Summons From a Stranger

by Diaz, Debra

  SUMMONS FROM A STRANGER

  DEBRA DIAZ

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 Debra Diaz

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your use only. It may not be re-sold or digitally reproduced for use by another person. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Also by Debra Diaz:

  Woman of Sin

  Place of Peace

  Shadow of Dawn

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  The red Mustang convertible swayed on the road, buffeted by a sudden gust of wind. Above it, a dark, perfectly round cloud hovered like a giant mother ship, surrounded by blue sky and trailing wisps of smaller clouds. The top was down on the convertible, to the obvious delight of a fawn-colored poodle that raced back and forth across the back seat, barking hysterically every time she caught sight of a cow, or some equally foreign creature. The countryside facing the two-lane highway was alternately a scene of rolling pastures, or thick woods and kudzu.

  “Be quiet, Honey,” Lindsey said for the umpteenth time, pushing her light brown hair out of her face, and hoping Rachel wouldn’t decide to put the top up and make Honey get back in her pet carrier. But Rachel looked distracted, hardly even aware of the worsening weather, or the hyperactive poodle.

  Something was wrong, and Lindsey was bursting to ask questions. Ever since her parents had dropped her off at Rachel’s apartment for the week (so they could go on a cruise her father had won for an unusually profitable year of selling auto parts), she’d noticed that Rachel was too quiet—almost scared.

  Rachel Evans was a college friend of Lindsey’s older sister, Laura. Laura worked for the government and was in Atlanta for some kind of training course, so Rachel had volunteered to let Lindsey stay with her. She was Lindsey’s favorite of all Laura’s friends—she was friendly but not overly so (which was good because Lindsey considered herself very independent); she didn’t complain about Honey; she was a terrific cook, and she let Lindsey stay up until ten-thirty every school night so they could watch Perry Mason, the one with Raymond Burr. She also had a quirky sense of humor and shared Lindsey’s love of old screwball comedies, like Arsenic and Old Lace—but you’d never know that to look at her now.

  It was a Friday afternoon in late August, school was out for the weekend, and they were off on a mysterious errand that had something to do with a letter Rachel had received last week. All she’d said was that she had to talk to someone, in person, and Lindsey didn’t have to come if she didn’t want to. But on second thought, she’d decided Lindsey couldn’t stay alone in the apartment in the city, because Rachel didn’t know what time she’d get back. And although Lindsey didn’t mind staying alone, she was intrigued by Rachel’s evasiveness and obvious perplexity.

  The giant cloud had grown larger, obliterating all traces of sun and sky. A blast of wind almost shoved the car off the road. Rachel seemed to suddenly realize it had grown darker; she switched on the lights and pressed the button to raise the top. Lindsey pushed back her hair again as the windows came up and air stopped rushing past her ears. Honey decided she’d had enough excitement and sat down, panting. It got still and quiet in the car.

  “So,” Lindsey said brightly, “are you going to tell me what this is all about, or is it a big, dark secret?”

  Rachel glanced in the rear-view mirror and fluffed up her own short, auburn hair. She was pretty without much makeup, her eyes a clear, jade green, her complexion fair with the barest sprinkling of freckles. Today her eyes seemed larger than usual, and her skin paler. She looked at Lindsey and smiled a little.

  “It’s not really a secret. I’m just not sure how much I should tell you. It’s kind of a grown-up thing.”

  Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Come on! I’m almost thirteen years old. I watch TV. Believe me, I know all about grown-up stuff. More than I want to know!”

  “Yes, that’s probably true,” Rachel answered, with a rueful look. “But it’s different when it’s real life.”

  “Well, don’t be afraid of shocking me. Mom records this soap opera to watch at night, and she sometimes lets me watch it with her. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

  “I doubt that. I know your mom, and she wouldn’t let you watch it if it was too bad. But all right—open my purse and take out the letter.”

  Trying to hide her excitement, Lindsey pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and looked at Rachel. “Shall I read it out loud?”

  Rachel nodded.

  The letter had been typed on a letterhead bearing the name of Owen Caldwell, Attorney-at-Law. The shaky, slanting signature seemed to indicate advanced age, or perhaps the illness of the writer. Lindsey read:

  “Dear Miss Evans:

  First allow me to introduce myself. I am Miles Laramore, the husband of Ellen Laramore. I realize this correspondence must come as a surprise to you. I am aware of your mother’s death, or she would have been the one to whom I wrote. I have some matters to discuss with you. I cannot state in this letter what these matters are, but suffice it to say that it is in your best interest to come and see me as soon as possible. Please do not telephone (this was underlined). I shall be expecting you in the next few days.

  Sincerely,

  M. Laramore

  Lindsey raised her eyebrows and put the letter back in Rachel’s purse. “So who is this guy?”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “I’ve never met the man before, or any of his family. His late wife, Ellen, was my grandmother.”

  “I don’t get it. If he’s your grandfather, how come you never met him?”

  “He’s not my grandfather. Ellen had a child that—wasn’t his. He sent Ellen away. That child was my mother.”

