Summons From a Stranger

by Diaz, Debra

  Something about that statement seemed to prod Lindsey’s brain, like someone knocking patiently on a door. An idea was trying to occur to her, but she couldn’t just then figure out what it was.

  “Let’s go back to our room, Alan,” Charlotte suggested. “And lock the door.”

  Alan looked at his brother, shrugged a little, and he and his wife turned and walked away. Isabella hesitated for a moment, and then apparently decided to return to her room as well. Jonathan let them go. He said, after a moment, “Rachel, I’d like to talk to you. You, too, Lindsey.”

  He led the way into the study. Lindsey went and sat on top of the window seat. Jonathan and Rachel stood close to the desk.

  He began, “I’m sorry about everything. I hope the electricity going off didn’t scare you.”

  Lindsey thought petrified was a more apt word, but she just shook her head. Rachel gave a soft laugh.

  “It was a little scary. But I suppose it’s not unusual with this kind of weather.”

  “And about the portrait—there’s a miniature of it somewhere in the attic. I’ll find it and have another copy made.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it is.” There was a pause. Jonathan gestured toward a chair. “Will you sit down for a moment?”

  Rachel sat in a wingback chair, and he took a seat opposite her. “Lindsey, come and join us, please.”

  She walked over and settled on a chair close to Rachel.

  “I don’t want to say this, but I have to. Rachel, I believe you’re in danger. I want you and Lindsey to stay together for the rest of the night—no more running around the house after your dog, Lindsey. I want you to keep the door of your room locked.”

  Rachel widened her eyes. “You mean you think Charlotte’s right? There’s an intruder, a crazy person? Why would they be after me?”

  He sighed. “No. I think that whoever attacked Brianna thought she was you. What happened to the portrait makes me almost sure of it. The portrait was defaced because of you; someone is angry because you’re here, and you’re here because of Ellen Laramore. Do you see the connection?”

  Lindsey nodded eagerly. That was exactly the thing that had been trying to suggest itself to her.

  But Rachel wasn’t so sure. “How do we know that Brianna didn’t just fall? Maybe she only thinks someone pushed her.”

  Jonathan answered slowly, “Because of the force with which she fell. It was hard enough to do considerable damage. It’s not easy to break a leg. And the way she screamed—I think someone meant to kill her.”

  Rachel whispered, “And you’re speaking of someone who’s in the house right now. One of your family, the French guy, Barlow, Reba?”

  “I don’t think she saw who pushed her, or she would have said so when she was conscious for that one moment. So yes, it could have been a man or a woman.”

  “And they want to kill me because I’m to inherit everything.”

  “Exactly. No one really believes you’re going to give it up.”

  Rachel looked into his eyes and asked quietly, “Do you believe me?”

  Something hovered in the air between them, and he answered without hesitation, “I do, yes. But I don’t think anyone else does.”

  “Why do you believe me?”

  Lindsey had been forgotten, but she didn’t mind.

  “Because I feel that I—know you. I’ve learned to tell the difference between an honest person, and one who’s only pretending to be.”

  A moment passed. Then Rachel took a sudden breath, as though she’d been holding it, and looked at Lindsey.

  “Well, then, I suppose we’d better go to our room.”

  “I’ll go up with you. I’m going to sit with Brianna for a while. I want to make sure she’s safe—in case I’m wrong.”

  Once again they all trudged up the long staircase. Outside the bedroom door, Jonathan said, “It’s difficult to say these things about members of my own family. I don’t suspect my mother—anyone else, though, I just don’t know. I think anyone’s capable of murder, if the motivation is strong enough.”

  “No,” Rachel answered. “I think you’re wrong about that.” She ushered Lindsey into the room, closed the door, and locked it.

  Honey was lying on a towel, and eyed them reproachfully.

  “Well, you heard him,” Rachel said lightly, going to sit on the bed. “What do you think?”

  Lindsey got on the opposite bed and sat cross-legged, facing her. “I believe Jonathan’s right. And I think once we get home you’re going to need police protection until they catch whoever is trying to kill you.”

  “Lindsey! You watch too much TV.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. A feeling of unreality touched her briefly; she couldn’t believe they were sitting here discussing attempted murder—Rachel’s attempted murder! Apparently Rachel had the same feeling, for she said, “This is just crazy. I don’t believe someone mistook Brianna for me.”

  “Then how do you explain the portrait?”

