Summons From a Stranger

by Diaz, Debra

  “You didn’t make it to the store?” Isabella asked.

  “The bridge is gone—completely washed away,” Mr. Caldwell answered, taking off his glasses and rubbing them on his shirtsleeve. “And of course the road ends about a mile away in the other direction. I’ve been trying for years to get Mr. Laramore to cut a road through those woods.”

  “All this wealth, and there’s no way to get out of here!” Charlotte exclaimed. She and Alan had precarious seats on the old-fashioned settee.

  “What do you mean—until morning?” Isabella looked anxiously at Jonathan.

  “There’s a fog coming in, and no one can go anywhere until it lifts. Obviously, since the bridge is out I can’t make it to the store or the highway. Tomorrow I’ll walk through the back woods to the Stanton’s. They’re about three miles from here.”

  “Has she said anything else?” asked Mr. Caldwell.

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head. “We’ve been sitting here the whole time. I think she’s pretending to be asleep because she doesn’t want to talk to us.”

  Reba came from the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve made coffee, Mr. Laramore,” she said quietly. Then she frowned. “Did you move the portrait you left sitting there earlier?”

  Jonathan looked quickly at the spot where he’d left the portrait of Ellen Laramore. It was gone. His eyes moved relentlessly to his brother.

  “Well, don’t look at us,” Alan said. “We’ve been in full view of Hensley, Barlow—anybody who walked by.”

  “Has anybody moved it? Did anyone see it when we searched the house?” Jonathan asked.

  No one replied. He looked at Rachel, and she shook her head.

  Jonathan seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’ll ask Barlow about it. Right now we’ve got to get Brianna upstairs. Alan, Gerard—I’ll need your help.”

  Gerard, who was still sitting at the top of the stairs, got to his feet. “It seems to me,” he said, with an air of importance, “that you or someone should take a chance on walking somewhere tonight to get help for Mrs. Laramore. Suppose she has damage to the brain, or internal bleeding.”

  “Hensley doesn’t believe there’s anything life-threatening,” Jonathan replied. “I’m telling you that with this fog rolling in, it will be impossible to go anywhere. You could wander around for days in those woods, once you’ve lost your bearings. As for direct access to the highway, the only way is to cross the creek. And since the bridge is out, that leaves swimming. It’s flooded its banks; it’s raging like a river and carrying all sorts of debris. If I thought her life was at stake, I’d chance it. As it is, I don’t think it’s necessary to take that risk.”

  “What about that fishing boat we used to have?” Alan asked.

  “It’s useless. The current is too strong.”

  “He’s doing the right thing,” Isabella said sharply. “Alan, please help your brother take Brianna upstairs.”

  Alan righted his slouching posture and pushed himself off the settee. Gerard came reluctantly down the stairs.

  “I’ll carry this end if each of you will take a side,” Jonathan said, positioning himself behind Brianna’s head. “On three.” He counted, and the men lifted the makeshift stretcher and started up the stairs.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Isabella asked smoothly, and without waiting for an answer led the way to the kitchen. Charlotte followed; Rachel looked inquiringly at Lindsey and they both followed Charlotte. Reba, Barlow and Mr. Caldwell were already seated at the table, cups steaming in front of them. Reba rose quickly and poured four more cups.

  “What time is it?” Charlotte asked, yawning.

  Mr. Caldwell glanced at the large, digital clock on the wall. “One-ten.”

  Lindsey was unaccustomed to drinking coffee, but she was feeling sleepy and knew she didn’t want to miss anything. They’d all probably be up the rest of the night, so a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt. Rachel put a big dollop of cream in both their cups.

  Lindsey added more sugar until she had it just right. Jonathan came into the room, with Alan behind him. This time Barlow got up and poured more coffee. There wasn’t room for everyone to sit, so Jonathan stood behind Lindsey. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded, making her ponytail jiggle. He removed his hand and drank his coffee.