  “Oh.” Lindsey considered this.

  “He never forgave her. They already had one child, Philip. Mr. Laramore kept Philip and wouldn’t let my grandmother see him.”

  “Gosh, that’s really sad, Rachel.”

  “I thought that when my parents died in the car wreck, I might hear from Mr. Laramore. You know, a card or something. After all, his son was my mother’s half-brother. But they say he was terribly bitter after he threw Ellen out. He wouldn’t divorce her for some reason, but he never let her come back.”

  “How could he keep her from seeing their son?”

  “I don’t know. He’s rich and influential. And my grandmother was so—ashamed, I suppose, and so shattered, that she didn’t fight him.”

  “How about her baby’s father?” Lindsey asked.

  Rachel looked at her sharply. “My, you are quick, aren’t you? Nobody ever knew who he was. She never told. He never came forward. She died before I was born, but from everything I’ve heard, she was very much in love with this man. I’m not trying to make excuses for her, but I’ve also heard that her marriage to Mr. Laramore was a marriage of convenience. You know, they did things like that fifty years ago.”

  “What’s a marriage of convenience? I mean, I’ve heard of it—I just never knew exactly what it meant.”

  “Well, it was profitable for her and her family because he was so rich, and it was profitable for him because she was beautiful and educated, and knew how to conduct herself in society.”

  “Oh, so they didn’t love each other.”

  “I don’t know.
And I’m not sure how he knew Ellen’s child wasn’t his. Probably they had separate bedrooms or something. I only know that he never forgave her, and she never forgave herself.”

  “Why do you think he wants to see you all of a sudden, after all these years?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I have no idea. I did try to call, even though the letter said not to. This British voice said, ‘Laramore residence, may I help you?’ Then I lost my nerve and hung up.”

  “Maybe he wants to leave you something in his will!”

  “Why should he? After all these years of hating my grandmother, and pretending my mother and I didn’t exist!”

  “Well, maybe he’s curious about you. Maybe he’s gotten over it. Whatever happened to his son?”

  “Philip grew up and got married, had two sons, then died in some sort of hunting accident. Actually, the older boy was a stepson. Philip’s wife had been married before, and her first husband had died. Both sons are grown now—I see pictures of them in the business and society sections of the newspaper once in a while.”

  “You know a lot about them,” Lindsey observed.

  “Yes. I’ve always known about them. I know where they live, although I’ve never driven out there before. I’ve seen pictures of the house. It used to fascinate me—the whole story, the fact that they’re fabulously rich. They live in a completely different world than mine.”

  “Wow.” Lindsey’s eyes glowed. “You never even told Laura about this, did you?”

  “I’ve never told anyone. It wasn’t important. I’m a cousin to Philip’s younger son, that’s all. Not related at all to the older one. And, obviously, they’ve never wanted anything to do with me.”

  Lindsey grew quiet and looked out the window. They were far out in the country now. The houses were few and far between, with large stretches of pasture; silos reared up into the sky; barns and all kinds of farm machinery dotted the hills and flat muddy fields. It was only four o’clock, but it was almost dark.

  “I never thought about the weather getting so bad,” Rachel said worriedly. “I shouldn’t have come today.”

  “Yes, you should have! I have to go back home day after tomorrow.”

  Rachel had to laugh. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Well, it’s just that—nothing ever happens to me. So I get to be along when it happens to somebody else.”

  It’s true, Lindsey thought. She led a satisfying but uneventful life. She wasn’t much interested in clothes and boys and rap music, which vitally interested everyone she knew. Talking on the phone was a bore. The first time one of her friends called on her cell phone at two in the morning, she’d turned the phone off. Even now she rarely turned it on, except when she needed to make a call to her parents. The need for constant socializing exhibited by most of her classmates simply baffled her.

  Lindsey was tall for her age, slender, and agile. She played a good game of basketball in gym class, but had no interest in joining the team. She’d rather read, or watch old movies, or play mystery games on the computer. She tried not to care that a lot of kids at school thought she was weird. Everybody else was so alike, it was nice to be different.

  She actually knew girls who obsessed so much over boys that they were on anti-depressants—in the seventh grade! Didn’t they know it was okay to be by yourself sometime, and read a book, and not have to be talking on the phone twenty-four-seven? That it was okay not to have a boyfriend?

  Due to some unwanted matchmaking by her friends, Lindsey had somehow ended up with a “boyfriend” last year. It had been an embarrassing experience. He’d written her notes, walked her home, tried putting his arm around her—he’d about driven her crazy. She finally told him she “wasn’t ready” for a boyfriend. He didn’t seem heartbroken; in fact, he seemed a little eager to escape what had turned into an uncomfortable situation, since Lindsey’s friends had decided he was all wrong for her and were refusing to speak to him.

  Lindsey told her friends she was better off single, and to leave well enough alone.

  “We’re almost there,” Rachel said absently, glancing down at the illuminated clock. “It’s only about an hour’s drive.”

