by Marta Perry
Not exactly, Catherine thought. Flora was the niece of Henny’s first husband, a stout, motherly woman who’d been a nurse and had done her best to take care of Aunt Henny, she said, during her final illness. Unfortunately, Flora’s motherly instincts seemed wasted on her only child, Bobby Jon, a surly, tattooed teenager.
“Mr. Adams can’t tell us. It wouldn’t be ethical.” The third member of the trio spoke up with an apologetic smile. Clayton Henderson was Bobby Jon’s cousin, but probably neither of them took any pleasure in that. Clayton’s lightweight suit was immaculate in spite of the humidity of the May afternoon, and the stylish cut of his blond hair and his finely groomed hands made him look as if he’d just stepped from an expensive salon. “I may just be an accountant, not an attorney like Cousin Catherine, but I know that.”
So she was Cousin Catherine now. Everyone seemed to be eager to get along with her, probably because as executor of the estate, they assumed she wielded some power. Everyone except Nathan, she amended. He wasn’t any more conciliatory now than he had been at ten. And as for that outrageous claim of his—
Still, he’d been right about one thing. The will was missing, and whatever hope she’d had of winding things up quickly had vanished along with it.
“It not only wouldn’t be ethical,” Adams said. “It would be fruitless. According to witnesses I’ve spoken with, the will Henrietta made in my office wasn’t her last. She made and signed another will just a month ago. If we find it, it is the valid will.”
Flora turned an alarming shade of purple, but before she could speak, Bobby Jon slouched toward the door. “I’m outta here, Ma. I’ll wait in the car.”
Adams stood. “I believe it’s time we all left. Catherine must be tired from her trip, and until she finds the will—one of the wills—we can do nothing.”
His words only increased her headache, but at least the others began moving toward the door. She needed a bit of peace and quiet to consider what she had to do. Call her father, that much was obvious, and tell him her absence would be extended.
Flora paused next to her, looking as if she’d hug her but only patting her arm. “I left some food in the refrigerator, and if you need anything, you call me.” She tilted her head closer to Catherine’s. “You want to be careful, with that Nathan staying so close in the caretaker’s cottage. Maybe I should stay here with you.”
“No. Thank you,” she added. That was the last thing she wanted. “I’ll be fine.”
Flora shook her head, graying locks bobbing. “Just lock your doors.” She darted a glance at Nathan. “That boy can’t be trusted. Your aunt knew that—they fought somethin’ fierce. And she made him stay out in the cottage, not in the house.”
Saying she could take care of herself wouldn’t allay Flora’s fears, but Catherine wasn’t afraid of Nathan. He was annoying, not dangerous.
Finally they were all out. All except Nathan, that is. He left his guarded position by the fireplace and approached her. “I saw dear Flora getting in her two cents’ worth. I trust she warned you against me. Would you like me to put an extra chain on the door?”
“That won’t be necessary.” She hesitated and then made up her mind. “Look, I know you’ve never liked me, and there’s no reason to start now. But I’d like you to level with me. Why did you say you think there’s something wrong about Aunt Henny’s death?”
He frowned, dark brows drawing down over those very blue eyes. His stubble of beard was dark against his tanned skin. “This.” He gestured. “All this mix-up with the wills. I know it doesn’t look like it, but Henny was very organized about business. She wouldn’t have left things in a mess for you to clear up.”
“She may have thought she had time to get things in order.” Sorrow tightened her throat. She would like to have said goodbye. She would like to have done a lot of things differently. “Maybe she didn’t realize how sick she was.”
“Maybe.” But his tone said he doubted it. “Listen—” He touched her wrist, and then released it as if it were hot. “Lock your doors tonight. Put the chain on.”
It was the same advice Flora had given, but she’d been talking about him. Nathan slouched toward the door, the limp a little more pronounced.
“What did you and Aunt Henny quarrel about?” she asked impulsively.