  Lindsey thought suddenly of that moment when they’d heard Brianna’s scream, and she had rushed out of the room and run into Jonathan. What had Jonathan been doing there? Had he simply been the first to arrive at “the scene of the crime”?

  Then she remembered what he had said to Brianna. “If you do anything, you’ll be sorry”—or something like that. But he hadn’t meant it! Jonathan would not have heaved his fiancée down the stairs. Lindsey was sure of that. Still, a little voice in her head reminded her, his grandfather had said there was something not “right” about Jonathan. Something had happened to him after his father died.

  I’ve got to find out what happened to Philip Laramore, she thought. She still believed Rachel had been the intended victim—but there was always the possibility she was wrong. If so, they’d have to find out who may have wanted Brianna dead. There was no shortage of suspects. It seemed everyone in the family disliked her, and Lindsey really couldn’t blame them!

  She would never tell anyone what she’d overheard between Jonathan and Brianna. She knew Jonathan was innocent. And for his sake, she was going to try to find out exactly what happened. Brianna might not regain consciousness for a long time, or she might not even know who had pushed her. Perhaps it was someone with strong arms, and she only thought it was a man.

  Reba’s voice broke into her train of thought. “Miss Evans, I told Miss Lindsey that your clothes are ready. They’re just across the kitchen—there’s a changing room beyond that, in case you’d like to get dressed.”

  Rachel set down her coffee cup. “Yes, Reba, thank you very much. Lindsey, are you coming?”

  She rose gracefully, somehow looking elegant even in the blue bathrobe. She and Brianna would have resembled each other in the dark. Rachel and Lindsey walked through the laundry room, picked up their clothes, and went into the room beyond.

  Lindsey had grown quite comfortable in the clown pajamas, but she was glad to get her jeans and tee shirt back on. Rachel pulled on her skirt and blouse. They were both barefoot, as they’d been when they ran out to see what had happened. Rachel had red polish on her toenails.

  They went back into the kitchen. Jonathan was still standing, leaning back against the kitchen counter while he sipped his coffee. He was frowning a little, as if deep in thought, but his face cleared when he saw them. Lindsey noticed how his eyes lingered on Rachel just a fraction longer than necessary, and thought, Um-hum, with great satisfaction.

  Those two were meant to be together. It was destiny. It was Catherine and Heathcliff, without all the drama. They might not know it yet, but Lindsey did. And she had to find a way to prove that Jonathan was innocent of attempted murder.

  Everyone seemed to get up from the table at once, and began drifting toward the foyer. Lindsey said, “I’ll be right there—I just want to put some fresh water in Honey’s bowl.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the living room,” Rachel answered. “Don’t be long.”

  Barlow disappeared up the back stairs. Reba was rinsing cups and saucers and stacking them in the sink. As Lindsey took Honey’s bowl to the washroom next to the back door, she saw that Mr. Caldwell was still sitting at the table—just as she had hoped he would be.

  “Mr. Caldwell, how long have you been the Laramores’ lawyer?”

  “Oh, for quite some years, young lady. Why do you ask?”

  She tried to sound casual. “Do you know what happened to Philip Laramore?”

  Lindsey saw him glance quickly at Reba, and it seemed that some silent communication flashed between them. It was an odd impression, and she wasn’t completely sure that she hadn’t imagined i
t.

  He replied slowly, “It was one of those freak accidents. A terrible tragedy. He’d been hunting. Jonathan was with him.”

  “Was he killed by his own gun, or did—”

  “Oh, he wasn’t shot. He—”

  “Mr. Caldwell. I need to speak with you.”

  It was Alan who had so rudely interrupted. Mr. Caldwell excused himself, and promised to talk to her later. When Lindsey set Honey’s bowl down, she saw that Reba had glanced at her and seemed to be on the verge of speaking. Lindsey stood still and waited.

  Reba went back to rinsing dishes, but she said, “My room is just at the top of those steps, so I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Jonathan. Is it true he’s not going to marry Miss Rowan?”

