“I hope this old trellis can hold me!” Adrenaline coursed through Luke’s veins as he scaled a rickety redwood frame up to the second story, ignoring the sharp splinters and prickly vines until he managed to reach the sill and climb in through the open window.
“Fran, are you in here?” Moonlight illuminated the elegant suite, shining on an empty bed.
“Where is she? I’ve got to find her.” Luke opened the room’s door a few inches and peered down the hall. Seeing no one, he stepped across to the adjacent suite.
Darting inside he closed the door and stood still, then while waiting for his eyes to adjust he heard the sound of someone breathing. He inched closer to the bed, straining his eyes, trying to spot them.
“Ugh!” Luke’s knees buckled as a heavy object struck his head, for the second time tonight.
* * * *
Traces of moonlight filtered through the ivory sheers, draped over the tall living room windows. Wishing she’d packed a flashlight or two, at least Fran knew the manor’s layout well enough to find her way around at night. She headed to the kitchen first, thinking perhaps her friend simply wandered downstairs for some tea or a soda.
Fran’s slippers made soft clicks on the wooden floor and the only other sound in the long dining room was the swish of her robe. The girl’s momentary hope of finding her friend withered when she reached the dark kitchen.
“I might as well get something to drink while I’m here.” Planning to look for some cola in the fridge, Fran pushed the swinging door all the way open and felt along the wall for the light switch. As she flipped it upward with her index finger the girl shrieked and slipped on the tile, clutching at the countertop to keep from falling. Jean Davis stood on the other side of the butcher-block island, scraggly long grey hair cascading over her bony shoulders. The old woman’s shocked expression proved she didn’t expect to see Francis either.
“What—what are you doing in here?” The sour woman stammered and cinched the sash on her Chinese silk robe a little tighter. Fear and astonishment pervaded her wrinkled face.
Fran recovered her composure. “I should ask you the same thing. It must be close to three in the morning.” Hearing footsteps in the adjacent mudroom the girl called out. “Justine? Is that you?”
Both women looked toward the home’s rear entry. Someone was there—but not Justine. Fran’s heart fluttered, watching, waiting for them to step forward...
* * * *
Justine’s spirit checked the guest suites on the second floor, finding them all unoccupied, and most of them also void of artwork. “Fran’s probably right, her greedy father is selling off the art collection.”
Only two more rooms in the West wing—one had to be the Davis’ and the other—Arthur Sutton’s. The filmy figure of a girl slipped into the next room where she spotted a pile of large black luggage near the door, and an unmade empty bed.
“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Davis? It’s the middle of the night.” Justine peered into the bathroom. No toiletries and an empty closet too, but they hadn’t left the manor yet, not without their luggage.
“Hey, what’s this?” Darkness almost prevented her from noticing a tote bag next to one of the suitcases—brimming full of leather bound books. “Maybe they’re the ones stealing the collection. In cahoots with Mr. Davis’ sister!”
And that old crone was keeping Fran’s father sedated, who knows for how long. Justine sprinted out the door, filmy negligee billowing behind her.
* * * *
Bound and gagged, Luke struggled to open his eyes. Stars danced and sparkled in the darkness, yet he wasn’t outside. At least he was still alive! Nearly choking on the binding, waves of nauseating pain rushed through his battered body.
As he struggled to inhale he recognized a familiar musty odor, the smell of Ledgemont’s basement. The way his body felt they probably tossed him down the stairs. Now how could he save Franny?
Rolling onto his side, the boy writhed and squirmed his way toward a faint glow drifting down the staircase. He knew a few tools hung on the nearby wall—perhaps he could cut the rope off his wrists.
Minutes of crawling seemed like hours. Lying on his back, he used his shackled feet to knock down a handsaw. Turning his back to the wall, Luke began the arduous task of cutting the rope with the saw’s dull rusty teeth.
Bearing down harder, hoping he wouldn’t rip into his flesh, the boy focused on his escape, trying not to think about what might be happening to Fran upstairs.