“None of your business.” His smile took the sting out. “And you were wrong about one thing, Cathy.”
She blinked at the effect of that smile. “What?”
“When you said I never liked you. I did. I still do.” He went out, closing the door.
CHAPTER THREE
CATHERINE LEANED HER elbows on the windowsill of the room she’d occupied as a child and looked out at the sultry southern night. After she’d eaten Flora’s sandwiches and had a glass of too-sweet tea, she’d started searching the workroom. She’d gotten through one set of shelves before the exasperating call from her father. How did he expect her to have prevented Aunt Henny’s shenanigans with the two wills?
The glow through the trees had to be Nathan’s cottage. She thought again how odd it was that he lived in the handyman’s cottage of the estate that had been his father’s. Unfair, but surely Aunt Henny had a good reason for that. She’d never been unkind.
Beyond the pale strip of beach, the dark sea moved restlessly. A vague memory of Nathan and a tidal pool teased her mind. She slid into bed, reaching for Aunt Henny’s Bible. She’d brought it from Henny’s bedside table. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she slid back against the pillows. The Bible slid from her hands.
A sharp noise roused her from a foggy, frightening dream in which she struggled desperately toward someone—or was it away from someone? She couldn’t seem to remember. Then she heard the sound again and realized it was the doorbell.
She tried to focus on the clock. Three in the morning, and the doorbell pealed. Something wrong. She stumbled out of bed, dragging her flannel robe around her. She couldn’t find her slippers, so she fumbled her way barefoot to the door.
Out the door into the dark hall she went, feeling as if she waded through waist-deep water. The doorbell pealed again. “Coming,” she muttered, and grabbed the stair railing, feet slipping from hardwood floor in the upper hall to carpeted stairs.
Start down, hurry, bell ringing—something bit into her leg, stinging. She was moving too fast, her body lurched forward, hands grabbing for something, anything to grab on to. She couldn’t catch herself. She was falling, ricocheting down the stairs—
* * *
NATHAN RAN TOWARD the house, the flashlight swinging in his hand, grimacing at the stab of pain from each step. Good thing he’d opened the windows tonight; good thing he was a light sleeper, or he might not have heard that persistent ringing of the doorbell.
Something was wrong. Catherine—he felt a little stab of fear. If something happened to Catherine, was it because of what he’d told her or in spite of it? He stormed up the steps to the door. Whoever had been ringing the doorbell was gone, maybe alarmed at the sight of his approaching light. He pounded on the door with the heavy flashlight.
“Catherine! Cathy, it’s Nathan. Open up.”
Nothing, and the instinct that drove him told him that wasn’t good. He fumbled for the key ring he’d shoved into his pocket, found the door key, hands stiff and awkward as he shoved it into the lock, turned it, pushed the door—
It opened three inches and stopped. She’d put the chain on, of course. He’d told her to. He maneuvered the flashlight through the opening, scanning the hall. The beam hit a stream of pale hair, a white face, a splash of blood on the forehead. Cathy sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, headfirst, limp and still.
“Cathy—” The other doors would be locked, too. He’d seen to that. Without letting himself think too much, he drew back and flung himself at the door. A creak of dry wood, a snap, and he was in, stumbling and nearly falling as his bad leg took the full agon
izing weight of his forward lunge. He sucked in the pain and dropped to the floor next to Catherine, his fingers feeling her neck for a pulse.
She was breathing, thank heaven, and her pulse seemed steady under his fingers. He straightened her legs, then her arms, checking for damage, finding nothing except the cut on her forehead, and that didn’t look deep enough for stitches.
It couldn’t be good that she was unconscious. His stomach twisted at her pallor. He’d have to call the St. James Clinic and hope someone was on duty at this hour. The only alternative was across the bridge to Savannah, and that would take too long. He yanked the cell phone from the pocket of his shorts, but before he could dial, she moaned.
Dropping the phone, he patted her cheek. “Cathy, can you hear me? Open your eyes. It’s Nathan. Look at me.”