  “The two incidents could be completely unrelated.”

  “Jonathan’s smart. I’m sure he thought of that, too. But he felt sure enough about your being in danger to warn you about it.”

  “You like Jonathan, don’t you?”

  “Um-hum,” Lindsey said noncommittally. She took a sudden interest in her fingernails.

  “What do you suppose Mr. Laramore meant about something being wrong with Jonathan after his father died?” Rachel asked.

  Lindsey’s mind went suddenly back to that moment in the shed, when he had looked like a stranger, when there had been some emotion in his face of greater intensity that just being startled by a bolt of lightning.

  What had caused it, and what did it mean?

  “I don’t know,” she said. She didn’t add that she was going to try to find out.

  They both sat for a while in silence, deep in thought. Then Rachel plumped up her pillow and lay back on the bed. “It’s still several hours till morning, Lindsey. I’m going to rest. You can leave the light on if you want to.”

  Lindsey, too, stretched back and lay there, still thinking. There must be some way to find out if Brianna could be the intended victim, and not Rachel. What would the police do?

  Well, they would search the victim’s room, for one thing, to find clues as to who her enemies might be. That would be the starting point. And she still had to talk to Mr. Caldwell about Philip’s accident.

  She tried to think back to what she had seen in Brianna’s room. Everything had been in such mayhem, it was hard to remember anything in particular. But she did recall that, while hiding in the closet, she had stepped for a moment on some kind of box, before lifting her foot off of it. She’d never even looked down to see what it was.

  Lindsey glanced cautiously at Rachel. She had turned over on her side, facing the wall, and seemed to be asleep. Lindsey could sneak out of the room and lock the door behind her, except she wouldn’t be able to get back in. And she couldn’t go anywhere without locking the door, leaving Rachel asleep and unprotected—except by a happy poodle who loved everybody.

  Maybe there was a key somewhere. Lindsey silently slid back the drawer of the bedside table. There were pens and a writing tablet, but no key. She slid off the bed and looked in the dresser drawers. Nothing but a hairbrush and some bobby pins. She took one of the bobby pins, in case she had to pick the lock. (She hadn’t read all the Nancy Drew books for nothing!) Although how one went about picking a lock she had no idea. The armoire wouldn’t open without pulling hard, so she gave up on that.

  Examining the writing desk, she discovered the top lifted and folded back to reveal a lot of drawers and slots. When she opened the second drawer, she saw a ring with two identical keys on it. She tiptoed to the bedroom door, opened and locked it again, and tried the key. It worked. Elated, she took one key off the ring and returned the other one to the desk. She put the key in her pocket, took one last look at Rachel, and quietly l
eft the room, locking the door behind her.

  Lindsey paused for a moment, having a momentary recollection of her fright just before the lights went out. But there was no reason why anyone should be stalking her! Still, she took a good, long look around the hallway before venturing toward Brianna’s room.

  Before she got close to it, though, she heard the door open and knew someone was coming out. She dropped to the floor and crawled under an antique sofa. She saw a man’s black-clad legs and black shoes walk by. Jonathan! What was he doing in Brianna’s room? He was supposed to be with her, in the room adjoining his grandfather’s.

  Maybe he, too, had been looking for something.

  She stuck her head out from under the sofa and watched him turn the corner. Now he was going toward Mr. Laramore’s room.

  Lindsey sneezed violently, and waited for a nerve-wracking moment to see if anyone had heard her. But Jonathan didn’t reappear. She clambered out from under the sofa, hurried across the hall, and went into Brianna’s room.

  It looked, and smelled, just the same. Honestly, Brianna made work hard for detecting purposes. She looked over the articles on the dresser; amongst all the clutter were smears of makeup and spilt lotions. She opened the drawers. Scarves, handkerchiefs and underthings had been shoved in higgledy-piggledy. (Another interesting phrase that occurred to her; she’d read that somewhere.)

  She remembered the box in the closet. She went toward it swiftly and picked it up. She was disappointed to see that it was only a shoebox, with a pair of sandals inside that had apparently never been worn.

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she’d know when she saw it, she supposed. She felt sure it was useless to hope that Brianna had kept a diary. One had to be disciplined to keep a diary, and that was a word that didn’t seem to describe Brianna.

