The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  "You lost your family didn't you, when you were very young," she'd continued. Jill had stared, wondering who could have told her that. "And you have never quite gotten over it. But you will." KC had smiled serenely at Jill. Then her face fell. "But not soon."

  Jill couldn't remember the rest of the reading, except that it had been as accurate. KC had mentioned that there was a studio available next to hers when she realized Jill was looking for a new apartment. Within a week, Jill had moved in, and they had quickly become friends.

  "Why don't you try to see a doctor tomorrow in London?" KC asked now with real concern. "You know how I hate drugs, but in this case, Jill, you shouldn't have thrown that prescription out."

  Jill guessed she had told KC about tossing the Xanax; she didn't remember. "I don't know. Maybe I will. I'm so tired. I can't remember if I made arrangements for Ezekial."

  "Oh, you did. You asked me to look after him and I brought him to my apartment. He's underfoot all the time. He misses you."

  Jill smiled slightly. "And how is he getting on with Chiron?" Chiron was KC's wiry mutt. The mixed terrier had been named after an asteroid.

  "He is bullying poor Chiron," KC said with a laugh.

  Jill suddenly imagined the scenario and she laughed, too. It was the very first time she had laughed in days and it felt wonderful. But then she thought about Hal and a woman

  named Kate Gallagher, about Alex Preston and the Sheldons, and she was grim once again.

  KC said, "What's happened?"

  Jill sighed. KC was also very astute—perhaps even psychic. Her intuition could be unsettling at times. Jill kept telling herself it was all coincidence, but on some deep inner level she knew that KC had some kind of extraordinary, extrasensory talent. "I don't know what I expected, but Hal's family isn't very friendly. Of course, they're all in shock." She did not tell her that they all blamed her for Hal's death, it was a topic she just could not raise. "No one believes that Hal and I were serious. I think they see me as some kind of fling. Because I'm this poor, working-class dancer."

  "That sucks," KC said vehemently. "So Hal's family isn't as nice as he seemed to be?"

  Jill had been thinking about her encounter with Alex. But KC's choice of words disturbed her. "Why did you say that?"

  "Say what?"

  "You said, as nice as Hal seemed to be."

  KC was silent "It was just a slip of the tongue, I guess. I only met him three times. I didn't really know him."

  Jill was on alert. "KC, is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Of course not," KC said, but she was a brutally honest person, and Jill knew she was lying. "Tell me about Hal's family," KC said quickly. "I have to go in a minute."

  Jill tried to clear the confusion from her mind. She was too tired to think straight; there was no reason KC would deceive her. "They're not nice people," she finally said. 'They're so rich you would not believe it. This house is a mansion, KC, and it's across the street from Kensington Palace." She stopped, about to blurt out that Hal would have been insane to try and bring her home. But she was afraid of what KC might say or, worse, see.

  "Wow," KC replied. "So Hal really was loaded."

  "Yeah." Jill hesitated. "KC, something odd happened." She proceeded to tell her all about the photograph of Anne and Kate.

  "Oh, my God!" KC cried excitedly. "Jill, this cannot be a coincidence. Can you imagine if that woman in the photograph is your grandmother or something? Wouldn't that be cool? I mean, this family thing is so important to your Hfe! Maybe Hal was supposed to lead you to Kate."

  Jill stared at the phone. Now she was filled with unease. "I had better go," she said abruptly. "Thanks for taking care of Ezekial. I really appreciate it."

  "Did I say something wrong? Jill, wait. I know you won't believe this, but the Universe has a plan for you, and it wasn't Hal." KC's tone was so earnest and fervent that Jill would have smiled under other circumstances.

  But she didn't. Instead. Jill stiffened. It was a moment before she could speak, Hal's image engraved on her mind— but not as he lay dying, as he had been, handsome and happy and alive. "Not tonight. Please I've had a rough day. The Universe—God—whatever—isn't fair and this isn't just. Because Hal was good and he should be alive and we should be together and frankly, I can't figure out how God could let this happen!" Jill.reached for her second scotch but she had already drunk it.

