A Bullet to the Heart Page 8

  “Jo! Good God, are you all right?”

  Jo could register the voice as male. But she couldn’t see him for her blurred her vision. “Where’s Frizzle. Find him. Find him.”

  A man took her by the arms and shook her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Jack-Jackson? Where’s my dog?”

  “I don’t know. I heard a gunshot. Was someone chasing you?”

  “I-I think so.”

  “Who?”

  “I-I don’t know.” Her voice, her limbs, shook violently.

  Heavy-booted footsteps crashed through the brush. “Jo. Jo, what the hell is going on? I heard a gun fire.”

  Jackson was ripped away and Wyn was crouched beside her, his arm wrapping her shoulders. “You’re under arrest, Montgomery.”

  Frizzle shot through the brush, knocking Wyn to his backside. In a split second, Frizzle was licking Jo’s face. She checked Frizzle’s face and head, ran her hands over his neck, his chest, his front legs. “You’re okay,” she whispered, slumping. “You’re okay.” She wrapped her arms around his massive neck.

  “I didn’t shoot at her, you fool. I heard the shot, too. I came from the cliffs,” Jackson said.

  Frizzle planted himself next to Jo. She looked up at Jackson. He stood with his feet apart, his fists clenched at his sides, braced for an attack, ready to defend himself.

  Wyn flexed his hand, then squared his shoulders, seeming to get hold of himself. “Who, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson bit out.

  Wyn turned to her. “Jo?”

  She shook her head, unable to string two coherent words together.

  “Can you stand?”

  She let Wyn pull her to her feet. He steadied her, then glanced over his shoulder and back again. “Jackson, you gotta help her to the manor house. I need to see if I can find anything the perpetrator might have left behind.” He leaned in, eye level to her. “Will you be all right walking with him?”

  Swallowing hard, she looked at Jackson. Would she? Walking the cliffs where Victor had been shot and fallen? Belligerence radiated from him. It was enough to convince her. “Yes. If…if he doesn’t mind.” A whisper was all she could manage. “Besides, I have Frizzle.”

  “There’s that,” he muttered.

  Jackson shot her an undisguised wolfish grin. “I don’t mind. Come on, then.”

  Jo stepped forward and stumbled back to the ground, wincing at the pain that shot up her leg. “I must have twisted my ankle,” she said through a voice fraught with more emotion than she’d thought she’d possessed.

  Jackson lifted her to her feet, eyeing Frizzle with a wariness that normally would have made her laugh. She was afraid if she started, it would quickly shift to hysteria and she’d be the next one sent to Auburn.

  Jackson wrapped an arm around her waist. “Go on, Sheriff. I’ve got her.”

  Wyn clenched his jaw and watched as Jackson shuffled away, carrying most of Jo’s weight, knowing there was nothing he could do, jealousy eating through him like acid. He turned on his heel and strode back down the path toward town, abandoning the sight of Jackson Montgomery’s arm around his woman. He wasn’t even sure Jackson hadn’t killed Penelope Knox fifteen years ago. But, like it or not, Wyn was now forced to trust his old nemesis.

  Someone had taken a shot at Jo. The knowledge had his stomach roiling in sickening whirls. But who? Who would shoot at Jo? She wasn’t a threat to anyone…Wallace Hayes—something hard beneath his foot didn’t crinkle like a crisp autumn leaf. Wyn bent down and eyed the piece of metal. Brass. A bullet. Fired from a .22. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wrapping it before he stuffed it into his pocket.

  12

  T

  he path along the bluffs was uneven and slow going. “How’s your ankle?” Jackson said.

  “It’s throbbing. I’ll put ice on it, stay home a day or two and it will be good as new.”

  “I was awake all night thinking,” Jackson said. “You need to be careful of Wyn.”

  Every hackle Jo possessed rose to Wyn’s defense. “Don’t you start—”

  “—why would someone shoot at you?” Jackson demanded.

