Marie gaped at Mrs. Lipton in astonishment. “They think it’s hers? Have they proved it?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is they accused Louisa of murder.”
Marie’s mind spun. Murder? How could a woman over eighty commit the crimes at Lochlain? It was impossible.
“Didn’t they find the gun days ago?” asked Marie. “Why’d it take them so long to decide it’s hers?”
“Fire damage, I suspect,” said Mrs. Lipton. “And that gun was given to Louisa by her cousin James when he came home from the war in the Pacific. She loved it and had it refitted many times. That might also make it harder to ID.”
Marie frowned. “But why would she leave it at Lochlain? Why not dispose of it where it couldn’t be found? And why would she use the same gun that she’d used to shoot him before? That makes it awfully tidy to link her to the murder. Too tidy.”
Mrs. Lipton’s eyes narrowed. “I think you should say exactly what you’ve just said to Miss’s lawyer when he manages to get back from Sydney. Perhaps you should be the detective—and not that hothead, Dylan Hastings.”
Marie shook her head in puzzlement. The evidence all seemed circumstantial. And she couldn’t imagine Louisa setting a fire that would destroy horses. No. She’d never do that—ever.
Someone, for some reason, was framing Louisa Fairchild.
But who? And why?
Megan was gone, and Patrick had lost his appetite. The lavish supper went uneaten.
Marie and Helena put everything in the refrigerator, saying little, too lost in their own thoughts.
Bindy, rinsing pots and pans, looked wanly over her shoulder at them. “If they find her guilty,” she said in a tremulous voice, “I suppose we’ll all be sacked, won’t we? Who’ll own this place, anyway? The new people that just came?”
Helena said nothing and shook her head as if she had no idea.
Marie said, “They can’t find her guilty. How could she have done it? She might have her problems with humans, but she’d never hurt a horse. All those horses could’ve died.”
Bindy frowned. “But what if—”
The door swung open and Mrs. Lipton stood staring at them, her expression distraught. “The great-niece—Megan Stafford—just phoned. Miss Fairchild’s had a heart attack. She’s been taken to the hospital.”
“What?” Marie cried.
Helena gasped, and Bindy stood openmouthed.
Mrs. Lipton sank to a chair. “The gun’s been positively identified as hers. They were fingerprinting her. And she had an attack. They’ll do an emergency angioplasty on her.”
“An attack? How serious?” Marie asked, shaken.
“Serious,” Mrs. Lipton said. “Oh, how could they take her off like that? Why didn’t they even consider her health? This is a crime against her. The police are the criminals, not her!”
“If she dies we’ll be sacked for sure,” wailed Bindy. “Unless those Stafford people inherit everything! And even then—”
“Hush!” Marie commanded. Her mind was in turmoil, and she felt swept by a strange sense of impending loss. Louisa shouldn’t die; she was old but vividly, powerfully full of spirit.
Marie went to Mrs. Lipton and put her hand on her shoulder. “I was going out with Rennie tonight, but I’ll stay here. If the hospital calls, I want to know right away.”
Mrs. Lipton covered Marie’s hand with her own. “My dear, go with your uncle. I’ll phone you as soon as I hear anything, I promise. Go—it’ll do you good.”
Marie tried to insist that she stay, but Mrs. Lipton was firm. “No. It’ll help you, being with family. And you need a break from this sad house. You put in such a long day.”
At last, reluctantly, Marie agreed.
That night, however, Reynard was not the best of companions.
“You’ve been there for weeks,” he grumbled, “making yourself indispensable. And now the old girl might cark? Die on us?”
“Reynard!” Marie snapped. “How can you say such a thing?”
“What?” he demanded. “Speak up. My ears are bad tonight. Sound like a bloody carillon tower.”
The two of them sat in The Secret Heiress. Marie hadn’t touched her wine, but Reynard was already signaling for a second schooner of beer.
“How can you talk about Louisa like that?” she asked.