  "Oh, Jill, He has His reasons," KC said earnestly. "We are all on a Path and ..."

  "I know, I know, the Universe has some magical plan for everyone," Jill said. She turned and yanked a tissue from the box that was beside her on the bed.

  "There is a master plan," KC said fervently. She did not hesitate. "I tossed some cards for you, Jillian. I couldn't help myself."

  Jill tensed. This was what she had wanted to avoid. "I'm really tired," she began.

  "Jillian, two cards keep coming up. You must be careful."

  Jill sat up straighter. Unlike her neighbor, she was not a complete romantic fool. She did not believe in fortune-telling. Not really. But KC's track record was spooky. She had to ask, "Which two cards?"

  "The Fool and the Tower," she said quietly.

  "Care to explain?" Jill asked tersely, not liking the sudden change in KC's tone.

  "The Fool is a young man. He's skipping along quite happily with his little dog and his backpack. But he isn't watching where he's going. He is about to step off of a cliff, Jill." KC paused.

  "What does this mean?"

  "It's very clear. You must look before you leap."

  Jill wet her lips. "I think I've already taken the free fall," she murmured, thinking about arriving at the Sheldons' home.

  "The Tower is medieval; perhaps once it belonged to a castle. It's made of stone, and it's been struck by lightning. It's in flames. People are Jeaping off of it in terror."

  The hairs prickled on Jill's nape. "I don't understand." But she did.

  "The Tower stands for upheaval, for destruction. And usually the upheaval happens at the speed of light."

  Jill was silent. "Maybe the Tower refers to Hal's death," she finally said.

  "No. I don't think so." KC paused. Then, "I am certain this is referring to the future."

  Jill disagreed, but did not say so. Her life had been destroyed by Hal's death, and it would never be the same again—if that wasn't upheaval, what was? KC was wrong. The Tower referred to the present, not the future.

  KC spoke again. "Trust me, Jillian, and trust the stars, they're your allies."

  "I don't think so," Jill said.

  "There is a reason for everything," KC said, but gently.

  "No. No, there isn't."

  "Let me draw one card. To clarify things." KC sounded insistent.

  "What's the point?" Jill asked, but she heard her shuffling. There was no point, because her situation was clear. Hal was dead. She was alone. And she had killed him through her neglectful driving, by God.

  But then she thought about his dying words, and she thought about Kate Gallagher. And she heard the sound of the shuffling cards stop. Silence was on the other end of the line.

  "What is it?" Jill whispered.

  "There is a woman. It could be you, but I don't think so.

  because it is the Empress. She is very powerful, surrounded by wealth, and she is very creative, perhaps in the arts."

  "I'm in the arts."

  "She might be pregnant," KC said slowly.

  Jill stared at the phone.

  "She is usually pregnant. Jill, you're not pregnant, are you?"

  "No," Jill said on a deeply drawn breath. She'd had enough of fatalism for one night, and as she clenched the phone, sweating now, she thought it would be unbearable if she were pregnant. "I've got to go. I'll be home in two days. Thanks for everything."

  "Jill! Be careful. And I'll see you when you get home."

  Jill couldn't speak. She hung up quickly. Hal was dead. She could not possibly be pregnant.

  Jill tried to
recall when her last period was, but her memory was failing her now. God damn the Tower, she thought bleakly. And damn the Empress, too!

  And she wasn't pregnant. She couldn't be. It would be the crudest possible twist of fate. She had thought that life could not get worse, but if she was carrying Hal's baby, it most certainly would.

  Jill cradled her head on her arms, staring up at the ceiling. She was buzzed from the scotch amd exhausted and so terribly scared and finally, thankfully, numb. And as exhaustion finally got the best of her, as she suddenly, finally fell asleep, her last thought was to wonder if there was any connection at all between her and Hal and a woman named Kate.

  And she dreamed about a damp, dark, crumbling tower from which there was no escape.

