He shook his head. "They didn't have anything substantial, just the usual variety of police suspicion and the rantings of his daughter."
"So, if Rosalyn truly believed her father died from some crazy plan Cecile put into motion, she's the person with the most motivation."
He nodded then said, "There's more. Harry Villars stopped in my office this morning. He hired a private investigator a few days ago to check into Theodore Elway's finances."
The dampness from the grass was soaking into my jeans, and my butt was getting cold, but I didn't want to get up. It was so nice sitting there with him.
"This detective is checking into the trust Elway set up for his family. It seems the old man was a miser who hung on to every penny until Lincoln started reciting his Gettysburg Address. Elway wasn't just rich—he was megarich. The estate's holdings are valued at over half a billion dollars. Once he remarried, he named Cecile Elway as administrator of the family trust, which evidently pissed off the rest of the family and was part of the reason Rosalyn was so sure Cecile had something to do with the old boy's demise."
I mulled it over. This was getting complicated. So Rosalyn had good reason to get rid of her stepmother, namely, more than 500 million reasons.
"Wow, Jack, you're good at this," I said.
He smiled and lifted his free hand. "You've just got a little something…" He lightly brushed at my cheek, his touch so feather soft I shivered.
He stood, and still holding my hand, pulled me to my feet.
It was one of those moments. He looked down at me. I looked up at him. It could have gone further—it could have been divine.
But we were standing in front of St. Antoine's and had an audience of about twenty or twenty-five others who for some reason chose that exact time to take their own break, hang around out front, and watch us.
It was easy to tell who the ringleaders were. Grandmama Ida and Mama were coming straight at us, each holding a glass of lemonade.
No necking, at least not now.
"Mama," I said. "Grandmama Ida."
It was kind of embarrassing the way those two gushed and simpered over Jack, like they were fourteen or fifteen years old and still pimply-faced and hormonal.
When Jack and Mama shook hands, she didn't let go.
"All right, Mama. All right. That's enough. He can tell you like him." I tugged their hands apart.
While she watched him down the lemonade that was so cold the glass was sweating, Mama leaned in close and whispered, "Oh, my, Melanie, this one's a keeper—don't run this one off."
"Mama!"
Oh, swell. From the expression on Jack's face, it was obvious he'd heard her, but what happened next was unbelievable. He tucked my hand in the crook of his arm, handed Mama back the empty glass, and gave her one of those swashbuckler smiles. "I'm not going anywhere, Mrs. Hamilton." He turned to me. "Let's go back inside and see if they need any help."
As we walked away, I looked back to see Mama and Grandmama holding hands and dancing in a circle.
Jack never looked at me, but he patted my hand and kept walking.
Mama was right. He was a keeper.
* * *
Once we were back inside, Jack gallantly went to Father Brian and asked if there was anything he could to do to help since he was there.
A squeegee and bucket of soapy water were handed over, and Jack was offered the title of Sparkle and Shine Specialist.
Even though he was ever so gracious about it, I figured it was more work than he had in mind. I could also tell by the dubious way he looked at the squeegee it might have been the first time he'd ever used one.
Father Brian brought around a ladder and leaned it up against the wall. He shook Jack's hand and walked away.
Jack stood there for a minute looking up before he hooked the bucket over one arm and began to climb. I forced myself to return to my own work, even though I was a little nervous about leaving Jack unsupervised with a ladder and a bucket of water. He was a grown man—how much trouble could he get into? Sure, New York City had those crazy guys who hung off the tops of tall buildings, washing windows like Spider-Man, but even a white-collar guy like Jack had to have washed a few windows in his day.
I might have been wrong about that. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before a crash and clatter outside brought a lot of us running to see my beautiful boss sitting in a muddy puddle on the ground, soaking wet, clutching the handle of the empty bucket in one hand.
I tried to be serious as I rushed over, but, aw, he was so cute, I don't think I managed to keep from smiling.
