy and she shivered inside her wool coat. She could feel similar tension emanating from Frizzle.

  A second later, Frizzle let out a low growl.

  The hair lifted at her nape. She refused to run. She was not a coward, however, she did pick up her steps. The crunch of leaves crackled behind.

  Frizzle stopped.

  “No, boy. Come on.” A sense of terror she hadn’t experienced since she was nine years old seized her. The intervening years hadn’t dimmed her alarm of that day when Wallace Hayes had trapped her in Charles Weatherford’s study. But she wasn’t trapped inside now. She broke into a run. If she and Frizzle could make it to the cliffs just ahead, they’d be in the open, but at the edge of the trees she tripped, landing hard on her knees.

  Frizzle’s ferocious bark rattled the needles on the pines.

  A shot blasted overhead. “Frizzle,” Jo screamed. “Frizzle. No. Not Frizzle,” she whimpered, curled in a ball where she lay. Her hands covered her ears. Tears squeezed through her tightly shut eyes. Not Frizzle. Everything moved in slow motion then.