He gave her a sideways look. “How? Because I’m concerned about your welfare, that’s why. You’ve got just as much right to Fairchild Acres as those two toffee-noses from Sydney. More right. You’re her direct descendent, you are.”
“Rennie, they seem like perfectly nice people. And she invited them here. I wasn’t invited. I came under false colors. It gave me a bad feeling from the start. I’m the interloper here, not them.”
Reynard shook a finger at her. “Wait, wait, wait.”
“No. You wait,” she countered. “If something happens to Louisa, God forbid, I’m not going to start yelling that I deserve part of her estate.”
“But you do deserve it,” Reynard shot back. “There’s a law on the books for people like you. I’ve got a copy and—”
“No. It’s low, it’s moneygrubbing, and I won’t do it. Not after I’ve lived here and never once talked to her about it. I’d feel like a sneak and an opportunist.”
“I’ve heard she’s got a will,” Reynard said. “In her lawyer’s safe. That D’Angelo fellow.”
“How do you know that?”
“I pick up information the way a dog does fleas,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. “Now think of that—a will. But what if she hasn’t put these Sydney upstarts in it yet? Who is in it, do you suppose?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said with disgust.
“She might be leaving it to her dogs,” Reynard said sarcastically. “Or her horses. It’s been done, you know. Who’s written into that will? I find that a very interesting question.”
She sighed. “Rennie, I want to go back to Fairchild Acres. I’m too upset to have this conversation—now or ever.”
“I am only a poor, concerned old uncle,” he said righteously. “But you know what? I think the old girl’s got under your skin. I think you like her.”
Marie refused to answer, but she knew he was close to right. Somehow, in spite of everything, she’d come to have a peculiar respect for Louisa Fairchild, an intense, if complicated, relationship with her.
“Let’s go back,” she said again.
“Eh?” He cupped his hand to his ear. “Oh, bloody hell, I’m getting worse. Then where’ll I be? A bludger, I s’pose. Living on the dole.”
“I want to go back,” she said as loudly and clearly as she could. “Now.”
Marie and Reynard were in the truck, bumping their way back to Fairchild Acres, when Marie’s phone rang. Heart pounding fast, she picked it up. It was Mrs. Lipton. Megan had called from the hospital. The angioplasty seemed successful and with luck Louisa could come home in less than a week.
Marie shut the phone and told Reynard.
“Well, there,” he replied genially. “That should ease your mind. Everything’s back to normal again. Almost.”
I don’t think anything’s going to be normal for me until I leave this valley, she thought.
She was back in her bungalow, showered and ready for bed. She was about to slip between the sheets, when her phone rang again.
More news of Louisa? She snatched her cell. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Hello, Marie. It’s Andrew. I just got back from Canberra and ran into your uncle. He told me the news about Louisa. I got your number off the cook’s list in the kitchen and I hoped you’d still be up.”
She took a desperately deep breath, not knowing what to say to him.
But he didn’t wait for a reply. “Reynard said Louisa was arrested and suffered a heart attack. She had an operation and it went well. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she managed to say, her throat tightening. She’d never realized how low his voice was, how dependab
le it sounded.
“There are rumors the police were rough with her.”
Marie swallowed. “Th-they handcuffed her. They shouldn’t have done that. And their evidence seems thin. Ridiculously thin. They said they found the gun that killed Sam Whittleson, and claim it’s the same gun she used to shoot him before. But that shooting could have been an accident. Nobody’s proved otherwise.”
“That’s all they’ve got on her?” He sounded appalled. “Hell, somebody could have stolen the gun and planted it. Where’s that hotshot lawyer of hers?”
“He’s trapped in Sydney. That’s what Miss Fairchild’s great-niece said. And all the state police are down there, too. So it’s just the Pepper Flats police on the case.”
“But I thought the New South Wales State Police were supposed to handle homicides,” Andrew said.
“They are.” Her voice broke in frustration. “It—it’s the same in the Northern Territory, where I c-come from.”