As if responding to his voice, her eyelids flickered. Her hand moved, groping for something, and he caught it in his, holding it firmly. “Come on, Cathy. Open your eyes. I promise not to chase you up any more trees.” As an attempt at humor it wasn’t great, but she responded, moving a little, groaning and putting her hand to her head.
“What happened?” The words came out in a slur. She opened her eyes slowly, as if the lids weighed a ton.
Shock stabbed through him. Her pupils were dark, dilated and unfocused. He grabbed her shoulders. “What did you take? Tell me, Catherine. What did you take?”
She shook her head and winced. “What do you mean?”
“I mean your pupils are dilated and you’re clearly out of it. What did you take? Sleeping pills? Tranquilizers? What?” He couldn’t keep the fury from his voice. He’d feel that way at discovering that anyone he knew was doping. It wasn’t because it was Catherine, with her cool eyes, her sharp mind and that vulnerable curve to her lips.
Her eyes shot open. Normally a clear green that reminded him of mountain springs, they were blurred, but full of indignation. “Are you crazy? I don’t take things like that.”
He shook her lightly. “Be honest with me. If I have to take you to a doctor, I want to know what to tell him or her.”
She slapped his hands away, and that return to her usual attitude heartened him. “I am telling you the truth.” She enunciated the words carefully. “After you left, I searched for a while, and then I had the sandwiches and tea Flora had left and went to bed. I didn’t take so much as a vitamin pill.”
The truth sank in then. It was better than thinking she’d taken the stuff herself, but not much. “Wake up, Cathy, and think. You need to be alert, because if you didn’t take something yourself, then somebody—somebody with access to this house—drugged you tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“NO MORE, PLEASE.” Catherine tried to push away the coffeepot.
Nathan filled her mug anyway and then sank down into the kitchen chair opposite her. He’d finally let her stop walking, as much for his sake as hers, since his leg wouldn’t hold him up any longer. But he wanted to be sure that dazed gaze was completely gone. His stomach still churned at the thought of how she’d looked when she’d first opened her eyes.
“Are you coherent enough to talk yet?” He leaned across the table for a closer look at her face. Innocent of makeup, with her blond hair falling to her shoulders instead of fastened back in that sophisticated twist she’d worn when she arrived, she looked more like the little girl he remembered, but with the allure of the grown woman she was now.
“I’m fine.” The glare was convincing enough. “Talk away. This conspiracy theory is yours, not mine.”
He slapped his palm down on the table. “Facts, not theory. Someone drugged you tonight, probably in the food Flora left, since you say you didn’t have anything else.”
“I don’t just say it. It’s true.” The chill in her voice would cool down a gallon of sweet tea.
“Then someone else did it. And tied a nice strong cord across the stairs. And rang the doorbell, to make sure you’d come stumbling down them, too dazed to save yourself.”
He could tell she didn’t like admitting it, but she was too much of a lawyer not to recognize the truth when it stared her in the face. “All right,” she snapped. “Who?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any enemies who are likely to have followed you to St. James?”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a corporate attorney, not a prosecutor who makes enemies.”
“Personal? Jealous ex-boyfriend?”
Her eyes flickered a little at that. “No boyfriend, period.”
“That sounds a little lonely.” That sounded a lot lonely, but he was no better.
She shrugged. “Just take my word for it, okay? If this isn’t a figment of our imagination, it has something to do with Aunt Henny. She’s my only connection to this place.”
“All right. The people potentially involved with Henny’s will are the ones who were here today. Adams, the lawyer. Flora and her disgusting offspring. Pretty-boy Clayton.”
“Not very fond of them, are you?” Her gaze was steady and assessing.
“Not especially. Flora did her best to carry every bit of gossip about me she could find to Henny. Bobby Jon will pick up anything that’s not chained down. And Clayton—well, Clayton and I have never had much use for each other.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
“You mean Adams? He’s honest enough, just maybe getting a bit past his prime.”