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s a good thing,” Reba went on mildly, but with a steely look in her eyes. “A very good thing.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lindsey asked.

  “She’s not the person he thought she was,” Reba answered, without looking up. “You heard him mention his dog that got poisoned. She did it. I’ll always believe she did it. I saw her with that dog earlier in the day. She never would have anything to do with him before.”

  Lindsey was appalled. “Didn’t you tell Jonathan about it?”

  “Of course I did. He wouldn’t believe it. He probably never even questioned her about it. Until later, that is. I think he began to see things about her. But she could tell a lie and look you straight in the face.”

  “Like what?” Lindsey asked, fascinated.

  Reba pursed her lips. “I suppose you’re old enough to know. Brianna told Miss Charlotte that Mr. Alan had made a pass at her. But Mr. Jonathan did get that one straightened out quick enough. Made Brianna admit she’d made the whole thing up.”

  “What for?”

  The housekeeper shrugged. “Attention. Or just to stir things up. That’s how she is.”

  “But why would she want to kill Jonathan’s dog?”

  “They’d brought him over from England with them. Jonathan was real fond of him. And she didn’t like that.”

  “You mean, just because she was jealous?”

  Reba looked at her grimly. “Let’s just say, there’s probably nobody in this house who wouldn’t have a reason for wishing some harm to come to her.” She said again, “Nobody.” Then she dried her hands and went up the stairs to her room.

  Lindsey stood thinking for a moment. Brianna, or Rachel? Who had the attacker thought he was pushing down the stairs? And had he or she intended it to be fatal?

  She shook her head and automatically looked around for Honey, then remembered they’d left her locked in the bedroom. Suddenly she didn’t like being alone in the vast, shining kitchen. She hurried out into the corridor, and all but ran past the dining room and the other adjoining rooms. Her bare feet pattered on the hardwood floors, softened when she hit carpet, then pattered again. It was so quiet; where was everybody?

  She had reached the foyer and was standing uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs, when she was gripped by a strange feeling, and almost felt her hair stand on end. Someone was standing nearby. Someone was watching her. And she’d no sooner realized that than all the lights went out.

  Lindsey clutched at the banister as though it were a life preserver. Her reason tried to say, Be calm—you’re in no danger, nobody wants to kill you. But it’s hard to be reasonable in the pitch black where a near murder just occurred, and somebody is close to you and isn’t saying anything.

  She heard a whisper of movement. It was enough to send her bolting in a blind panic down the hall. She felt her way along the walls until she came behind the stairs. There was a doorknob. She twisted it, thinking she’d found a closet, and tried to squeeze herself inside. Her hand encountered a large, wobbly object, and she realized the room was too small to accommodate even her slight frame. Leaving the door open, she fled further down the hallway and darted into one of the larger rooms. She recognized a solid, black object as a big desk, and knew she was in the study. The window seat!

  She could barely make out the curtains at the windows. Soundlessly, she scurried toward the window seat, opened it, and got inside. She had to lie on her side and bring her knees up almost to her chest. Her heart was hammering so hard she couldn’t hear anything. She brought the heavy top down as softly as she could.

  You’re being ridiculous, she told herself, but that didn’t stop her teeth from chattering. Again she thought, Nobody wants to kill me. I don’t know anything about what happened to Brianna, so nobody has any reason to want to hurt me.

  Her heartbeat began to slow a little. She thought she heard a quick rush of footsteps go down the hall, and her pulse quickened again. But a long time went by and she heard nothing else. Then a little beam of light shining through a crack in the wood told her the electricity had come back on.

  Still, she waited. She remembered suddenly a poem she’d read in one of the books she was always checking out of the school library, about a young bride of long, long ago who had teasingly hid from her husband in an old chest. The impulsive young woman hadn’t been able to get it open—and it was in a huge castle or something and the groom couldn’t find her, even though he had everybody in the place searching. Many years later, the brideless groom—or somebody—had opened the old trunk to find a skeleton wearing a wedding dress.

