Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  * * *

  Six-thirty p.m. at the Pembroke Inn. Kate sat in frigid silence while Abbott made the grand gesture of buying a bottle of champagne—the cheapest on the menu, Kate noted—and Ainsley chuckled at everything he said, as if he were the most entertaining man alive, which made Kate dig her nails into her palms. Ainsley was blond, but Kate could see her dark roots. Kate was barely blond herself these days. Took a lot to keep her hair looking good, so she understood the work that went into it, but Kate didn’t really believe Ainsley had ever been anything more than dishwater.

  Beside her, Lyle was as rigid as Kate, although his knee was bobbing again. His tell. Abbott had apparently tried to get both Lucy and Layla to join them, but it hadn’t happened. That had alarmed Kate. Not that the sisters couldn’t make it, but that Abbott wanted to gather the whole family together. She had the terrible feeling it had something to do with Ainsley . . . and in that she was proved right moments later.

  “I’ve asked Ainsley to marry me,” Abbott said with a proud grin.

  Kate was half-prepared, but Lyle apparently wasn’t. “What?” he demanded, in shock.

  “She’s been unhappy in her relationship—”

  “Very unhappy,” Ainsley put in.

  “—and we’ve been kind of talking about it for a while now.” Abbott looked tenderly into Ainsley’s face and Kate felt bile rise in her throat. “We just realized we wanted to be together.”

  “Love can be so unexpected,” Ainsley agreed, blinking away tears.

  Oh my Lord ...

  Lyle was on his feet. “You’re getting married? To her?”

  “Yes, son.” Color crept up Abbott’s neck, suffusing his face.

  “You can’t.” Lyle’s expression faltered, and he paled as his father’s face reddened.

  At that moment, the waiter brought the champagne, asking everyone how the evening was going as he popped the cork and quickly filled four glasses. He grew aware of the explosive silence that had rendered them all mute, unaware how to deal with it. With a mumbled, “Let me know if you need anything else,” he hurried away.

  Kate reached for her glass. Everyone else slowly followed suit, looking around as if caught in some kind of trap.

  “To the happy couple,” Kate said flatly, raising the flute. “Good thing you’re so in love, because you won’t have any money now that the real will of Lyle Abbott Crissman Jr. has surfaced. Hope you have a little nest egg of your own, Ainsley, because Lyle Abbott Crissman III”—she nodded to her father-in-law—“was cut right out of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  September had traveled to Glenn River to talk to the Mayfields, so she quickly drove to their home, a gray-shingled, two-bedroom post–WWII bungalow that looked in need of a new roof, a new paint job, and a new garage door. The existing door bore a car-size dent in its center and didn’t seem to be on the frame correctly, leaving an angled gap at the bottom. She hoped to make this visit quick because she felt an urgency to hightail over to the Kilgores again. Brianne was at the center of the poisoning somehow. September didn’t want to think of her as the poisoner, but the investigation kept circling back to her. It stood to reason she was the one who bought the cell phone and made the call to the sheriff’s department. September wanted to know why, and she was anxious to find out Brianne’s reasons.

  She knocked on the Mayfields’ front door in the fading light, a cold, moaning wind sweeping around the corners of the house. She could smell the dank, earthy scent of the river the town was named for and shivered inside her light jacket.

  A porch light flared and the door opened. Behind a tattered screen, a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses peered out at her. “Yes?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Hello, Mr. Mayfield. My name’s September Westerly and I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Courtney.” September had considered calling first but had learned that often forewarning was forearming.

  “You with the press?”

  He almost sounded amenable to that idea, so September said, truthfully, “I’ve been on television a number of times.”

  Nodding, he said, “Courtney said you might come by. She’s been interviewed a lot today.” He opened the screen door, inviting her in. “I’m Bob and this is Jan.” He nodded toward a woman with hennaed hair, the bright red suggesting she’d just had it done. September slipped inside and he closed the door behind her.