"You hurt?" I relieved him of the bucket.
He shrugged and looked up at me sheepishly. "Just my pride."
The storm front that had been forecasted all week finally hit, and the heavens opened up. We all ran inside the church, and Father Brian called an end to our workday a little before three o'clock.
Jack called for a taxi, and I hitched a ride with him to my and Cat's place.
"Wanna come in?" I was shy about asking.
He peeled off a few bills from his money clip and jumped out of the car. "Yes." He wasn't shy about answering.
Jack had never really dried off from dumping the bucket over onto himself—plus we were both freshly soaked from the downpour by the time we made it through the courtyard to the front door. The wind was coming up some, too, by then.
Cat and Quincy were curled up on the sofa eating popcorn and watching one of the Fast and Furious movies on TV. Their bare legs were entwined, and they didn't even look up when we came in until I called, "Jack's here."
Then Cat jumped up, giving me one of those attagirl looks as she hurried into the bathroom, coming back with two big fluffy towels.
While we dried off, she went to the fridge and came back with a bottle of Heineken that was already sweating in the humid air.
He took it and thanked her.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said to him. "I've got to get this tacky sawdust off me. Going to take a shower."
I could have strangled Cat as she called after me, "Alone?"
* * *
Jack and I didn't hang around long. It was awkward with Quincy there, and I could tell he and Cat were hungry for some alone time.
The storm revved and decelerated, and the rain had gone back to a soft drizzle, and it was romantic walking along Decatur Street sharing an umbrella with Jack. He didn't seem as affected by my close presence as I was by his, but he was a cool city boy, and who knew what got him stirred up? But me, I was so distracted by him I could hardly walk, much less carry on a conversation.
In the once-again rising wind, the river was choppy, and—oh, what a shame—I had to hang on to Jack to stay upright on the lurching flat-bottom boat.
Jack had phoned ahead, so the resort bus was waiting when we docked—part of the perks of traveling with the general manager, I guess. Even so, I looked like a drowned rat when I climbed aboard and sat shivering as the bus rocked and rolled to avoid major potholes and mud puddles. We had to stop once for a family of raccoons crossing the road and three times for gators. The driver even had to get out once and drag one small gator, which had stopped for a snooze, off the road by the tail. So by the time the bus pulled up under the portico, it was almost seven o'clock. Even under the protection of the overhang, the wind howled and pushed at us like the hand of some vengeful spirit. I couldn't help but think of Theodore Elway.
Bolts of lightning filled the darkened sky with fingers of electricity, and the accompanying thunder shook the very ground. Jack and I looked at each other. His eyes were wide.
"Your first summer storm here?" I asked.
His mouth was open. His eyes were wide. He nodded.
I reached up and put my hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Jack. This is nothing, not even a real storm."
"This isn't what you call a 'real storm?'"
My turn to be cool. "This isn't much more than a spring shower. Wait'll we get hit with a cat five hurricane."
&n
bsp; He gulped and just looked at me. "Let's go inside."
All the guests were hanging out in the public rooms of the hotel since they couldn't go outside. It was crowded.
Based on what Jack had learned about the Elway family trust and administrative line of succession, we had decided talking to Rosalyn was a good idea since she'd moved up on our list in Cecile's murder, due not only to her suspicions her stepmother did away with her father but also because she likely resented Cecile being named executor of the trust funds.
But first, I had to get out of my soggy clothes, comb my hair, and put on some makeup—Jack, too. Well, maybe not the hair or makeup part.
We agreed to meet back at the reception desk at eight o'clock to look for Rosalyn.
Back in my room I texted Cat and told her when she came to work tomorrow to leave early since the road was such a mess, and then I raided the minibar for a bit of warmth and fortification from a teeny-tiny bottle of Amaretto. It hit bottom then radiated out, warming me from the inside out. The only clothes I'd brought besides the sundress for the party were a pair of cutoffs, which I threw on with flip-flops and a T-shirt. I hadn't expected the clean clothes I wore from home to get such a drenching.