* * * *
A tall man came forward, stepping into the glare of the kitchen’s old-fashioned overhead light. Fully dressed in black casual attire, his astonished gaze mirrored Jean Davis’ reaction at the sight of the young woman.
“You must be Francis.” Other than his pallor, the man didn’t appear weak or ill. “I’m sorry—please forgive me. It’s just—you are the exact image of your mother.”
Not the loving reunion Fran expected, and quite a bizarre situation—in the middle of the night, in their now rundown Bed and Breakfast Inn. The girl’s instincts told her to run, but that didn’t make any sense.
“Yes. I’m Fran Sutton. And you must be my father.” Petrified for a moment, no amount of effort made her legs move, even though she wanted to step forward and shake his hand.
“Oh my dear, let’s go into the living room and sit down. You must have a lot of questions.” The man shot a poisonous glance at Jean then moved closer, reaching out for Fran’s arm.
Sidestepping away she hurried ahead, switching on a tiffany floor lamp then settling down in a leather club chair. Adjusting the flimsy robe to keep her nightgown covered, the disgruntled young woman crossed her arms, bit her tongue, and waited for him to speak first. An accusation was no way to begin their reunion.
* * * *
Yanking open the door to Arthur’s suite Justine expected to find him unconscious, or perhaps dead. Shocked, the ghostly girl stared at yet another empty bed. “Did they drag him off too?” Now she had to find two bodies.
“Everyone must be downstairs, including Franny. Dear God let her still be alive!” Convinced the Davis’ were thieves, Justine wondered if they were also murderers...
* * * *
Fifty-something, slender, and grey at the temples, Arthur Sutton possessed an elegant yet imposing demeanor. He strode past Francis and sat down in the club chair facing hers. Clasping his hands together, he appeared to choose his words with great care before he spoke.
“My dear. I hardly know you. Yet, we are of the same blood. Suttons are strong-willed, and I’m sure that trait has helped both of us endure the pain of the past few years.” His voice trailed off.
Furrowing her brow, feeling defensive, Fran sensed an attempt to play on her sympathies. Did this complete stranger expect Francis to relinquish the inheritance?
“Father.” Swallowing her nervous tension in one big gulp Fran tried to bring up the subject of the missing paintings, but something stopped her. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I guess your ‘strong will’ pulled you through the illness?”
Arthur turned, looked around to see if Jean had followed them, then leaned toward his daughter and spoke in a hushed tone. “Darling, I made a big mistake when I hired Jean Davis. My business partner Earle recommended the woman, his sister, but ever since she’s been here I’ve suffered recurring bouts of unexplained maladies. At times I felt I was very near death.”
“Mr. Sutton.” They both jumped when the unpleasant woman’s sharp voice cut through the air.
“I beg your pardon, Jean, but my daughter and I were getting reacquainted. What is it that you want?” Sounding fatigued, Mr. Sutton leaned back in his chair.
“I made you both some tea.” Jean’s hair was now smoothed back into its usual tight bun but she still wore her nightclothes. The woman placed a small lacquered tray on the coffee table then scowled at Arthur. “You really should get back into bed.”
“I think you’re right not to trust Jean Davis. I took an instant
dislike to that woman the first time I set eyes on her.” Fran spoke her mind after the housekeeper left the room, concern replacing her previous anger. She managed a smile, encouraging her weak father to have some of the Earl Gray tea.
“Say—since it’s after midnight and you’re now twenty-one, Ledgemont is officially yours! Congratulations, my dear.” Arthur raised his teacup to clink hers and they both took a long sip of the soothing beverage.
Startled by a sudden loud creak, Fran turned toward the sound and was relieved to see Justine beginning to descend the staircase. She blinked her eyes a few times, noticing a weird glow surrounding the girl. Fran realized she could see right through her friend! Dropping the china teacup, she keeled over in a dead faint.
* * * *
Ecstatic to see Francis, Justine flew down the stairs. The unfamiliar man with her must be Arthur Sutton—also alive and well.
“Oh no, she’s fainted!” Justine stopped, not sure what to do next. Fran saw her earlier, but could Mr. Sutton see her spirit form?