  Jill entered the Anglican church where the funeral service was being held, trailing after the Sheldons, her shoes echoing on the centuries-old gray stone floors. Like most if not all of the churches in England, this one belonged in another place in time—it was probably five or six hundred years old. The walls were rough stone, the windows archaic stained glass, the pews scarred and well worn. Most of those pews were already filled with the family's friends and associates.

  Jill felt claustrophobic.

  She continued down the aisle, behind Lauren, who held a handkerchief to her face. She was crying, but silently. Her husband, a tall, thin man with beautiful dark shoulder-length hair, had his arm around her. They had met briefly at the house. Jill had gathered that he was an artist and that their marriage was fraught with tension.

  Thomas walked in front of them, his arm around his mother, Margaret, whom Jill had not yet been introduced to. The few glimpses she'd had of Hal's mother outside of the church had shown her that Margaret, who was at least ten years younger than her husband, was sedated and severely stricken. She had not seemed to be aware of Jill's presence, which was probably for the best.

  Jill tried not to look at Thomas's broad shoulders. It was not an easy task, because he was directly ahead of her. The nod he had given her earlier that morning had been very curt. His feelings toward her had not changed since last night.

  Jill stared past him. Alex and William were walking side by side in the very front of the family, Alex gripping William's elbow quite firmly, as if afraid his uncle would collapse. The older man looked very worn and fatigued. The bags under his eyes seemed more extreme today than they had yesterday when Jill had arrived. She had not a doubt he had cried all night.

  Alex and William took their seats in the first pew. Thomas was literally holding Margaret upright as he seated her beside her husband, then sat down himself. He did not look up at Jill, who slid into the second pew alone, behind the family, beside strangers who turned to glance at her.

  Jill clutched her hands so hard she hurt herself. Then she caught Alex's eyes as he glanced back at her. He didn't smile; neither did she. He shifted, facing forward again.

  If only the service was over. Jill closed her eyes. This was the singular most horrible moment since Hal's actual death. It felt endless. And to make matters worse, she could not forget her conversation with KC last night. And she heard someone weeping behind her, the sobs muffled but anguished.

  Jill glanced around. Directly across the aisle a petite woman was sobbing into a handkerchief, her long shoulder-length aubum hair hiding her face. An elderly man had his arm around her. He was old enough to be her father.

  Jill stared uneasily. The woman was young, and her fitted black jacket and skirt hugged her lush body like a glove. Jill knew her. But that made no sense, because Jill was quite certain that they had never met.

  Jill suddenly realized that many people in the crowd were staring at her. She tensed, looking around, but as she did so, men and women quickly looked away from her, avoiding her eyes. There was no mistaking the fact that her presence was causing an odd and strong reaction in the crowd of mourners.

  Oh, God. Too late, Jill realized that everyone must know that she had been driving, that the accident was her fault, that she had killed Hal. That was why everyone kept staring. There was no other possible reason.

  Jill had never felt worse. The guilt overwhelmed her. It seemed to choke the very breath out of her.

  It crossed her mind that she could get up from her seat and flee the church and all of these people witl^^ their accusing stares—flee and never come back.

  But she loved Hal. She had to say good-bye.

  And as the minister took the pulpit, Jill heard whispers behind her. Someone said, "Is that her?"

  Jill froze.

  Someone else replied, "Yes, that's her. The American girlfriend, the dancer."

  Jill's shoulders felt like two plywood boards. She did not move. She prayed that the service would start. But the first speaker said, too loudly, "But what about Marisa?"

  Marisa? Who was Marisa? Jill turned, staring at an elderly woman in a black Chanel suit, a beautiful black hat, and an extreme amount of very large, very real, diamond jewelry.

  The woman smiled automatically and turned her head, gazing across the aisle. Jill did not smile back. Her stomach was curdling with dread. She followed her gaze.

  And was faced with the petite redhead in the skinny black suit. The woman had stopped crying. She was staring straight

  ahead. She was one of the loveliest, most feminine women Jill had ever seen, with a perfect porcelain complexion and dark red hair. And it was then that Jill recognized her.

  From the photograph in Hal's bedroom, the one of him and her on a ski slope.

  Jill's heart fell, hard. She failed to breathe.