  “We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes, just about. The original house burned during the Civil War. The family didn’t rebuild until the 1920’s. It’s almost like something you’d see in England—in fact, they have a manor house and property in England. Jonathan lived there for a while.”

  “Jonathan—which one is he?”

  “He’s the older of Philip’s two sons. You remember, Philip married a widow named Isabella, who was from somewhere in Central America, I believe. She already had a young son, Jonathan. Philip adopted him. From everything I’ve read in magazines and newspapers, they were very close. Jonathan was with him when he died in some kind of accident while they were on a hunting trip. Then, for no apparent reason, Isabella took Alan, the younger son, and moved to New Orleans, and Jonathan went away to England.”

  Lindsey had detected the slightest hint of increased warmth in Rachel’s voice when she mentioned Jonathan. She said casually, “I guess you’ve seen pictures of him.”

  “Um, yes.” Rachel slowed the car, flipped up the signal light, and turned off the highway onto a narrow, country road. “When he came back from England last year, he brought his fiancée. She was a model. She’s known over there as being one of the ten most beautiful women in the world.”

  Lindsey raised an eyebrow. Models always looked kind of sickly to her.

  “What else do you know about them?”

  “Not much more. Let’s see—Jonathan’s thirty-four, and president of M. Laramore and Company. His grandfather, that’s Miles Laramore, is chairman of the board. He started the insurance company many years ago, and they have offices in London as well as the United States. Alan, the other grandson, still lives in New Orleans with his mother and his wife. I don’t really know what he does—something to do with real estate. He wasn’t interested in the family business.”

  Suddenly, Rachel stopped the car. The asphalt became a gravel road, and a wooden bridge stood directly before them. Probably because of heavy rains the last few days, the swirling, muddy water of the creek surged almost to the underside of the bridge. Far ahead there was a clearing in the trees, and just enough light left to reveal the pitched, gray-tiled roof of a house.

  Rachel and Lindsey looked at each other. Then Rachel took a deep breath, pressed her foot against the accelerator, and they began to move slowly forward.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A loose board clattered noisily as they crossed the bridge. Almost all the gravel had been washed away from this side of the road, leaving patches of red mud and potholes. Honey slid helplessly back and forth across the back seat as the car rocked over them.

  They turned onto the concrete drive, climbed a slight incline, and unexpectedly the house appeared straight in front of them. It was like a palace, three stories high, made of pinkish brick that seemed to glow in the gray, sullen dimness. The central part of the house was a mansion in itself, but two great wings jutting off either side gave it the appearance of a sprawling resort hotel. The surrounding trees and bushes bent and undulated in the wind.

  The driveway made a circle in front of the house. Rachel stopped the car again and sat there, staring. “What am I doing here?” she whispered.

  Lindsey had to swallow hard before she spoke. “You’re here because he asked you to come. So— so let’s get out.”

  “I want you to stick with me, Lindsey. These people are strangers, and besides,” Rachel gave her a feeble smile, “I’m just a big chicken.”

  “No, you’re not. It took a lot of guts to come here. I guess we should leave Honey in the car for now.”

  They got out of the car, with Honey whining in protest. It was much cooler than when they’d left the city. The wind whipped Rachel’s skirt around her knees as they mounted the steep brick steps of the porch. She was wearing a
n ivory-colored blouse with scalloped embroidery around the neckline, with the softly pleated, floral skirt. Lindsey suddenly felt like a poor relation in her jeans and the short-sleeved, blue tee shirt that everybody said matched her eyes.

  Rachel pushed a button that appeared to be either a doorbell or an intercom. Lindsey half expected someone to speak to them, but no one did. After what seemed a long time, the door swung open to reveal a short, round-faced man with no eyebrows and wide-set dark eyes. His gray hair covered only the sides of his head; the top glistened like a well-polished bowling ball.

  Rachel quickly told him her name and added, “I’ve come to see Mr. Laramore.”

  “And which Mr. Laramore would that be, miss?” he asked, in a clipped, British accent. Jonathan must have brought him from England, too.

  “The old—that is, Miles Laramore.”

  Another gale of wind swept across the porch and the butler stepped hurriedly back. “Come inside, please.”

  They walked into a huge foyer. Stretching her neck, Lindsey saw that the ceiling disappeared into shadows. There were no lights on, though a massive, crystal chandelier hung down on an extraordinarily long chain. Lindsey remembered thinking it strange as they came up the driveway not to see any lighted windows on such a gloomy day. She glanced around at the antique furniture—an old-fashioned settee that looked as though you’d slide right off of it, and a table, coat rack and umbrella stand. A grandfather clock stood on one side of the room, and on the other side, vases on top of marble pedestals were interspersed with large, potted plants.

  Their footsteps were loud on the tiled floor. Directly before them, a wide staircase with gleaming, wooden steps ascended to the second floor.

  Lindsey was awed. She’d never been in such a house, and certainly had never seen a real, live butler (or whatever they were called nowadays). He disappeared into a room on the left. Rachel tried to adjust her skirt and blouse, then caught sight of a mirror on the wall opposite them. “Oh, my hair!” she gasped, and began trying to smooth it down.