A Bullet to the Heart Page 9

  Jackson strolled over to the corner cabinet and poured out two tumblers of brandy and brought one back to Jo.

  Jo accepted the glass, appalled at the nerves she couldn’t stem. She took a solid swallow that burned down her throat. She dropped her chin to her chest, ignoring Lydia and Tevi’s shocked expressions. It was clear to anyone who knew them, the usual animosity had subsided. Time would tell if it was only momentarily.

  “Drink up,” he said then knocked his back. “Where’s Esther? We need to have a room made up for me.”

  “I’ve already taken care of the situation.” Tevi’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve set you up on the other side of the house.”

  Lydia frowned. “Esther said dinner at six. I’m not sure she was expecting you, Jackson.”

  “Don’t know why not. In case you’ve forgotten, I live here, too, now.”

  “Well, aren’t we the picture of normality,” Tevi said, with a punctuated smirk.

  A throb started at the back of Jo’s head. “Please, stop. Just stop.”

  “Honestly, Jo,” Lydia said. “How long are you going to ignore our mother?”

  Jo sipped at her brandy, then laid her head back and closed her eyes. “Don’t start, Lydia, I have a headache.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo, but she’s hurting. It would be as good for you as for her.”

  “You don’t know what’s good for me.” God, this argument was old. “Let it go. Someone shot at me. I can’t deal with Eleanor right now. My nerves are shattered.”

  “When will you be ready to deal with her?”

  Jo bolted to sitting, threw her legs to the floor, then winced as the pain speared up from her ankle. “Enough, Lydia. The answer is nev—”

  Esther tapped on the door. “Mr. Smith.”

  “There’s no need to announce me, Esther.”

  Jo downed the rest of her brandy with shaking fingers.

  Wyn studied her with that uncanny fix he’d perfected to a tee. “Jo? You all right?”

  She dropped her eyes; chill bumps raised over her flesh. She snuck a glance to Jackson. He stood tall, his expression devoid of its typical sullen pout, his eyes hard and narrowed on Wyn. “Did you find any suspects?” Jackson said.

  “Found a bullet. From a .22.”

  Lydia’s gasp reached Jo, but Jo kept her gaze averted. Wyn couldn’t have shot at me. “Wallace Hayes,” Lydia whispered.

  “Could be. But no one’s seen him.”

  14

  W

  yn had never felt so…so helpless and so furious. Even when he’d worked the beat he’d covered in New York City, he hadn’t experienced such frustration. There were the typical raids, it had been Prohibition after all. Danger bounded around every corner, but never to his heart. Not like this.

  Anger surged through him, eliciting panic that made him antsy and wanted to punch a hole in a wall. Jo could barely look at him. Now someone was shooting at her. After he’d left the ferry, he’d done some checking on Jackson’s whereabouts. They were iffy at best. The problem was the direction the bullet had come from. He couldn’t believe the where his thoughts were taking him.

  Jackson needed a job. A real job.

  “Jackson, a word, if you please.”

  His long-time adversary scowled at him. “What for?”

  “I need some verification from you.” Wyn was hurting and he wanted company down that rocky road. With their murky and clandestine pasts, Jackson made the perfect partner in crime—or, in this case, justice.

  Esther leaned through the doorway. “A Mr. Julius Styles is here to see you, Miss Josephine.”

  “It’s a regular revolving door, isn’t it?” Jo muttered under her breath. “Show him in, Esther. Lydia, can you and Tevi—”

  Tevi settled herself in one of the wing-backed chairs. “I’m not leaving. I’m ready to meet this paragon.”

  “Tevi—” Jo started.

  Julius strode in like a man accustomed to the opulence surrounding him.

  “Are you serious?” Tevi breathed. “The man is a dream. How? Just tell me how.”

  “Hello, Josephine.”

  Jo studied the man covertly, as if seeing him through Tevi’s eyes. He stood well over a foot taller than her sister. His chestnut hair was draped dramatically over a broad forehead and heavy brows. His clothes were well cut for his frame. “I thought you left the island. In case you don’t remember, we don’t really have anything to talk about.”

  Lydia strolled over and dropped into the chair across from Tevi.

  Julius stopped at the end of the settee, glancing at her sisters then back at her. “Could we speak… privately?”

  Could Julius have been the one who shot at her? A warning perhaps? He didn’t look the type who used violence to get his way. “I’m afraid not. I turned my ankle on the path coming back from town…” She watched his expression carefully for any sign of guilt or satisfaction, but he came across as more of a charmer than a fighter. Haughty and self-righteousness rather than shifty. Lydia cleared her throat, jarring Jo from her inner musings. “…and I, um, can’t walk,” she finished lamely.

  Lydia’s arms crossed her chest and she shot him a smug smile.

  Jo swallowed a sudden urge to laugh. “Er, I don’t believe there is anything left to say,” she managed.

  His full lips compressed into a tight line. He pushed a hand through his hair. “How did you happen to fall?”

  “I lost my footing. It was a steep hill.”

  His brows furrowed, he looked…concerned. “I see. Look, just be careful. I don’t wish you any ill will.”

