The Secret Heiress

by Terri Reed

  Seeing Elijah’s fatigue prompted Caroline to take Don’s hand. “We’ll let you rest now. We plan to talk with your doctor as soon as possible.”

  Elijah’s eyelids fluttered. “Be safe.” Caroline tugged Don out of the room.

  “What do you think?” she asked in a soft whisper when they were in the hall.

  His flashlight created a circle of light on the faded carpet. “Not sure what to think.”

  “I’d like to go to the attic.” She glanced around, wondering which closed door led upstairs.

  Lilly emerged out of the shadows, her face obscured by inky darkness. “Why do you want to go to the attic?”

  Stilling the momentary jump of her heart rate, Caroline answered, “Mr. Maddox said we could decorate for Christmas.”

  She couldn’t yet bring herself to call him her grandfather out loud.

  “It’s a little late for that now,” Lilly muttered.

  “It’s never too late for Christmas.” Though she supposed for the teenager, Christmas was about presents and Santa Claus, not about the birth of Jesus. Still, Caroline wanted to bring some Christmas joy into this gloomy house.

  The girl shrugged. “Door’s at the other end of the hall.”

  “We could sure use your help,” Caroline said.

  “No.” As quietly as she’d appeared she left. Don raised the flashlight on her retreating back. She entered her bedroom and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

  Don mimicked the girl’s shrug and Caroline had to stifle an unexpected snicker.

  They found the door and took the narrow staircase upward. At the top another door waited. They tried the handle. Locked.

  “Maybe Samuel or Abigail has the key.” Frustration laced Caroline’s words.

  They headed back downstairs and found the couple in the parlor. Landon still worked at his puzzle. Samuel sat by the window reading a book while Abigail played the piano. All three looked up as they entered the room.

  Abigail lifted her hands from the ivory keys. “Did my playing disturb you?”

  “No,” Caroline quickly assured her. “This house is amazingly quiet.”

  Samuel set his book aside. “Yes. They don’t build houses like this anymore.” The pride lacing his tone belied the condition of the house.

  Was Uncle Samuel killing his father so he could gain control of the family’s wealth? Was he behind the threat to Caroline’s life? Caroline tried to keep the suspicions from showing on her face.

  “Do you have a key to the attic?” Don asked.

  Abigail rose from the bench. “Why on earth would you want to go in there? It’s dusty and full of cobwebs.”

  “Mr. Maddox gave us permission,” Don said.

  “He said we could decorate for Christmas,” Caroline added.

  Abigail smiled but not before Caroline noted the flash of something—disapproval, maybe—in her green eyes. “It seems silly to decorate now considering we’d just have to pack everything away day after tomorrow.”

  Caroline wouldn’t be dissuaded. There was more she wanted from the attic than decorations. “And he said I would find some of my mother’s things.”

  “Ah.” Abigail’s expression softened. “Of course.”

  “There are indeed some of Isabella belongings,” Samuel said. “Let me show you where we keep the key.”

  A swirl of confusion ignited in Caroline’s mind. Abigail and Samuel’s understanding and acceptance of her desire for her mother’s things appeared genuine.

  Samuel led them to the kitchen. He opened the pantry door and lifted a key from a hook mounted on the wall. “My father told you about Isabella?”

  Caroline nodded; she still wasn’t ready to let the impact of her birth mother’s death hit her.

  “Such a tragedy. Broke our hearts.”

  The genuine pain in his voice touched Caroline. Could he really be the one behind the attempts on her life? “Were you two close?”

  “She was three years older than me. I thought the world of her. Isabella could light up a room with her smile.” A wistful expression crossed his face. “And her laugh. She had the best laugh.” His expression fell. “There hasn’t been much laughter in this house since she left.”

  Caroline’s heart squeezed with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

  Seeming to shake off his melancholy, Samuel handed her a brass lever-lock-style key. “This will open the attic door.”

  He walked away and rejoined his family in the parlor.

  Caroline sighed and closed her hand over the key commonly referred to as a skeleton key because it resembled a skeletal figure. “They’re still hurting even after all this time.”

  “Isabella’s case was never closed,” Don reminded her.

  Her death remained an open wound for this family.

  A killer roamed free.

  Caroline shivered with dread.

  Would she be another victim?

  With the antique key in her hand, Caroline and Don returned to the top of the narrow staircase. The key fit easily into the lock, and with a soft click, the door opened. Caroline stepped out of the way to allow Don to enter first. The flame of the candle she held danced as he moved past. A second later, he motioned for her to join him.

  She breathed in musty, stale air and coughed. Her gaze tracked the light from Don’s candle as he swept the beam across the large space that ran half the length of the house. Thick cobwebs hung from the rafters. More antique furniture, trunks of various sizes and cardboard boxes labeled with neat script were stowed at the far end of the attic.

  “You don’t think there are spiders up here do you?” Caroline set down the candle she carried on a bookshelf, careful to make sure nothing was close enough to catch fire.

