She loosened her grip on the amazingly strong hands at her neck and yanked the tote from her shoulder. Clutching the heavy braided strap with both hands, she aimed in her mind’s eye as best she could and swung upward with all the strength her adrenalin-filled body had. The wind whooshed over her head as the purse arced through the air seeking the target behind her. She heard a soft thud and her throat was suddenly unbound. Janet snatched herself away and whirled on her attacker. Drinking in large dollops of air, she planted her feet squarely on the sagging planks and aimed the purse again. Sebastian, still reeling from the first blow, caught the full impact of the swing and stumbled sideways.
Remembrances of riddles and roses and little crushed figurines streaked across her mind, and Janet believed herself to be teetering on the brink of delirium. She made a dash toward the stumbling figure before her and swung the purse one more time. Her blow glanced off Sebastian’s shoulder and caused her footing to become unstable. In an effort to check her balance, Janet reached forward and secured a grip on Sebastian’s hair. Stunned, he took a step backward, leaving Janet holding a massive handful of copper-colored curls. A wig! He had been wearing a wig. He looked comical as he stood there, his onion-sized head covered by sparse tufts of hair: little balls of lint. And her mind called up another picture: the photograph of Morgan. The least likable, in her opinion, of all the Lancasters.
Sebastian covered his face with his hands, cracked open the edges like double-doors and gave a wide grin.
“Ollie, ollie, oxen free.”
“All this time you’ve been the mysterious caller.”
Like a court jester, Sebastian danced a little jig.
“Riddle me earth. Riddle me sky. Now’s the time for you to die.”
“Etienne? You’re Etienne. Not Stephen.”
“Etienne.” He shrugged. “Sebastian.” An impish grin passed over the contorted face. “Does it matter if we’re both the same?”
“But who’s Sebastian Massila?”
“A character I played many times on the stage,” he said. “A person thought to be dead.” He smiled. “But he wasn’t. Even when he reappeared after he was presumed to have drowned, his identity remained unknown. You don’t know your Shakespeare, do you? Even after I gave you the famous quote about attaining greatness. Have you never read Twelfth Night? I left clues all over the place. Don’t you think it fitting that I chose one of Shakespeare’s comedies?” He smirked. “Mama was right, you are a stupid girl.”
“I may not be up on my Shakespeare but I’m not stupid,” Janet said. “Nobody knows everything, Etienne. Not even you.”
“No?”
“Don’t be such a stuck-up,” she said. “It doesn’t become you.”
Sebastian threw his little head back and laughed.
“Become me? Why you little twit. I could best you at anything you care to name.”
“Oh? Do you know how to paint, Sebastian? How to blend an autumn sky? How to balance lines that give a tilt to a young girl’s head so she’s listening to something only she can hear? Do you know how to create songbirds at twilight?” Janet jabbed a foot forward. “Well, do you?”
“Believe me, I’ve seen your work and it’s nothing to get excited about.” He waved her away with a flick of his hand. “But Shakespeare, my dear, there was genius. Leaving all that aside, I still say you should have figured it out. Especially after you found the picture.”
“The picture?” Janet’s mind was still jumbled.
“We knew you had the album that contained the torn photograph. Having you find the second half was just a matter of moving you around and have you hit your mark.” He grinned. “You were the player and therefore predictable. I, on the other hand, was the director and had all the power.” He snapped his fingers. “You saw what I wanted you to see.”
Janet shook her head. “You staged the whole thing—even the cashbox.”
He gave a satisfied laugh. “I nearly froze my butt off waiting for you and Chelsea to leave Prescott’s apartment so I could put everything back like I found it.” He snorted. “Your writer friend’s a slob.”
Janet stared at the menacing figure in front of her and marveled at the way she had allowed herself to be manipulated.
“And the incident on Laurel Mountain,” she said. “That was my father’s old car from the carriage house. But you failed to put the tarp back. You must have been in a big hurry.” She smiled. “See, even you can make mistakes.”
“I knew the keys were in the ignition.” He wagged a finger at her. “I know all the secrets of Heather Down. I’m a very clever fellow.”
“But I heard Stephen’s voice on the phone, and again tonight in the house.”
“Thanks for the compliment. I’m flattered. I always did have a flair for voices.”
“And it was you all the time—not Stephen.”
He made a generous bow. “Like I said: clever.”
“And you bugged my house and left the rose. But you couldn’t have been the one who smashed my crystal collection. You were at the movies with me.”
He sneered. “That was Mama’s touch, and I must say, rarely has she enjoyed anything more. She helped—whenever the situation called for it—to make the phone calls. We really had you going, didn’t we?”
Clearly he was enjoying himself and totally absorbed with his accomplishments.