“Marie,” Andrew said, “are you crying?”
No, she thought, although she was long overdue for a good cry. It’s you who’s shaken me up. And there’s no sane reason for it.
He said, “Tyler says the Pepper Flats cop, that Dylan Hastings, doesn’t like Louisa. He’s got a grudge against her.”
Marie’s heart still beat unsteadily, but she felt another emotion, anger, flicker up strongly.
“You mean they’ve got an amateur heading this investigation, and he dislikes her? That’s not fair! That’s not just!”
“Ah,” he said with a smile in his voice, “that sounds more like you. A woman who stands up to trouble.”
She held back a bitter laugh. She didn’t think she was standing up so well. But she tried to sound tougher than she felt. “I don’t care what the police say—she’s innocent,” Marie insisted. “She has to be. Someone’s set her up. Why?”
There was a pause, and then he said, “I’ve got a few ideas. And I want to hear more of what Tyler’s got to say. This is getting complicated—and damned ugly. It’d be easier for you and me to talk about if we could see each other face-to-face. On your next day off? We could just go have lunch. Or tea. I swear to God, that’s all.”
She felt a strange, warm fluttering in her stomach. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “It wouldn’t be wise for me to be seen with you. Megan managed to reach the lawyer, D’Angelo. He said it wouldn’t be smart for us to mingle with anybody connected to the case in any way.”
“You mean like Tyler or anyone connected to him? Because it happened on his property?”
“Exactly. And anybody connected to Sam Whittleson, too.”
“But I want—I need to talk to you in person. I know a place where we wouldn’t be seen. Trust me.”
Trust him? Dear God, she wanted to. “What good would it do? We come from opposing camps. You know it, I know it, and D’Angelo doesn’t want us communicating.”
“Damn D’Angelo,” he said in frustration. “Listen, Marie. When Tyler heard about Louisa being arrested, his first reaction was that it was ridiculous. That it’d be funny if it weren’t so outrageous.”
His voice grew lower, more intense. “God knows he’s got no reason to love her, but he does not—I repeat does not—think she’d do such a thing. If both our sides unite, Sergeant Dylan Hastings is going to have a much tougher time making an arrest stick.”
“You…and Tyler would help her?”
“And others here at Lochlain. I know Louisa’s got a good PR woman. But so do I. There are people at Lochlain who’ve known Louisa for years. She may be eccentric, she may be cranky, but she’s no killer. If we stand together to protect her, we’re stronger than if we stand alone.”
“Why would you want to help Louisa?” she asked, more uneasy than before.
“Because it’s the right thing to do. Is that so hard to believe? My family’s been in her position, Marie. We were accused of breeding fraud. I know how it feels.”
She’d heard the staff talk about the so-called Preston breeding scandal. She knew that Andrew was running for president partly to fight the kind of fraud that had threatened his family. But she could think of nothing to say.
“So,” he said, “tomorrow’s your day off, right? Meet me, will you? I have to leave again tomorrow night, but first I want to hear what you think. And tell you what I think. Just talk with me for Louisa’s sake, all right?”
She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. She should say no. But she said, “Yes. I will. But I need to help around here a bit first. And then get back. We’re shorthanded.”
“Fine,” he replied. “How about around ten-thirty? Could you meet me on the road at that little grove by Lake Dingo? Where Louisa’s land abuts Sam Whittleson’s? There’s a secluded spot close by.”
“All right,” she said, knowing she sounded tentative, unsure about agreeing.
“Then good night, Marie. And sweet dreams. Very sweet ones.”
“The same to you,” she said automatically, then instantly wished she hadn’t. She closed the phone, thinking that he seemed almost to be pursuing her. But why? She was a nobody compared to him. And Rennie had told her to be on her guard.
Full of conflict, she went to bed, knowing that sleep would be long in coming. She took up one of her poetry books and stretched out on her bed. Opening to a random page, she read:
Sweet Peril
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.