  She must be as crazy as Eleanor, seeing murderers in every person who crossed her path. But she couldn’t afford to overlook any possible threat to her well-being. “What an interesting statement. Does someone wish me ill will then?”

  He stood and put his hands in his pockets and meandered to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea. “No, but well, there’s talk in town.”

  “And here I thought you’d left town,” Jo managed through clenched teeth.

  Tevi overrode Jo’s remark and straightened. “What kind of talk?”

  “Just talk. That the sheriff is after Jo’s inheritance.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jo said. She knew better than anyone that Wyn had no desire for money, or a bigger house, or for children, for her—

  His expression softened. “Are you sure we can’t talk alone somewhere?”

  “She’s sure,” Tevi said, turning on her youngest sister charm. Jo had never been able to quite manage that feat. “Did you shoot at my sister?” Her voice etched steel beneath the brilliance of her gleaming smile.

  “What? No!” His face paled and he plunged a hand through his hair. “Are you saying someone shot at you?”

  And she’d thought she sounded hysterical. “I’m not saying that—” Jo said.

  “—I am,” Tevi interrupted.

  Time to rein in the situation before Wyn and Jackson returned, and things turned ugly. “Look, Julius, unless you have something to add regarding the apparent danger my love life is in, I suggest you take your leave. There’s nothing more for you here,” Jo said gently. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings unnecessarily, but neither was she prepared to marry someone for the sake of having an unwanted husband.

  The mask of all concern dissipated from his face and was replaced with one of condescending fury. “I only hope you won’t be sorry.” He spun on a booted heel and was gone.

  Unable to melt away herself, Jo was forced to endure both her sisters’ scrutiny in deafening silence.

  Finally, Lydia broke out. “Well,” she said. “That’s the man you were engaged to?”

  Impatience licked at her temper. “I was never engaged to him.” She flicked her gaze to the door, almost wishing for Wyn’s and Jackson’s tumultuous return. “When’s dinner? I’m starving.”

  15

  W

  yn dropped onto a
tufted, leather sofa of deep burgundy and watched Jackson prowl Victor’s large comfortable study. The sight was making him dizzy. “I need your help,” he said.

  Jackson stopped, piercing Wyn with the family’s uniquely blue-colored eyes, sneering. It wasn’t a good look for him. “Yeah, right.” His arms crossed his chest and he rolled back on his heels. “With what?”

  How strange to think back to a time when he and Jackson were inseparable kids running wild, collecting rocks and shells from the shore below the bluffs, exploring Serpent’s Point and some of the more hazardous caverns that scattered the island. How quickly it had all changed upon Penelope’s death.

  It irked Wyn to discover he felt sorry for Jackson, not to mention how much he hated asking anyone for help. Especially a man he’d grown up with and had grown to loathe. That was fourteen years ago. How stupid was that? “I need to find out who shot at Jo.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t me?”

  “Do you always have to be such a wise-ass?” The question was rhetorical. Wyn let out a pained sigh. “I wish it had been you. Then I could dump you off on the mainland and be done with you. Frankly, I don’t see you doing anything worse than shoplifting, boozing it up, and disorderly conduct.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Wish I could say the same for you.” A self-satisfied smirk emphasized Jackson’s words.

  The sight scraped Wyn’s skin like rusted metal against slate. He stilled as the familiar animosity in swelled through him. “The same?”

  “You remember, don’t you? Warm summer night. Serpent’s Point. Sandy path. Penelope—”

  “Stop, right there, Montgomery. I didn’t kill Penelope Knox and we both know it.”

  Jackson’s shock shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. Dented his pride. Even hurt a little.

  Wyn’s astonishment at this realization surprised him nearly as much as Jackson’s. “You can’t be serious. You think I killed her?”

  “You think I did?” Jackson shot back.

  Both sat there a minute before Wyn finally broke the stunned hush. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Jackson returned his blatant regard. “If you thought I killed her all these years…then you…”

  Wyn cut him off. “And all this time you thought that I—"

  “Forget it,” Jackson said gruffly. “If you want my help, there’s one other thing I need to ask.”

  Wyn waited, another dread seeping through his veins.

  Jackson was undeniably sober when he asked his question. “Was Victor your father?”

  Wyn studied the book titles at eye level for a moment. “My mother says no.”

  A thick fog of friction filled the room. “You believe her?”

  “Surprisingly, I do.” Wyn met his animosity head on. Waited him out.

  A long while slogged by until the tension dropped Jackson’s shoulders. “What are you going to do about Styles? He wants to marry Jo.”

  “His only interest in her is her inheritance. Anyone can see that.” Wyn rose from the sofa and moved to the window. “It’s already taken care of, besides. I’ve taken care of it. Now, you got any ideas who might want your cousin dead?”

  “Just Wallace Hayes. Jo’s not the nicest person in the world, but I can’t imagine anyone else wanting to outright kill her.”

  “Huh.” Wyn agreed. All except about the part of Jo not being the nicest person in the world. He happened to believe she was perfect. For him. And that was good enough. “What if the shot was just a warning?”

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “Warning against what?”