At a few minutes to eight, I headed out to the reception desk to wait for Jack. The lights flickered, and everything went black. I'm not kidding. For at least a minute, I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. I moved closer to the wall and began to crab-step down the hall, one hand against the wall just in case.
My hand found something soft and warm and fuzzy with a bare spot on one side—a bare spot I recognized because I was the one who shaved all the hair off to ink a happy little gargoyle with big ears and bat wings. "Oh, hello, Mr. Kendrick."
"Is that you, Melanie? What's…?"
"Don't worry. The security lights will come on in a minute, and we'll have full power from the generator in ten or twenty minutes. Best if you just stay in your room unless you hear from management."
He shut the door, and I moved on, finally coming to a stop at the reception desk as the lights came back on, just in time to see Lurch taking a selfie of his grim self with a lit flashlight under his chin.
For the next ten minutes or so, the generator struggled, thrusting the resort into blackness every minute or so. It was unsettling. Creepy. I didn't like it much. The cry of the wind brought banshees and wolves to mind. The enormous crystal chandelier in the center of the twenty-foot ceiling swayed as gusts seeped in through the ancient joints. The tinkling glass sounded like icicles shattering. Sheets of lightning spread over the sky, illuminating the main lobby. I looked up as a horrible shape loomed above me.
My heart jumped into my throat. I threw my hands up in front of my face and shrieked.
The lights came back on, and the carved gargoyle clinging to the central pillar laughed down at me, his big ears and freaky little face ridiculing me. I caught my breath and flipped him off as a firm hand landed on my shoulder, giving me yet another start.
"Ha! Gotcha!"
I turned around to see Penny Devere, hair plastered against her head, water beading up on her shiny face. Her clothes were spotty wet, not soaked through like she'd been outside, but more like someone had thrown a bucket of water on her.
"Miss Devere," I said. "Were you outside?"
She didn't answer right away. "Uh, sure."
But she didn't seem sure.
"It's raining," she said.
Duh.
"Something I can do for you, Miss Devere?"
"For starters, you can call me Penny, and then you can spend a few minutes with me. I'm worried about Rosalyn, and I know you've spent a bit more time with her than the others here."
"Oh." I looked around. The generator seemed to have settled down. The lights had quit flickering and were steady, and there was still no sign of Jack. "Let's go into the salon."
I led her through the lobby to the big room, which was nearly empty except for a couple of women lighting candles around the room. Better safe than sorry, and the warm flickering ambiance gave the big room a cozy feeling.
"Wine?" I asked.
She nodded, and I brought two glasses. One for her, one for me. "So tell me, Penny. What is it you wanted to tell me?"
She looked so serious. "Theodore, Mr. Elway, has been gone almost two years now. Back when he passed, Rosalyn went completely to pieces. She quit eating, bathing, even began to wander the house at night. She swore her father came to her from beyond the veil and told her poor Cecile had conspired to kill him."
According to what Jack told me he learned, Rosalyn wasn't the only one who had her suspicions about the way Theodore Elway died. Even the police had questions about where his heart pills were and why a man in his alleged condition would take Viagra.
"I've talked to Rosalyn," I said. "And I didn't see any signs of lunacy." Unless you counted the fact she believed the ghost of her father murdered her stepmother and that now she was being haunted by the ghost of her stepmother. But I didn't mention that to Penny because I wanted to hear everything she had to say without being prompted.
"It was so bad Cecile, God rest her soul, wanted to have her sent away to a sanitarium for a while—just until she was better, of course."
"Oh, of course."
Jack and Odeo walked in from outside, both carrying flashlights and wearing dripping rain gear. They'd probably been out to check on the generator.
Our eyes met across the room with one of those later, baby looks, and I caught my breath as Penny went on. "Of course, Rosalyn is much better now."