“Francis, what’s wrong?” The girl’s father smoothed her hair and tapped her on the cheek. “Wake up—come on.”
“Arthur Sutton!” Justine addressed him, then waited for a reaction.
Glancing up and seeing no one, he focused on shaking Fran’s shoulders, trying to revive her. “Fran, sweetheart.” Her eyes fluttered open.
“What—happened?” Confused and exhausted, Fran stared up at the man and rubbed her eyes.
“You must have fainted.” Arthur knew someone called his name and now he glanced around the room, expecting to see Jean Davis lurking in a corner.
“I, oh, Father—I think I’m having hallucinations.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then stood up. “I think we both need to get some rest.”
“Good idea. I’m sure I’ll feel much better in the morning.” Arthur had a peculiar smile on his face as he glanced down at his daughter. A moment later he caught her when she collapsed into his arms, unconscious from the drugs he’d slipped into her tea.
* * * *
Free at last! The frayed rope fell away from Luke’s hands then he removed the gag and untied his feet. Unsteady at first, the boy gripped the handrail for support and crept up the narrow cellar stairs.
Opening the door into the mudroom, relieved it was dark, he realized that it also kept him from seeing potential attackers. He’d been taken by surprise twice and the only reason they hadn’t killed him—he was their scapegoat.
Fran might not be so lucky. Unsure what had taken place during the time he’d been tied up, Luke still held out hope. Making his way over to the old-fashioned stove, he pulled the largest knife out of the wooden block and took a few deep, painful breaths—preparing for battle.
* * * *
Justine didn’t want to frighten Arthur while he carried Francis up the staircase so she tiptoed behind him, trying to sort everything out in her mind.
Earlier the two girls suspected Arthur was up to something, but as the night went on Justine feared he might only be an innocent victim. Then the three Davis’ strange attitudes and activities kept her guessing—did Jean drug the tea? If so Arthur should pass out at any moment. Luke was still missing, and she hadn’t seen Nathan since they arrived.
Justine glanced around the hallway, wondering what happened to Jean Davis. Frustrated that she’d lost track of the dour woman while following Arthur, the ghostly girl vowed she wouldn’t leave Fran’s side again tonight.
The tall man took his daughter into the pink bedroom and placed her limp form on the satin sheets, then as he gazed down at the attractive girl he shook his head and grimaced. “What a shame.” Arthur turned around when he heard a low whistle. Moonlight shining through the open window revealed a woman’s figure draped in the nearby chair.
“Is she dead, or just unconscious?” She spoke in a coarse whisper.
“Not dead—not yet. But you’ll see to that for me, won’t you, Mary?” Arthur’s eyes gleamed and he snickered.
Justine gasped then watched the woman get up and saunter over to Fran’s father. It was Mary Davis draping her arms around Arthur’s neck and the two embraced, sharing a passionate kiss.
* * * *
Luke made his way from the dark kitchen into the living room. His head still throbbed as he staggered over to the roll top desk, to the one telephone in the old house. At last he had a chance to call the police.
“Damn. No dial tone.” Of course, they cut the phone line... and nobody even bothered trying to use a cell phone out here— no signal towers in this remote wooded area of Texas.
What really worried Luke—he didn’t know which one of them killed Justine. Unable to trust anyone, the exhausted young man fingered the polished wooden handle of the butcher knife then started his climb up the stairs.
* * * *
“I love you so much.” Mary reached up to caress Arthur’s cheek, then she turned and sauntered toward the bed. Glancing back at him over her shoulder, a fierce passionate fire smoldered in her eyes. She puckered her painted lips and blew him a kiss.
Nodding at his accomplice, the stone-faced man crossed his arms and stayed out of her way, watching the determined woman pick up a soft feather pillow and then force it down over the helpless girl’s face.
Shocked, Justine leapt forward and pulled Mary’s hair, then ducked when the startled woman spun around.
“What are you doing, you fool?” Hissing, she glared at Arthur.
“What do you mean what am I doing?” Keeping his voice low, the man put his hands on his hips and snarled. “Get on with it!”