  Jo tried hard not to lean on her cousin, but that proved impossible. “Maybe they were shooting at you.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere around,” he pointed out. “For an ice princess, I’ll admit my surprise at you raising someone’s passions enough to incite such an incident.”

  She gasped, stung. “That’s really mean.” The air whooshed out of her. “I-I can’t imagine why you would say such a thing. I-I raise passions.”

  Jackson had the audacity to laugh. After a moment, the arm holding her up tensed. “You must have heard about Penelope Knox.” Jackson’s voice turned hard.

  Just like that, her suspicions were on full alert. “Of course, I have,” she snapped. “You can’t be on this island two minutes without hearing about it. Wyn didn’t hurt that girl.”

  “You don’t know that.” It felt good putting him on the defensive for once.

  But she did know. She’d seen Wyn that night. “Neither do you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said in a low tone that sent had her quivering in her boots.

  Jo pulled up, almost tripping them both with her abrupt halt. “Jackson Montgomery, I’ve heard enough. Do you hear me? Not another word.”

  He stared at her for a long minute. His frustration sputtered out but to her relief, he changed the subject. “What were you doing in town?”

  She had no desire to respond to his question, but she also had no desire in trying to make it all the way back to the manor house by herself. Well, she did have Frizzle. She had no doubt her dog would drag her by the scruff of the neck all the way home, if need be. At last she said, “I took a position at the Cobblestone Café. Melinda needed help.”

  A burst of laughter erupted from him, surprising her. “You? A waitress? Stone City should get a roar out of that.”

  “I had a job in New York City,” she said, unable to keep from sounding defensive.

  “Yeah, at a museum. What exactly did you do there, anyway? Smile and wave old biddies inside?”

  “Not a museum. The museum. The MET.” Resentment seared her. “At least I had a job.”

  “That’s low, even for you.”

  All right, she’d concede that point to him. Everyone in town knew Jackson’s troubles with alcohol and his inability to hold a job. “Sorry.” Jo breathed in through her nose and let the air out in a steady stream. “I was an educator. I conducted tours. Did research for the copy the museum used to create brochures for upcoming exhibits. That sort of thing. Victor hated that I worked there. But I loved it.” Her job had given her a sense of independence, despite knowing the contrary. And purpose. She’d liked having purpose.

  Jackson halted and leaned away, looking at her. A range of emotions crossed his features she couldn’t read. “We’ve never really talked have we.”

  She was surprised to see that he was—at the moment—being the bigger person and decided to let that statement go. Then, she changed her mind. “Well, in your defense,” she responded with a wry smile, “you were drunk on most of the time.”

  He ignored her insult and clarified. “I meant even when we were kids.”

  Jo had no idea how to respond to that. She thought back to when Victor brought her and her sisters to live with him and Aunt Mary. She had been nine at the time. Jackson was five years older and she’d been terrified of him. But then she’d been afraid of everyone. “What happened with Penelope Knox? I think I was eleven when she…died.”

  “You’ll have to ask your friend Wyndel Smith,” he retorted. He pulled her up next to him again and they continued their slow trek up the trail to the house.

  Frizzle stayed right at her other side.

  “You were horrible to us,” she told Jackson.

  “I was fourteen. That’s what boys do—they terrorize lit
tle girls. Especially little girls who invade their home when their own father prefers them over his own son.”

  “Aunt Mary didn’t. She spoiled you rotten.” Her voice softened. “She didn’t do you any favors, you know.”

  He stopped again, this time jerking away from her.

  She had to balance herself against Frizzle to keep from falling.

  “Who are you to talk to me like that, Josephine Ophelia? No one, do you hear?”

  “I hear you. How could I not with you screaming in my ear?” Frizzle shifted and she grappled for her balance. Jackson caught her before she toppled to the ground.

  Neither spoke in the ensuing silence. The only sounds were of the trees rustling in the wind off the Atlantic and the waves crashing against the surf.