  “Where there are cobwebs…” He shrugged. “Sorry, I doubt these came out of a can.”

  She laughed. “You’re right. It’s an attic. Most likely there are spiders.”

  Despite her attempt at appearing unaffected, a shudder of distaste worked through her. Ever since she was eight, creepy crawly things freaked her out. She’d run through a spider web with the spider still in it. For months after she was tormented with the sensation of something crawling along her scalp.

  A shiver hit her. She combed a hand through her hair. But she refused to be afraid with Don here. She’d have to shoo away any creepers and step on any ugly bugs herself. But she wasn’t sure she’d could stomach picking out any spiders from her hair.

  “Would have been nice if the old man had said which trunk,” Don commented. He set the flashlight on its flat end so it acted like a lamp, providing a good measure of light. “I’ll find the Christmas stuff while you check the trunks.”

  Cautiously, she opened the closest trunk, keeping an eye out for any eight-legged inhabitants. Lifting the lid dislodged a film of dust. She sneezed. Inside the trunk were neatly stacked household items. She touched an old washboard. There was so much history in this house, in these trunks. But she was thankful for modern conveniences that made things like the washboard obsolete.

  The next trunk contained musty woman’s clothes. Matronly. Must be Mauve Maddox’s. Another trunk held Mississippi State University memorabilia. Judging by the dates, they belonged to Uncle Samuel. Caroline opened three more trunks filled with more clothes and items from bygone eras before she finally discovered the one she sought.

  “Found it,” she breathed out after opening the lid. Don crouched by her side.

  The trunk was ornately carved with running horses and swirling flowers and vines. Inside were frilly dresses, a pressed gardenia. One of Caroline’s favorite blooms. A book of poetry by Tennyson. And a stack of greeting cards tied neatly together with a faded purple ribbon.

  She untied the bow and ca
refully inspected the cards. Most were signed by Isabella’s mother, but a few were signed by Elijah in a hard, looping scrawl. “Birthday cards.”

  Caroline returned the note cards to the trunk and picked up a thick green bound book with a large T surrounded by a wave in the middle of the cover.

  “What’s that?” Don asked, leaning closer.

  Awareness shimmied over her. The companionable way they were working together pleased her. She flipped open the cover. “Tulane yearbook for 1983. Isabella’s first year of college.”

  She quickly found the pages with the university freshman dorm group pictures. Holding the book at an angle to capture the light, she scanned the faces and the names. Isabella Maddox sat center, a wide smile on her face. She looked young and carefree. For a moment, tears blurred Caroline’s vision.

  “She was pretty,” Don commented over her shoulder. “You do look like her.”

  Pleased by the compliment, she closed the book and blinked back the tears. She’d peruse it later in private. Caroline was curious to see what clubs and activities her mother had been involved in. Setting the yearbook aside, she reached in the trunk and pulled out a leather-bound journal. She flipped it open. Neatly penned words filled the lined pages.

  “Isabella’s journal.” Her throat tightened. “Maybe I’ll find out who my father was.”

  Don put one hand out to draw her attention and put a finger to his lips. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  She hadn’t heard anything. A tremor of alarm traced her spine.

  “Someone was on the stairs.” He stealthily made his way toward the stairwell.

  The slam of a door echoed in the attic’s rafters. Caroline flinched. Don hurried through the open door at the top of the stairs.

  He returned a moment later. “The door to the hall is locked.”

  “Someone locked us in here?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Unnerved, she handed him the key. “Do you think this will work?”

  “Worth a try.”

  His flashlight cut to the doorway. Curling smoke rose from the stairwell filling the attic.

  Caroline froze. Panic pounded in her head. “Don!”

  Someone had set the house on fire!

  Fear tightened a noose around Don’s neck.

  “Get down!” He tackled Caroline to the floor, beneath the smoke.

  They were trapped.

  Heart-pounding terror flooded through him. He labored to breathe.

  Flashes of the last time he’d been under heavy artillery fire bombarded his mind. All around him the smell of death.

  “Don?”

  The echoing screams of dying soldiers rang in his ears.

  “Cavanaugh!”

  He started, returning to the present, to the woman pinned beneath him. “You okay?”

  “Squished. You okay?”

  He made a noncommittal noise in this throat and eased off her. Aiming the flashlight’s beam toward the smoke billowing out of the stairwell, he expected to see golden flames licking the wall, but the beam of light reflected nothing but a rainbow-hued haze. He frowned. What in the world? “Stay here.”

  Covering his mouth and nose with the end of his shirt, he inspected the colorful cloud. The nauseating smell of saltpeter burned his nostrils, reminding him of childhood summers. “The house isn’t on fire. The colored smoke’s from a Fourth of July firework. A smoke bomb.”

  “Is it poisonous?”