She could read no more. It was too much like some warning from beyond.
Next morning Megan Stafford was in the kitchen when Marie arrived. Marie was amazed that she’d be up this early. She’d made herself tea and toast.
“Can I get you anything else?” Marie asked.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Megan said, tossing her long hair back. “What I really need is information from you and the other staff. May I ask you a few things?”
“If you don’t mind my working while I answer.”
“Not at all. The doctor asked some questions I can’t answer. He knows Louisa has blood pressure medications. He wants to know if she takes any other medicines or pills. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Marie said, “some herbal things. And some brand-name ones. Do you want samples to show him?”
“That would be incredibly helpful,” Megan said.
Then Helena appeared, and then Bindy, who looked unhappy and a bit hungover. Marie wondered if she was having boyfriend problems.
Helena volunteered to take over watching the bubble and squeak, and Marie dashed upstairs to Louisa’s suite and to the medicine cabinet. She opened the door. Pills, vials, inhalers and boxes of cough drops crowded the shelves, and she took a sample of each, stuffing them into her apron pockets.
She left the suite as fast as she could, for one of the first warnings Louisa had given her was not to snoop among her things. If she knew Marie had rifled through her medications, she’d fire her immediately.
And suddenly, perversely, Marie didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not until she knew Louisa would be home and well and cleared of any accusations—until she was safe.
Marie hurried back to the kitchen, where Helena was just sliding the bubble and squeak cakes into the oven. Bindy boiled water for tea and spooned coffee into the coffeemaker.
But Megan was gone.
“Where is she?” Marie asked, puzzled.
“The hospital called,” said Mrs. Lipton. “Miss Fairchild’s awake, so Miss Megan’s gone to see her. Miss Fairchild also wanted Agnes to pack a case for her.”
“As for you,” Mrs. Lipton said wearily, “Miss Stafford wants you to make Miss Fairchild some decent snacks and a thermos of strong coffee. She hates hospital food.”
“Shouldn’t I make sure that any food I take is healthy?”
“Yes. She won’t like that, so I don’t envy you,” Mrs. Lipton said. “Also, the niece and
nephew were going to leave as soon as they could. But now that Miss Fairchild’s unwell, I sense that Megan, at least, will want to stay on. She seems genuinely concerned about Miss.”
“Or her money,” Bindy put in, starting the coffeemaker.
“Hush!” ordered Mrs. Lipton, glowering at Bindy.
“I watch detective shows on the telly,” countered Bindy. “I read mystery books. I’ve been thinking. Who stands to profit from this happening to Miss? The niece and nephew, that’s who. She’s a lawyer. Lawyers think shifty, they do. She could have set all this up and—”
“Hush!” Mrs. Lipton repeated, clearly furious. “I don’t appreciate that sort of talk. For shame!”
She turned back to Marie. “Will you have any trouble coming up with menus for Miss Fairchild?”
“Not at all,” Marie said. “My mother had heart trouble. I know the food issues.”
She sat down at the counter and scribbled a list of heart-friendly recipes. Her own heart beat uncomfortably fast. Why did Louisa have so many pills? Had they affected her health? And what about her addiction to espresso, her insistence on strong tea?
Marie also worried about Andrew. Soon she’d meet him.
Seeing him again suddenly seemed like pushing her luck. Pushing it to the point of folly.
Andrew leaned against the white pipeline fence at Lochlain, his elbows resting on the top rail. Tyler stood beside him, and together they stared out at the north paddock. The two-year-olds grazed there in the morning sunlight, and most looked good; coats shining, legs elegantly long.
But every one had suffered from smoke inhalation. Outwardly, they were beautiful. Inwardly, they were compromised, their lungs damaged. Not fatally damaged, but injured enough to impair their running. They would never recover the wind to race.
Tyler shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”
Andrew said, “At least you’ve got Darci’s Pride.” The horse had won the Outback Classic and was now Tyler’s biggest equine asset.
The Secret Heiress Page 11