  A cheery story for a kid’s book, Lindsey had thought at the time.

  What if she couldn’t open the window seat? Only the prospect of suffocating gave her the courage to raise the lid, barely enough to peek out.

  There was no one in the room—unless they were crouching behind the desk. She waited a little longer, just in case. Finally she stood up and began to step out of the window seat, when she realized something was stuck to her foot.

  It was a photograph. She peeled it away from her bare skin and looked at it.

  The Laramore family looked back at her. She recognized the man in the middle as a much younger Miles Laramore. He had a look of disapproval on his face. On his left was Isabella, a lovely young woman in her twenties. On Mr. Laramore’s right was an attractive young man she didn’t know, but who must be Philip Laramore. Beside Philip stood a boy of about five, smiling broadly into the camera. It had to be Jonathan. Next to Isabella was chubby Alan, scowling.

  Lindsey climbed out of the window seat and turned to look back inside to see if there were any more photographs. There weren’t—just some old ledgers and yellowed newspapers. Completely forgetting her conviction that she’d been under a secret and malevolent surveillance, she glanced through the newspapers to see if any of them contained an article about the death of Philip Laramore. All the headlines seemed to indicate they were just society pages; here and there was a mention of one of the Laramores attending some party or business function.

  “Lindsey! Lindsey, where are you?”

  Startled, Lindsey dropped the photograph and newspapers back into the window seat and closed it. She ran toward the doorway, just as Rachel entered it.

  “Oh, here you are!” Rachel put her hand to her forehead in relief. “Lindsey, you’ve got to stop wandering off!”

  “I didn’t wander off, I was looking for you! And then all the lights went out.”

  “I know. I was in the restroom. I sort of panicked and stayed there until the lights came back on. I thought you were in the kitchen with Reba, and then I couldn’t find you.”

  “Where was everybody else?” Lindsey asked, now remembering her feeling of being watched.

  “I thought they were in the living room, but I can’t be sure. Why—did something happen?”

  Lindsey shook her head. She couldn’t be sure of anything, either.

  “Lindsey! Rachel!”

  It was Jonathan, coming swiftly down the corridor toward them. Behind him she could see the rest of his family, peering at them with avid curiosity. Perhaps they’d been hoping Rachel had been murdered this time.

  “I don’t like
either of you being isolated from the rest of us,” Jonathan said.

  Lindsey was remembering something else. She glanced up and could see the open doorway of the closet beneath the stairs. “There was something in there,” she said, pointing excitedly. “It felt like a portrait.”

  Jonathan turned and walked toward it. Everyone else crowded in around him. He reached inside, tugged on a cord, and a bare light bulb came on to reveal the familiar, ornamental picture frame. He dragged it out, and someone gasped.

  The portrait of Ellen Laramore had been viciously slashed to pieces.

  Only someone filled with hate and rage could have done it, only someone who hated Ellen Laramore, or what she stood for. Hardly recognizable, it was a mass of mutilated canvas.

  There was a stunned silence. Then Charlotte announced flatly, “There’s a crazy person with a knife running around this house. Alan, I want to go home.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  No one answered. Rachel stared at the portrait with dismay.

  After a moment, Charlotte said again, “Alan…” But Isabella reached out almost absently and squeezed her arm, and Charlotte lapsed into a fuming silence.

  “Who could have done this?” Isabella asked. “It was a beautiful portrait.”

  Jonathan remained silent, his expression somber. He slid the frame back into the closet, turned off the light, and closed the door. Then he said, “Barlow must have forgotten about this closet when he helped search the house. But it’s too small for anyone to hide in. Obviously, sometime between supper and the time Brianna fell, somebody came down here and slashed the portrait, then for some reason decided to hide it. To answer your question, Mother, I have no idea who that might have been.”

  Isabella said, “Whoever pushed Brianna must have done this first.”