  “Look, Jackson. I don’t know how to tell you this, but…when my mother—when Eleanor remarried after my fath—” Jo stopped and breathed in the piercing cold, heart pounding an erratic tattoo from inside out. “—Wallace Hayes was a…a terrible person. Uncle Victor saw that and saved us. He didn’t do it to spite you, do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Jackson turned gradually, facing her as shock moved over his features. “That bastard. I’m sorry, Jo. I-I had no idea.” His expression shifted to understanding, then shrewdness. “Have you told Wyn this?”

  She stumbled, and he caught her, again. “What? Why?”

  He lifted one brow. “Don’t be obtuse, Jo. It’s insulting. It’s no secret to anyone how you feel about him.”

  Everyone? Wyn? This was horrible. Why had she said anything? Wyn would never understand. Never. “I thought you said I should be wary of him. Make up your mind.”

  He shrugged. “You’re not exactly known for your meekness. You run roughshod over anyone in your path.”

  “Like who?” she demanded.

  “Lydia. Tevi. I’m sure you’ll give your mother an earful before long—”

  “Just forget it. Can we go home now?”

  He burst out laughing then yanked her up to his side. “Yeah. Come on. Let’s go home.” After a bout of silence, he said, “You think we’ll ever be able to put the past where it belongs.”

  She responded softly. “Maybe. I’d like that.”

  “Maybe then home might start feeling like home.”

  “That would be nice.” They reached the clearing that led to the servant’s entrance. She touched his hand. “Don’t tell anyone about…about Wall—” She couldn’t even say his name. “Please, Jackson.”

  He shot her a quick glance with a smirk. “About what? Wyn or—”

  “Any of it. Just…don’t say anything.” She choked out surprised by the unfamiliar emotion surging through her—camaraderie.

  “I was just kidding with you, Jo. I won’t say anything. I promise.”

  A lump stole her breath, her words; a sting pricked her tear ducts. “Thanks.”

  “You really do need to tell him, Jo.”

  Wyn strode into town, down the hill, and straight to his office, fingering the bullet in his pocket. He couldn’t get the image of Jackson’s arm around Jo. He was angry and…scared. Someone had the nerve to shoot at Jo on his watch. Someone shot at her. He felt nauseous.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  He grunted a short greeting as he walked past Dorothea’s desk into the office behind, rattling the opaque glass in the door with a slam. It didn’t take a genius to assume Victor’s death and the shot at Jo were likely connected. The last murder on the island was Penelope’s, and that was fourteen years ago. He went to his desk and dropped into the chair behind it, elbows atop, and steepled his fingers. Victor had a million and one enemies. His business interests were international. But why shoot at Jo?

  He pulled out a pad of paper, picked up a pen and started on a list of possible enemies from the island. Wallace Hayes, then Eleanor Hayes. Ha. Jackson Montgomery. Julius Styles, Lydia, Tevi, and cringing, he wrote down Jo’s name. Hell, he might as well write down his own. And his parents, and Theo, Felix, Garrick. Yep, everyone on Montgomery Island had a reason to love and hate Victor Montgomery.

  The smart thing was to start at the top. It was clear to Wyn that Wallace Hayes had not been welcome at the reading of the will. He hadn’t seen the man since he’d escorted Hayes from the manor house. The first thing was to find out if Hayes was still on the island.

  Wyn glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes until the ferry’s next run to the mainland.

  He jumped from his chair and hurried out. He stopped at Dorothea’s desk. “Call the Island Inn and the Pebble Shores Hotel. Find out if Wallace Hayes is registered. I’ll be back.” He rushed out the back for his car and drove like a bat out of hell. He made good time.

  Stan was directing the boarding vehicle traffic.

  “Where’s Maguire, Stan?”

  “Up top, Sheriff. But we shove off in seventeen.”

  Didn’t he just know it. “Thanks.” Wyn took off in a run.

  “Whoa, son. Slow down.” Maguire stood inside a sparsely furnished office on the top deck of the ferry. He was a burly Irishman with a head full of white curly hair that peeked from his cap. His bulbous nose and chafed cheeks were red from the blustery autumn wind.

  Wyn bent at the waist to catch his breath.