  “What do you want to know?” Jan asked. She was seated in a high-backed chair, her arms folded over her chest, as if she’d been just waiting for an interview. Behind her, on a desk set up in a corner of a dining room, was a rather sophisticated-looking computer monitor and wireless setup, which seemed a bit out of place in the small space that was stuffed with well-used mismatched furniture.

  Bob caught her look and said, “Courtney sometimes works from home. She’s a data inputter.”

  “Until she and Neil fell in love,” Jan said.

  “Has she been staying with you the last week or so?” September asked.

  “Well, yes . . . she didn’t feel safe at her apartment with that Crissman woman on the rampage, and look what happened!” Jan said, her expression aghast.

  “You’re referring to Neil Grassley’s death.” September didn’t want to put words in their mouths, but she didn’t want to assume anything either.

  Bob said, “Courtney knew he was in danger, and that she was, too. That Crissman woman was after his money, and she would do anything for it.”

  “She had a story to tell,” Jan said. “And she told it. I pray it was enough to keep her safe. We didn’t want her to go back, but she knew it was her duty to get the truth out there.”

  September nodded. Both parents seemed to think their daughter could do no wrong. She tried a couple more questions about Courtney’s relationship with Neil but was met by more glowing reports of their daughter’s loving relationship with a man cut down in the prime of his life by the terrible Layla Crissman.

  “You wait. More’s coming out about her,” Jan said with a knowing nod of her head. “She killed him. Like her sister killed her husband.”

  “We don’t know that one for sure,” Bob said, “but it sure looks like it. The police’ll get ’er, if it’s true.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jan said crisply. “Crissmans have gotten away with murder for too long! You know the history of that lodge, don’t you? People dying. The old man that built that place killed his wife, mark my words. Courtney knows all about all of them.”

  “How did your daughter meet Neil Grassley?” September asked.

  They looked at each other. “At a coffee shop,” Jan said, but Bob overrode her.

  “No, through work. Courtney was a freelancer and he hired her.”

  “But they met first at that coffee shop,” Jan insisted.

  “Courtney claimed she was pregnant on the news today,” September said.

  “Yes,” Jan said after a moment.

  “With Neil Grassley’s child?”

  “That’s what she said,” Bob answered.

  “And . . . hers ... ?”

  “What do you mean?” Bob looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Neil and Layla Crissman used a surrogate for a baby with one of the embryos they created at an IVF clinic. It’s been theorized that your daughter was a surrogate for them with one of their other frozen embryos.”

  The Mayfields turned to each other.

  “That’s a dirty, downright lie,” Bob said.

  “Someone is defaming our Courtney, and I guess we know who that is,” Jan agreed hotly.

  After that, they didn’t want to talk to September any further. The clock on the far wall was climbing toward seven o’clock, so September thanked them and left. The Mayfields were locked and loaded to sing their daughter’s praises and denigrate the Crissmans, no matter what.

  Thirty minutes later, she came through the stand of Douglas firs that led to the Kilgore property, dying sunlight flickering through the thick bran
ches, and pulled up to the house. There was a new dark gray Mercedes in the driveway parked beside the beat-up truck Brianne had arrived in the last time September was here.

  Her stomach growled, and she texted Jake and told him she’d just arrived at the Kilgores and to forget the steak. He texted back: Be careful. To which she returned: Always.

  Then she headed to the door.

  * * *

  Kate’s bald announcement about the will caused Ainsley’s brow to pucker and Lyle to gasp out, “Kate!” in a strangled voice.

  But the greatest impression was on Abbott, whose already red face grew scarlet as he growled furiously, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Kate drank her champagne, aware she’d stepped over a line and starting to feel she’d maybe made a mistake.

  Abbott noisily scooted back his chair and leaned forward, shaking a finger at her. “I always knew Lyle married his mother! You’re just like her! Out for yourself and what you can get!” He slapped his hand at her several times, as if to wipe her away. “You’re not getting anything from the Crissmans! You can’t . . .” He suddenly gasped and fell forward onto his elbows.