  “The terms of Victor’s will come to mind. She mentioned each of you would lose the entirety of your inheritance to the town if none of you married.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  Jackson scowled. “Yeah. My father, the matchmaker.” He leaned back against the desk, hands planted on each side of him.

  “That’s a lot of incentive for people in this town.”

  “Including your own parents.”

  “Yeah, including my own parents,” he said softly.

  Jackson laughed, shaking his head. “You’re the real deal, aren’t you?” Apparently, he wasn’t expecting an answer. “What about that guy, Styles?”

  Styles hadn’t really occurred to Wyn. Unfortunately, he was short of suspects. “He was sniffing around her at the café last Saturday. You know anything about him?”

  “He’s a pansy.”

  Wyn grinned. “He knocked you flat as I recall.”

  To Wyn’s surprise, Jackson managed a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, well. I was drunk.”

  Bringing up another point. Wyn turned serious. “If you’re going to help me out, you’re going to have to stay sober.”

  “I can stay sober.”

  Wyn considered Jackson for a long moment. “Okay, this is what I need you to do…”

  16

  T

  wo days later, Jackson held the door open to his precious Packard for Jo and assisted her in. His courtesy still had the ability to stun her after so many years of their mutual hostility.

  Once she’d settled inside, he slammed the door and walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side. “Are you sure your ankle is strong enough to stand on working at the diner?”

  “Yes. I’ve had ice packs on it for two days. I was even able to go down the stairs without help this morning. Granted, I’m not ready to make the mile trek into town and back.” And, not just due to her ankle.

  “Did you talk to Wyn about—”

  “No. Er, not yet.” That was a conversation she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for. “Where have you been?” She glanced over at him and couldn’t believe her eyes. Red stained the one cheek in view. “What’s going on? You haven’t been to dinner the last two nights.”

  “Wyn, uh, asked me to help him with…”

  “Are you blushing?” She couldn’t have been more surprised if he dragged her up to the bluff and threw her off.

  “What! No. He just wants help finding out who killed my father.”

  Jo plopped back against the seat, floored by the news. “You and Wyn? Working together? That’s as shocking as—”

  “As you and me being friends? Yeah, it surprised me too.” He let her out in front of the Cobblestone Café with a cursory, “Take a bunch of breaks.” And took off before she’d hardly had the door shut.

  Wyn let himself into his office. He felt curiously empty. Waking every morning was another long night he’d survived had him pacing his tiny house, knowing Jo was on the island.

  He’d seen Jackson drop her off at the Cobblestone fifteen minutes ago. This would be only her second day working at the café since she hadn’t come into town the day before due to her twisted ankle. Wyn hadn’t talked to her, but Jackson had kept him informed. In fact, it might be fair to say that Jackson took great pleasure in driving him mad with details.

  Envy aside, seeing Jo at the café served two purposes: one, he knew where she was and that meant she was safe; second, he could see her, just…see her.

  He leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled, thinking. Not only had Victor been shot, but now Wyn had reason to consider Theo’s words that Mary’s death might not have been one of natural causes as everyone had previously believed.

  Jackson strolled in.

  “Ever heard of knocking?” Wyn growled, casting him a disgruntled look.

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Smart ass.” Wyn drummed his fingers on the desk. “So. Your father was threatened before he died.”

  “Who threatened him?”

  “My father.”

  “Your—” Jackson lifted one eyebrow. He dropped into the chair across from the desk, stretched out his legs. “Now, why would your father want my father dead?”

  That question wasn’t even worth answering. They’d already had t
hat conversation. Wyn just looked at him.

  “Really? You think Wyndel, Sr. wanted my father dead just because he believed Victor might be your biological father?”

  “Biological?” Wyn didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “I didn’t realize you knew such a large word.”

  “A little touchy, aren’t we?”

  Wyn sat forward and drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Apparently, my parents have been fighting over the subject since I was born.”

  “Yet they’ve stayed together thirty years?”

  “That’s essentially what my mother said.” Wyn tried processing his own thoughts. “There’s something else you should know.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Victor accused Theo of poisoning Mary.”

  Jackson’s normally ruddy complexion paled.

  Wyn cleared his throat. “Sorry, old man. I didn’t know a way to soften the blow. I’ve contacted the M.E. over on the mainland to see what we need to do.”

  “Who the hell would poison my mother?” He rubbed a palm over his face. “More importantly, why would someone want her dead?”

  “A very good question.”

  A few hours later, at Melinda’s insistence, Jo was out the door.

  Who knew waiting tables in a town hardly larger than a medieval village could wear one out so? Jo limped out the door, her feet killing her. She had a feeling her sore ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. The entire day had been a wooden roller-coaster ride worthy of Coney Island. She couldn’t have been more shocked when Jackson had confided Wyn’s request in helping him locate Victor’s murderer. She felt the same inclination, she just had no idea where to start.

  Dusk was settling over the town, and unlike in the city, where even the nights were clogged with the noise of cars and sirens, during the summer months on the island, traffic didn’t really exist. Only in mid-July during the town’s famous arts festival. At five-thirty on a November afternoon, in the shorter days as the season hurled toward winter, virtually no cars traveled the streets.