“Mama wasn’t sure we could pull the whole thing off. She didn’t know just how good an actor I am. After Hilda was dispensed with, the rest—as we say in the business—was a walk-on.”
“Dispensed with?”
“Eliminated. She was supposed to have fallen from the upper stacks, but you messed that up.” He grinned. “You do have a knack for getting in the way.”
“So I wasn’t the intended victim with the car? It was Hilda, and all the time I thought she took a hit meant for me.”
“Don’t be a martyr. She was always the target, and you have to admit she wasn’t much of a sacrifice.”
“But she was a person with feelings.”
“Was she? I doubt it.”
“But why kill her?”
“To make room for me, you stupid girl. Mama wanted to kill you right off, but how could we explain you dying so soon after the old lady kicked the bucket. So we decided that I would come to work at the library and buy some time until we could decide how best to get rid of you. After all, we knew about the terms of the will and time was moving on.”
“But Mr. Chandler recomme—” Janet stopped. “No he didn’t. Ethan Chandler didn’t even know you. He said as much to Chelsea and me, only I wasn’t quite listening.”
She shivered.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Sebastian said. “Things could have gone on for a little longer. I was beginning to enjoy the whole production and even ready for an extended run. But you had to turn wimpy and decide to bring in the uniforms and badges.”
“You heard!”
“Well of course I heard. I heard everything.”
“If it’s the money and property you want so badly, you can have it. You can have everything.”
“Sorry. That’s not the way it works.”
Janet shook her head.
“I can’t believe any of this. And you killed Hilda on purpose. Murder—that’s what it was.”
He grinned. “Like I said, little loss. And now it’s your turn.” He took a menacing step in Janet’s direction. “Only you’ll fall from this platform and break your pretty neck. But I’ll mourn your loss when I claim the full inheritance. Too bad you won’t be around to see what a fine performance I’ll turn in.” His smile was smug, satisfied. “I’m a good actor. I really am.”
Janet’s foot inched backward and her heel clunked down off the cutaway section of the platform. With a low growl Etienne lunged. Just as his hand reached for her, Janet hurled the wig beneath his feet, twisted to one side, and flung herself away from the drop-off and toward the safety of the solid wall. She turned just in time to see the mop of curls tangle in his feet. H
e clutched a handful of air as he pitched headlong off the ledge.
She crept to the edge and peered over. Through the mist, she could see his body lying twisted on the splintered planking that covered the hole to the underground shaft. She had to get to him before he plunged all the way to the bottom.
Janet eased back down the treacherous stairway and ran to where Etienne had landed. She heard him groan.
“Don’t move,” she begged, groping for his flailing arm to ease him off the shattered boards. “If you move you’ll dislodge the covers. Etienne, please don’t move.”
He growled, a hurt-animal sound that reminded her of Isabella. His arm stretched forward, groping for her.
“Please, Cousin Etienne, be careful.”
His fingers—those long, clever fingers, closed like a vise around Janet’s ankle and gave a vicious yank. She stumbled and nearly lost her footing as she fought for balance to keep from tumbling on top of him. Wrenching her foot sideways, she broke his grip. He inched toward her again, his crab-like motion only causing the wooden slats supporting him to separate further. Just as she jerked back, the boards gave way and Etienne disappeared into the maw of the earth.
She spun from the black depths of the drop and bolted from the tower. Retracing her steps along the path, the mist closed in around her and clung like a hundred clawing fingers. Inside the perimeter of the yard she made a sharp right and circled around to the carriage house side of the mansion. With her head lowered she didn’t see the figure that stepped out of the fog, directly in her path. Her body slammed into the solid wall of human flesh. That Isabella had somehow escaped from the locked bedroom was her only thought, as she felt strong arms close in around her.
“Oh God,” she moaned, and sank to the ground.
NINETEEN
The grass was tall and wet and it chafed Janet’s face and tangled her hair. Someone was standing over her. She could hear voices, muttering voices, scrambled and unintelligible. Then she felt hands reaching down, clutching at her. In terror she curled her body into a tight ball and tried to burrow deeper into the icy grass. But the hands persisted, and she was lifted and cradled against a hard chest. Janet moaned and tried to push away but the arms holding her were strong and determined.
She floated in and out of a jigsaw existence: a long-whiskered rat demanding that she find her way through the maze and answer the riddles, white roses edged in blood, a wild-eyed witch ordering “Kill the Unicorn!” Her fantasy world receded as she felt herself being lowered onto a soft cloud. She thought how peaceful and safe to be allowed to remain in this realm of nothingness. But bright lights flashed and interrupted her tranquility. Then came a single voice—a stern voice, easily understood.