That was when a horrific shriek filled the lobby, drowning out the sound of the wind and the rain and the many voices of the folks gathered in the main lobby.
"Save me! Save me! Don't let her get me. Oh. My God!"
I turned, and the sight that met my eyes was like something out of a Scooby-Doo cartoon. Rosalyn Elway Whitlock, dressed in what I could only call a granny gown, feet bare, hairs in curlers, came racing down the grand stairway, arms flying above her head, screaming her head off.
"She's after me! Cecile's after me."
Yeah. Right. She was much better.
I heard Lurch's long, miserable groan and Jack's sudden intake of breath from behind me.
Before anyone could stop her, Rosalyn blasted across the lobby and out the open front door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack yelled, "What the—" and he and Odeo turned and sprinted out after Rosalyn.
I turned and ran after them, out the front door into the storm. The wind drove the stinging rain into my face as I crossed the driveway onto the muddy lawn, slipping in the mushy soil. The area was well lit, but the wind-driven rain distorted my field of vision until all I could see were blurry apparitions running away from the building toward the pond.
Jack drew even with Rosalyn and caught her by the arm, turning her toward him. She threw back her head and yelled into the night, her voice rising above the sounds of the storm. Then she drew back her free arm and swung. Jack stumbled away, and Rosalyn ran on.
I ran up as Odeo helped Jack to his feet. The three of us took off after her again and, from the lights positioned on the dock pilings, could see her run out midway to where several small boats were tethered.
"Mrs. Whitlock!" Jack's call was swallowed up by the wind. He didn't stop.
Just as the three of us hit the dock, the small boat Rosalyn had commandeered drifted away in the turbulent water and was carried out toward the middle of the pond by the choppy waves.
Jack, Odeo, and I stopped at the end of the dock. Jack and I both cupped our hands around our mouths and yelled for her to come back. "It's too dangerous!"
"Well, hell," Penny's voice was beside my ear. I turned to see her standing behind me under an umbrella held by Lurch, who looked like the ferryman Charon after a dip in the River Styx. Penny was high and dry while the rest of us were beginning to prune. "If I have my guess, I'd say she's losing it again."
Ya think? I wiped the rai
n out of my eyes.
"What's wrong with her?" Jack shouted.
Penny took hold of Lurch's wrist and moved the umbrella closer. "I can't imagine why she'd get in a boat like that," she hollered above the wind. "She can't swim a lick."
"She what?" Jack leaned closer to her.
"She. Can't. Swim."
Jack and I looked at each other in horror, rain running down our faces. We turned and looked out to where Rosalyn's small boat was being tossed around as she struggled to start the motor.
Jack didn't hesitate but went straight to a second small boat and jumped in. When he turned and saw I was right behind him, he reached for the piling where the boat was moored. He held it steady while I climbed aboard, and he then pulled the rope from the piling and bent to the motor.
It wouldn't start either, and while I stood there trying to figure out what to do, he picked up the oars and put his back into taking the boat out into the middle of the pond.
Hmm. "Not bad for a city boy," I said, loud enough for him to hear.
He shouted above the wind. "I have a friend who lives in the Hamptons. Used to take her boat out on her family's private lake all the time."
Her? Dammit! How many exes did he have anyway?
We made a wide turn then headed straight to the middle of the pond. Out in the open, the wind was stronger and blew the rain sideways. It stung my eyes as I peered into the darkness where Rosalyn's blurry figure still crouched in the pitching boat, waving frantically.
Jack and I didn't speak, both of us obviously concentrating on reaching Rosalyn before anything terrible happened.
And we almost did.
We were only about fifteen or so feet away when Rosalyn stood suddenly. The boat, went over, sending Rosalyn into the water head first, arms and legs in the air, her voice rising above the whistling wind.
Before I could think or even react, Jack yanked off first one shoe then the other and dove in. My heart swelled with a sense of admiration, even though it was pounding like a bass drum.
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