  “Dad?” Lyle said, scared.

  “You all right?” Kate asked, also getting to her feet as people at nearby tables turned to stare.

  Ainsley mewed, “Abbott?”

  Abbott tried to stand, then his whole body slumped, and Lyle jumped up and managed to catch him before he toppled onto the floor.

  Now frantic, Kate clawed her phone out of her purse and punched 9-1-1. Though her fingers trembled, she was in control. She had to be. She didn’t want Lyle’s father to die, but if he was going to leave this world, she was sure glad he hadn’t gotten married first.

  * * *

  The Kilgores’ door was answered by Brianne. She stared at September as if she’d never seen her before.

  “Hi,” September said uncertainly from the porch. “I wanted to talk—”

  “You’re the ex-cop,” Brianne said in her flat way. She was holding on to the door as if she might slam it shut.

  “Yes, that’s right.” September hadn’t really said she was an ex-cop to Mona or Brianne, so someone else had informed her.

  And then Jerome Wolfe’s tall form appeared in the back room, standing in about the same spot September had on her previous visit. “Mrs. Westerly,” he said in his trademark mocking tone. “How nice of you to drop by.”

  Brianne turned toward him, smiling slightly, as much emotion as September had ever seen on her face.

  “Were you just in the neighborhood?” Wolfe asked her.

  September felt herself still inside, and she silently warned herself to be wary. Wolfe walked down the hall toward her, his face in shadow, until he was standing beside Brianne, who looked somewhere past his left ear, still smiling, about as close to eye contact as September had seen her make as well.

  “I was following up on some information in Wharton County,” September said, thinking hard. She didn’t want to talk in front of Wolfe, yet she suspected whatever was said would be related to him by Brianne, no matter if September asked her to keep it private or not.

  “Trying to clear Lucy Crissman’s name, or is it Layla now?” Wolfe asked. His demeanor was friendly, but September had to step carefully.

  “Lucy Linfield,” Brianne said.

  “I stand corrected. Lucy Linfield.” He smiled down at Brianne, whose eyes were momentarily all over him before she threw a look at September.

  The dog, Duke, made his way slowly toward them, toenails clicking on the old hardwood floor.

  “Could I talk to you alone, Brianne?” September asked.

  “What do you want?” she asked, frowning slightly.

  “I’ll just mosey back down the hall,” Wolfe said.

  September watched him leave, thinking he’d dropped all pretense of the polished businessman he’d projected at the benefit. He wanted Stonehenge and the Kilgores’ property and he didn’t care what anyone thought any longer. And she’d learned from Lucy that his animosity toward the Crissmans ran deep.

  Brianne acted like she was going to follow after him, but September said, “I know you made that call to the sheriff’s station. I have a witness.”

  Brianne’s eyes flew all over the place, searching for something to land on. She was half-turned away from September, who went on, “You know who poisoned John Linfield.”

  “No, I didn’t see them.”

  “Did you bring the mushrooms to the benefit?”

  “No.”

  “Did you bring them for someone else?”

  “No.” Brianne was squirming, now facing down the hall to where Jerome Wolfe stood, feet apart, arms over his chest, waiting for September to leave.

  “But you know who had them there?”

  “I didn’t see who harvested them. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  September seized on that. “But you know who harvested them ... from the big oak?”

  “You’re trying to trap me. Jerome is right.”

  She turned away, and September said a bit louder, “You need to tell someone, Brianne. Deputy Morant . . . Martin? He’s a friend of yours? Tell him who took the mushrooms from the big oak. It’s not safe to keep that secret. Brianne . . . ?”

  Duke whined at September, his head swiveling to watch his mistress head down the hall. Jerome Wolfe said something softly to Brianne that September couldn’t hear, then he came to the door again, blocking her view of the interior. September told him, “Tell her to talk to Deputy Morant about the angel of death mushrooms.”