“Janet. It’s Stephen. Come on now, open your eyes and talk to me.”
Janet’s eyes slitted against the harsh light. She laid an arm across her forehead to cut the glare. Then she was able to peer from beneath the protective barrier to make sure the voice did indeed belong to Stephen. It did.
Like flash cards, the nightmare returned. She jerked upright on the sofa and grabbed his arm.
“Etienne’s in the shot tower. I’m afraid he might be dead.”
Stephen put his arm around her.
“I know,” he said. “Sheriff Wiley and Doctor Darby are out there now.”
Janet’s eyes swept the room and up the stairs. “And Aunt Isabella?”
“An ambulance took her away after the doctor sedated her. She was pretty well out of it, cursing her mother, calling for her father, and laughing uncontrollably.” He picked grass and twigs from Janet’s hair. “She must’ve scared you to death.”
Janet gave a shaky laugh. “She nearly did.”
Stephen looked angry. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”
“Because I didn’t know what was going on. Besides, I wasn’t sure you weren’t behind it.”
His brown eyes glinted. “If I hadn’t come over tonight determined to have it out with you, I never would’ve seen the note.” He smiled. “You can imagine my surprise when I read that you were coming up here to meet me.”
“That’s what I thought I was doing.”
“I know. That’s when I figured I’d better hightail it up here and find out for myself what was going on. Thankfully Sheriff Wiley was in his office and he—”
“Did I hear my name?” the Sheriff called from the doorway.
Janet looked at him, her eyes anxious. “Etienne?”
“He’s dead, Janet.”
“I tried to keep him from falling into the shaft, but I couldn’t—” Her voice broke.
“We had to lower an EMT member down to bring him up. Doc says the fall broke his neck.”
Janet buried her face in her hands.
Stephen pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.
“Sssh,” he whispered into her whirlwind hair. “Sssh.”
“Will you kids be okay?” Elijah Wiley asked. “I need to get back to the office and start on the mountain of paper-work.”
Stephen nodded. “You go on, we’ll be fine.”
The sheriff tugged his hat down onto his head and adjusted the holster at his side. “It’s times like this when I don’t like my job very much,” he said. “Come next spring I’m going to retire. And I swear to God, this time I mean it.”
Janet smiled. “Don’t do that, Lije. We need you too much round here.”
The sheriff looked at Stephen and shrugged his shoulders. “She always could wind me around her little finger.”
“Me, too,” said Stephen.
Elijah Wiley grunted. “Drop by sometime tomorrow, Janet. I’ll need to get a statement.”
Janet nodded. “Thanks for everything.”
The sheriff extended his big, weather-beaten hand to Stephen. As they shook, he nodded toward Janet.
“Take care of her,” he said. “We like her a lot around here.”
Stephen smiled. “I like her a lot too.”
After the sheriff had gone, the house was quiet. Stephen continued to hold Janet in his arms. She had no desire to be any place else.
“We’ve got to stop bumping into each other,” he said.
In spite of herself, Janet laughed.
“I love you,” Stephen said.
“You may not after you hear what I’ve done. I broke into your apartment, Stephen. Chelsea and I—”
“So it was you. I knew somebody had been in while I was away, but I would’ve never figured you and Mother Hen—you’re both so upstanding and respectable. I guessed it was a couple of kids looking for a place to make out.”
“And there’s much more—”
Stephen touched a finger to her lips.
“I’m sure there is, but not tonight, Janet. Not tonight.”
Then he kissed her.
And Janet, with all the trust she so desperately needed to give to him for safekeeping, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
About the Author
Poet, short-story writer, novelist, Mary Ann Artrip published her first poem in 1989. Since then she has read from her work on PBS and has been featured in national and regional publications. Being a devotee of O. Henry and Hitchcock, her writing tends toward the unexpected. Blending surprise endings with love of the mystery genre, her first novel, Remember Me With Love, was published in 1994 and won the publisher’s mystery/suspense Golden Book Award and after being out of print for more than a decade was reissued in 2007. Her second novel, Moonshadows was published in 2005 and nominated for the Appalachian Authors Association Book of the Year. In 2006, Surrey Square came out and was a 2007 IPPY award winner.
Mary Ann didn’t start writing seriously until later in life. “I wasn’t ready in my tender years,” she says. “But I’m terribly envious of those who could, of those who had the talent and the enormous energy good writing requires. For me personally, I had to remember the words of Solomon: To everything there is a season. So I had to be patient and allow myself time to mell
ow, to be warmed by the sun of passing summers, and to ripen slowly. The trick was to strike a fine balance between ripe and rotten. No easy thing for a writer to do.”
Author’s Website
www.maryannartrip.com
Moonshadows Page 21