“No.” She looked at him. “I mean you.”
Funny, that her doubt could hurt that much. Natural enough, he supposed. He wasn’t anything to her but the vague memory of an oaf who’d teased her as a child. He shrugged. “Well, putting motive aside, I suppose I could have had access to the food Flora left. I knew about it—Flora announced her good deed to everyone. I could have tied the cord, rung the bell, then broken in to rescue you. But why would I?”
“Why would anyone?” She ran her fingers through her hair, wincing a little when they brushed the bandage he’d applied to the cut. “What does anyone have to gain? My only function here is to carry out Aunt Henny’s wishes as expressed in her will. If I don’t do it, the probate court will simply appoint another executor.”
“That’s assuming you find the will. Either will.”
She frowned. “That business with the second will is odd. Adams told me that the witness who came forward is a nurse at the clinic, very reputable. She doesn’t know what was in the will, but Aunt Henny asked her and the gardener to witness it one day when she was doing a home visit.”
“A month ago.” He tried to remember what had been going on at that time. “Henny had had a couple of bad episodes. Flora was always coming in and fixing the most unappetizing food imaginable and lecturing her if she didn’t eat it.”
“I suppose that just made Aunt Henny all the more determined to eat what she wanted.”
Something about sitting there alone with her in the quiet kitchen, the sun brightening the sky, made him ask the question he’d never intended to ask. “Why didn’t you come? You were the only blood kin she cared a thing about, and you never came to see her.”
She jerked back as if he’d hit her, cheeks paling. “Because I didn’t know how ill she was. I saw her in Boston at Christmas and she seemed fine then. Complaining about the cold and saying I’d have to come to St. James for Christmas next time, but feeling well for her age.”
Did he believe her? He wanted to, but—“She wanted you to come, that last month. Talked about it a lot. I thought she’d asked you to come.”
“And you suppose I’d ignore a request like that and then lie about it? How flattering. You don’t know me in the least.” She sat there in an old flannel robe with her hair around her shoulders, but her eyes flashed as if she argued a case in front of a judge.
“Maybe I don’t. But maybe you really are your father’s daughter.”
Her chin came up at that. “I
suppose you know what you’re talking about. I don’t. But there’s something you’re ignoring.”
“What’s that?” It might be safer to quarrel with her than to imagine he felt something.
“According to you, you were as close to her as anyone. If you knew she was sick, knew she wanted me, why didn’t you send for me yourself?”
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE DIDN’T FEEL too bad, considering the number of bruises under her slacks and long-sleeved shirt. Cathy went cautiously down the stairs. The wonder was that she hadn’t broken her neck, falling that far.
She hadn’t seen Nathan since he’d stormed out of the house after their quarrel. She supposed it was a quarrel, when two people were determined to think the worst of each other. She paused at the bottom of the steps, listening. Was someone in the dining room? That sounded like a drawer closing.
She went quickly across the hallway. Bobby Jon turned from the china closet, hand on the drawer that probably held the silver flatware. “What are you doing?” she snapped.
He slouched toward her. “Nothing. What’s it to you?”
“As the executor, I’m responsible for the contents of the house. If you took anything out of that drawer, put it back.”
“Or what?” He came close—so close that she was aware of his wiry strength and the sense of wildness that emanated from him. “You want to search me?”
She stiffened, but before she could reply, Flora bustled into the room, a dust cloth in her hand. “Catherine, there you are. Bobby Jon and I came over to help you look for those wills.” She sniffed. “Not that I believe there ever was a second one.”
“That’s very nice of you.” And do you believe you’re mentioned in one of the wills, Flora? “But I’m afraid that wouldn’t be proper. As executor, that’s my job.”
“But we’re family. You can trust us.” Flora looked ready to take offense.
“Of course, but it’s not a question of that. Mr. Adams was very specific about it.” She ushered them toward the door. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