  The priest began to speak, his somber voice cutting through Jill's shock. "My dear, dear friends," he began, his voice deep and resonant, "we are gathered here today under tragic circumstances, to lay the recently departed soul of Harold William Sheldon to rest."

  Who was Marisa? What had that woman meant? Jill fought for air. She was going to fall apart. Oh, God. This was what she had been secretly afraid of, losing it in front of everyone, all these strangers, Hal's family—Thomas, Alex— everyone who despised her. She could not take any more!

  Do not think about the other woman, Jill told herself. Hal loved you. This isn't what you think it is, it is not. That woman in the Chanel suit had meant something else—but Jill was too distressed to comprehend what that meaning might now be.

  Jill gripped the arm of her pew. In front of her, Margaret Sheldon was sobbing now, but softly. Thomas held her close. Directly in front of Jill, Lauren began to weep into her hands and then on her husband's shoulder.

  The service had become a nightmare. A nightmare that she must escape.

  Jill closed her eyes, ordering herself to breathe deeply and evenly, but she was feeling both dizzy and faint now, and was horrified because she did not think she could cope for very much longer. She opened her eyes, only to meet Thomas's gaze. He was still holding his mother, and instantly he looked away from her. The accusation in his eyes had been unmistakable.

  And Jill heard the minister saying, "One of the kindest, most compassionate, and bravest souls I have ever known."

  Brave. Had Hal been brave? He had been thinking of running out on her after his marriage proposal. Because he was scared to bring her home to this. To these people, this

  lifestyle, this arrogance and condescension. In that moment, Jill could not blame him for losing his courage. His family was cold and hostile. Oh, God. They hated her, but even if Hal were alive, they would have hated her; and Hal had known it.

  Jill clenched her fists so tightly that her own short, manicured nails dug into her flesh, about to get up and run from the church. Hal had not been brave. She felt like the worst kind of traitor for harboring such a thought; she wished, desperately, that she had never had it. And she felt the stares again, knew she was being watched. She could not go. Everyone was already talking about her, and if she did, the gossip would become far worse. Jill stared straight ahead out of blurry eyes.

  Marisa was the kind of woman Hal could have b
rought home. Once glance had told Jill that—she was elegant, well bred, she came from money. It was as painfully obvious as the fact that Jill was from a lower income working-class background, in her trendy rayon and lycra clothes, her thrift-store and flea-market bargains. Even her haircut was too way-out for this uptown crowd.

  And most important, she was a dancer. It had been her passion since she was six years old. What had Hal been thinking?

  Thomas was speaking. Jill jerked at the sound of his sandy voice, because she had not seen him rise and take the pulpit. Focusing on him now was a relief—it might even be her salvation.

  He had taken the podium, which he gripped with'both strong hands. A signet ring with a blood-red stone winked from his right hand. Jill couldn't help noticing that even in his pitch-black suit and with his bloodshot eyes, he had an inescapable magnetism; he still looked good.

  "My brother Hal did not deserve to die," he began, and instantly he had to stop, mming his face aside, fighting for control.

  Jill stared, softening a bit toward him. He might despise her, but he was also aching over the loss of his brother. Last

  night she had told Alex that they should be comforting one another. She still felt that way.

  But with Thomas as angry as he was, he was not about to let her console or comfort him, or even share their grief and anguish.

  "Hal did not deserve to die," Thomas repeated, pausing, jaw flexed. His gaze moved over the crowd, making eye contact with it. He did not glance at Jill.

  "No one deserves to die," he said harshly. "But my brother was so young, he was only thirty-six, and he was also one of those rare souls that the world needs so much more of." He inhaled. "He did not deserve to die. I still can't understand why this happened." Thomas stopped. And suddenly he was looking directly at Jill.

  Jill stared back at Thomas, fists clenched. Any compassion she had just felt for Thomas vanished. Had he openly condemned her for murder, he could not have made his feelings more clear. And he had openly condemned her—no one present could have mistaken his meaning, or misunderstood the accusation in his eyes. How could he be so cruel?