  “Not necessarily. However without some ventilation we’ll likely get sick from inhaling the smoke.” He motioned toward her lit candle. “Put that out. Just in case.” He didn’t think the fumes would ignite but he preferred to err on the side of caution.

  That was his job.

  “We’re going to have to wait for the smoke to evaporate before we try going down the stairwell.”

  They needed fresh air. He shut the attic door. That lessened the incoming flow of the noxious fumes. He swung the beam of light around the walls and spied an octagonal window up high at the far end of the room. “We’ve got to get to that window.”

  “How about stacking the trunks on top of each other?” Caroline suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  Working quickly, they emptied several trunks, then stacked them high. Don climbed up to the window. Covering his hand with a thick fabric he’d found in a trunk, he broke the glass. Fresh, moisture-laden air poured in. He gestured toward her. “It’s stable enough for us both to climb on up.”

  He helped Caroline to the top. They stood pressed together, their faces turned to the window.

  “You didn’t answer me, are you okay?” she asked, concern underscoring her words.

  Taking a full breath and slowly letting it out, he nodded. “Yes. I can protect you.”

  “I’m not questioning your ability.” She touched his arm, drawing his gaze to where her warmth seeped through her shirt sleeve. “I sensed something happening to you, in you. PTSD?”

  Perceptive. “Yes. I suffer occasional bouts of post-traumatic stress disorder. Not anything for you to worry about.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to take on such a hard edge. “I can do my job.”

  Slipping her hand away, she said, “Good to know.”

  She fell silent.

  A round of frenzied barking floated in from the busted window.

  “Where do you suppose those dogs are?” she asked.

  Grateful for the change in subject, he answered, “Samuel has a kennel at the back of the property. Hunting dogs, he said.”

  She coughed. “This is not how I imagined my first night here. Especially on Christmas Eve.”

  “Hey, it’ll be okay. The pyrotechnic gems will burn themselves out soon enough.” He hoped. Then he’d figure out a way to escape the confines of the attic. And confront whoever locked them inside. He was pretty sure he knew who was responsible. The fireworks seemed like a childish—teenage—prank.

  Not nearly as serious as the attempt on Caroline’s life in Boston or the explosive that felled the tree outside.

  “What would you usually be doing on Christmas Eve?” he asked.

  She sighed, the sound making it obvious she missed her family. “My parents and I would attend the early evening service at our church, then home for Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce, mashed potatoes and green beans with slivered almonds. And then we’d watch a movie. Either White Christmas or It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It is. What about you? What is a typical Christmas Eve like for you?”

  He didn’t have the Norman Rockwell kind of upbringing that she did. “It depends on what assignment I’m on. Last year I was in California on Christmas Eve providing security for a celebrity.”

  “Really? Who?”

  The curiosity in her voice was cute. “Sorry. Not allowed to give out any information on clients.”

  She pretended to pout. “Come on, you can confide in me. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

  “Against the rules.”

  “You like rules?”

  “I do. Keeps things simple and predictable.”

  “But doesn’t leave much room for spontaneity and fun.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not, but sticking to the rules can save lives.” And guaranteed he didn’t end up a loser. Like his father.

  Caroline slanted him a glance. “Can I ask you something?”

  Wariness tensed his shoulder muscles. “Sure.”

  “Are you married?”

  He choked on a laugh. “Now how could I be your fiancé and be married?”

  “Fake fiancé,” she reminded him. “I really don’t know t
hat much about you.”

  “Right.” Though part of him wanted to erase the pretense. He must have inhaled too much of the colorful fog. “No, I’m not married.”

  “Ever been close to tying the knot?”

  He cut her a quick glance. Light from the flashlight he held danced across the contours of her pretty face. The question played in his head and he contemplated the best answer.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she said quickly, shifting away, obviously taking his hesitation as reluctance. “Just seems something a fiancé would know about her intended.”

  He couldn’t argue that logic. “Once, briefly.”

  “What happened?” Curiosity laced her words.

  The truth rose but he quickly batted it back. Instead he went with the easier answer, the less complicated and revealing truth. “We were seventeen.”

  “Ah. Too young for sure.”

  He nodded, again taking the easy path.

  She yawned, making adorable little noises that sent his blood pounding. Mist from the rain coming through the broken window swirled around them.

  “You’re tired.” He drew her down to sit on the top trunk. “You need to rest.”

  The energy seemed to drain out of her. She sagged like a rag doll.

  Afraid she’d topple off their perch, he eased her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. She stiffened in his arms, but then relaxed, her warmth pressing into him, making his heart thud in booming beats he was sure she could feel through the fabric of his shirt.

  Nice job sticking to the rules, Cavanaugh, his conscience mocked.

  The flashlight’s beam dimmed. The battery was running out. He flipped it off.

  “To conserve what power is left,” he explained when she lifted her head.

  He held himself still, waiting. Expecting her to move away from him. Needing her to move away from him.

  She returned her head to his shoulder. She let out a little wistful breath and snuggled in ever so slightly.