Still clutching the pillow, Mary climbed up onto the bed next to Fran for more leverage. Again she felt a tug on her hair, but this time she ignored the sensation.
“Stop it bitch!” Justine shouted into Mary’s ear and wrapped her cold, transparent hands around the woman’s throat.
“Get off me.” Choking out the words while still smothering the girl, Mary bucked and swayed to shake Justine off.
“What in the hell is happening?” Arthur had clearly heard another woman’s voice. Fearing Francis was fighting back, he reached for the light switch.
Just as light flooded the room the heavy wooden door flung open and knocked Arthur out cold. Luke jumped over the man’s body to join the struggle on the bed.
“Get away from her now or I’ll kill you!” Luke wrenched Mary’s arm with one hand and waved the huge knife at her with the other.
The combined force of Justine and Luke sent Mary Davis tumbling to the floor.
“I should have killed you earlier you little bastard.” Red-faced and belligerent Mary tried to get up, but a heavy weight settled onto her chest and kept her pinned.
Justine’s ghost remained prone on the combative female, shutting her up by clamping a hand tight over her ugly red lips. Directing vile threats into her ear, Justine whispered all the horrible things she’d like to do to punish the savage woman. Mary’s eyes bulged at the terrifying threats and she couldn’t imagine what was happening, since she could feel and hear Justine but not actually see anyone.
Luke yanked the pillow off Fran’s face. Semi-conscious and already stirring, her eyes cracked open and she managed a smile at the sight of the long lost Luke. “It’s about time you showed up.”
A charming Prince bringing his sleeping beauty back to life—he pressed his lips hard against hers and smoothed her tousled hair. Relief and desire combined in their passionate kiss and time stood still—until a set of bony fingers seized Luke’s neck in an iron grip. Lurching backward he managed to reach up to grasp the attacker’s wrists then kicked and struggled, attempting to break free.
“Oh God—get off him!” Fran screamed as she tried to get up to stop Jean. Spotting the butcher knife Luke left on the bed she grabbed it with both hands and waved it at the woman.
“You don’t scare me.” The laughing old crone wrapped her entire body around Luke, long fingertips still embedded deep in his throat. He dropped to the floor hoping that
would loosen her grip and gasped for air, his face now a bluish color.
Sliding off the bed, still unsteady on her feet, Francis held her breath and jabbed the shiny steel blade into Jean’s arm. The strategy worked—the grey-haired woman screeched and let go. Still clutching the knife, Fran stepped backward and bumped into someone.
Strong arms encircled the girl and Fran looked up at her father who now held her tight. “I’m all right, but Luke needs help!”
Luke still wrestled the obstinate woman and they clutched one other, rolling back and forth, each trying to gain an advantage. Jean’s bleeding arm smeared crimson stains on the expensive beige rug.
As Arthur moved toward the door taking Fran with him, in one sickening moment the girl realized her grim situation. The long male arms around her weren’t meant as comfort.
“What are you doing?” Twisting and trying to break free only made him squeeze her harder, and the knife dropped out of her hand. “Luke—help!”
The boy looked up at the horrifying sight—Arthur dragging Francis out of the room. Scrambling to his feet he managed to take two steps toward Fran, then Jean grabbed his ankle and brought him crashing back down to the floor.
“Let her go.” Depleted from the earlier beatings Luke had less than half his normal strength, and if he couldn’t fight off an old woman, how could he hope to rescue Fran this time?
A loud cracking sound startled Francis and Arthur’s arms dropped away as he went limp then fell to the floor next to her.
“What?” Doing an about-face Francis shrieked at the monstrous form, then she recognized him—Nathan, wielding a large baseball bat, now cracked and bloody from its impact with Arthur’s head. Fran staggered back so he could get into the room and assist Luke next.
Jean didn’t need much convincing to give up her fight. She cowered against the foot of the bed with her hands up in surrender. Luke pushed himself off the floor and took Fran in his arms.
“Nathan. What about the other guy?” Luke realized one of the Davis’ was unaccounted for.
Dead and Breakfast Page 12