  “But don’t slow down too much, Sheriff. We get underway in fourteen minutes.”

  “You sailors and your time clocks. I’m looking for a man. I suspect he took a shot at Josephine Weatherford.”

  His brows disappeared under the cap covering his forehead. “Now, who the devil would shoot at that sweet thing?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. His name is Wallace Hayes.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You sayin’ Eleanor Hayes’ husband tried to kill one o’ her girls?”

  It would certainly simplify things. “I’m saying I suspect the possibility.” Wyn’s breathing evened out somewhat, and he straightened. “Hayes stands about five feet six or seven inches tall. Dark hair, no gray, protruding gut, big nose. He was on the island last week. Showed up at the will reading.”

  “Saw him a week ago on the way in. Can’t say as I remember him on the boat going out, but that don’t mean nothin’. I don’t spend all my time looking too closely at the passengers, you know. And then there’s the ones sittin’ in their cars.”

  “Yeah.” Wyn tugged off his hat and shoved a hand through his short hair. “It was a long shot at best.”

  “Ol’ Vic had a lot o’ enemies,” the captain said.

  “Yeah.” Wyn blew out a breath. “Let me know if you hear anything.” He turned to go but stopped. “By the way, see if you can make sure a guy by the name of Julius something or other makes it on this ferry.”

  Maguire laughed. “Julius, huh. You’re not asking much, are you? Got a description?”

  “Tall, decent looking, I suppose. Light brown hair. Carries himself like a nob.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll take a look around. You best go unless you want to swim back. I got a schedule to keep, if’n you don’t.”

  Wyn barely made if off the boat before it was pulling out of the dock.

  13

  T

  evi met Jo, Frizzle and Jackson at the back door. “Jo? What did he do to you?” she screamed. “You get away from her, Jackson Montgomery. I-I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “Shockingly, I did nothing but help her home,” Jackson said. “Someone took a shot at her. Get the door.”

  Tevi didn’t think to argue. Her shock would have been comical had Jo been prone to humor in the moment. “Is that true? I don’t see any blood.”

  “It’s true. Thankfully, I wasn’t hit,” Jo said. “Help me to the library, please.”

  Jackson lifted her and carried her through the kitchen, forcing Tevi to jump out of the way with a squawk of protest that was almost… fun. Frizzle darted around her petite sister. Also, funny. He was large enough to knock her flat.

  J
o hadn’t lost all of her senses, however. She gripped Jackson’s shoulders. “What are you doing?”

  “This is easier. I don’t have all night, waiting on you to limp along.” The old Jackson was quickly returning.

  Tevi followed them down the hall and into the library. “How do you know it wasn’t Jackson who shot at you?”

  “Because I was in front of her when the shot came. I saw her fall. You might as well ask if Smith shot her. He came up from behind her. Which, incidentally, was the same place the shot came from.”

  Jo froze. Wyn? “Wyn—d-don’t be ridiculous,” she stuttered out. But the seed of doubt had been planted. Jackson crossed the threshold of the library and, surprisingly, set her down gently on the settee. She’d half expected him to drop her and rush out.

  “What’s going on in here?” Lydia stood in the arch. She wore her wool cloak, her nose red from the cold.

  Lydia had been outside—

  “Where have you been?” Jo shook her head. She was thinking crazy. If she was thinking Lydia tried to shoot her, Jo might as well just check herself into Auburn right that minute. “Never mind. I’m glad you’re home,” she said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

  “Home.” Lydia did not snort. She would never snort.

  Jo leaned back on the arm of the settee and stretched her legs tentatively before her when all she wished to do was run screaming along the cliffs. Lydia did not shoot at me, Wyn did not shoot at me. “Did Stephens get our belongings boxed and sent out for us?” She had to concentrate to keep the hysteria from overtaking her. Wyn would not shoot at me. She was losing her mind.

  “They should be here Tuesday or Wednesday.” Lydia stripped off her gloves and stuffed them in her pockets. “It’s freezing out.”

  Jo huddled within her own coat, shivering. Frizzle pushed his nose against her.