  “You think she poisoned John Linfield.” His tone was skeptical.

  “I think what she knows is dangerous, and she should tell everything to the police. Tell her that, Mr. Wolfe. Convince her.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think; I think you need to look at the Crissmans. Probably Lucy, as Linfield was her husband. Or maybe Layla. The ‘black widow sisters.’ Brianne Kilgore wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  * * *

  Carrying their leftover pizza wrapped in aluminum foil in one hand, her cell phone in the other, Lucy followed Evie back inside the house. She’d texted Layla but hadn’t heard back from her sister. Evie was holding the door from the garage open for her; it was on a spring lock that automatically closed, and it never failed but to bang into her when she was entering.

  “Thanks,” she told Evie, who skipped on ahead of her.

  Lucy was just putting the pizza into the refrigerator when her cell rang. Her pulse jumped, and she glanced at the screen, expecting Layla, half-hoping for some reason it was Dallas, which was ridiculous, but seeing it was her brother.

  She almost didn’t answer. She’d ignored earlier calls. But there was no point in putting off the inevitable, so she clicked on. “Hey, Lyle,” she said without much enthusiasm.

  “Dad’s had a heart attack,” Lyle said soberly. “He’s in an ambulance heading to Laurelton General. Kate and I are on our way. . . .”

  * * *

  Layla chewed on an open-faced slice of grilled cheese toast, the first thing she’d eaten all day. Off and on, she’d checked her phone for anything about Neil’s death, but apart from Courtney’s libelous comments, there wasn’t more information. That knowledge had encouraged her until she’d tried to go down to the Starbucks and found a news team waiting outside her building. They’d descended on her like jackals and she’d done an about-face and raced back up the stairs and into her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  She hadn’t texted Lucy back yet. She’d just felt too harassed and lethargic and sad. Neil was gone. Dead. Likely killed by someone ...

  She picked up her phone and saw the screen register a call from Lucy. Layla hadn’t turned her ringer back on, but now it seemed like she should. She flicked the sound back on at the same time she answered the call.

  “Hi,” she said. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to—”

  “Layla, Dad’s had a heart attack,” Lucy clipped out. “I’m on
my way to Laurelton General now. Kate and Lyle are probably already there.”

  “What . . . what?” She felt numb, sick, disbelieving.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “I, uh, yes. I just turned my phone back on. I’ll catch an Uber. They’re probably gone by now.”

  “Who?” Lucy asked, confused.

  “Reporters. Hanging outside my door.”

  “Oh . . . ugh . . . no, Layla, stay put. Let me see what the deal is. I’m closer to the hospital and I got Bella to sit for Evie, so I’ll be there soon.”

  “I can battle my way through,” Layla assured her, feeling better now that she had a plan of action. “But Dad . . . ? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Stay put,” she advised. “Give me half an hour to figure things out. I’ll call you . . .” And she was gone.

  * * *

  Lucy entered the hospital ER and, as she crossed to a desk the first person she saw was the orderly who’d come to the car when she’d brought John in, hoping to get him to see a doctor. The man did a double take on her as well, then came her way.

  “Are you looking for me?” he demanded.

  “No. My father’s here. He had a heart attack, and my brother called me.”

  “Oh.” He seemed nonplussed.

  “Lucy!”

  She looked up and saw it was Lyle, Kate beside him in the waiting room, both talking to a man in a white coat. A doctor? Lucy swept past the orderly toward her family. “How is he?” she asked.

  Lyle said, “Okay . . . it’s not too bad. A light one, that’s what they said.” Nervously, he smoothed his hair from his forehead.

  “Abbott’s going to be fine,” said Kate but glanced away.

  Lucy stared at them both, wondering what it was they weren’t saying. “Okay, well, then, I’m going to text Layla and tell her not to come. The press were camped outside her place today.”