  Lindsey knelt down and looked under the bed. Good grief! There were clothes and purses and discarded hosiery stuffed everywhere. She was beginning to think Brianna had a mental problem. A cluttered room means a cluttered mind, Lindsey’s great aunt, Kit, used to say.

  She saw another shoebox. She pulled it out and it, too, contained an unworn pair of shoes. But there was a piece of paper lying inside the box. Lindsey got up and sat on the bed. She unfolded the paper and saw that it was an IOU, written in someone’s personal handwriting. It read simply: IOU $1,000. It was signed, but for the life of her she couldn’t make out what it said. It looked like a doctor’s prescription. She took the shoes out of the box, and at once more slips of paper fell out of one of the shoes. They all said the same thing, and there were about ten of them.

  Lindsey thought hard. Were these made out to Brianna, meaning that someone owed her money? Why would she hide them in a shoebox? Her first thought was of Alan Laramore and his gambling debts—but she thought it unlikely Brianna would have loaned him money. On the other hand, she had certainly taunted him about his gambling at supper tonight—or last night, rather. Was that because he had borrowed money from her?

  She put the IOUs back inside the shoe, replaced the shoe in the box and slid it back under the bed. She stood up, and froze as the door suddenly opened.

  Gerard Barrey stood in the doorway, staring at her. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

  “I—I—what are you doing here?”

  “I saw you come in,” he replied, with obvious irritation. “I’ve been waiting for you to come out. I fail to see what business you might have in Miss Rowan’s room.”

  “Well,” she said, “I fail to see what business it is of yours.”

  And with that she swung her ponytail and marched out of the room. She knew he followed her. She stood next to her bedroom door and stared at him until he passed by and went toward his own room. He gave her a single, curious look as he went.

  Lindsey’s pulse was racing. She quickly unlocked the bedroom door and slipped inside, relocked the door, and put the key back in her pocket.

  Rachel still slept. Lindsey lay back down and tried to relax. It was no use; she was too wound up, and all that caffeine wasn’t helping any. A half hour went by as she tried to make sense out of the IOUs. She considered creeping out again to find Mr. Caldwell and ask him some more questions about the Laramores, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard a man’s excited voice in the hallway.

  “Jonathan! Jonathan!”

  She opened the door as Rachel woke and got up from the bed. It was Mr. Caldwell. Jonathan was running down the corridor from his grandfather’s room.

  The lawyer said, “I happened to look out the window and the floodlights are on. They’re trying to launch that fishing boat! They’ll all be killed!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jonathan said at once, “Who is it?”

  “Alan and Charlotte and that tutor!”

  Jonathan hurried into Rachel and Lindsey’s room, went to the window, and pulled back the curtains. Lindsey and Rachel went to the other window. Sure enough, bright lights shone down on the creek, where wisps of fog curled and writhed within the beams. Charlotte already sat in the fishing boat, and Alan and Gerard were pushing it backward into the fast-moving water.

  “Mr. Caldwell, go and get Barlow. I know where I can find gloves and a rope, but tell Barlow to bring more. It might take all of us to get them back.”

  He rushed out, followed more sedately by the attorney. Rachel and Lindsey watched from the window. Alan and Gerard had succeeded in getting the boat into the overflowing creek, sliding it down the little hill from which Lindsey and Rachel had almost fallen. Both men had thrown themselves into the boat before it careened into the rushing, tumbling water. They took the oars in their hands and tried to control it, but it merely spun around in a circle and seemed on the verge of dashing away into the blackness and fog.

  It was raining again, though not so hard. Lindsey saw Jonathan race toward the bank with a rope in his gloved hands. He braced himself beside a small, crooked tree that grew over the edge of the embankment, and threw the rope. Charlotte took the oar from Alan and continued to row frantically as Alan tried to catch the rope. It fell short. Swiftly, Jonathan pulled it back, took off one of his shoes, and tied it to the end of the rope. Again he threw it, and this time Alan caught it.

  “Somebody had better help Jonathan,” Rachel said tensely. “That current will rip his arms out of their sockets.”

  Jonathan had dug his feet into the mud. Alan held the other end of the rope, while Charlotte and Gerard fought the veering of the boat with the oars. Barlow and Mr. Caldwell ran up behind Jonathan. Lindsey gasped as Jonathan appeared on the verge of slipping. Barlow grabbed onto the rope near Jonathan’s hands, and together they managed to advance the rope just long enough to loop it around the tree.

  Alan was lying down in the boat with only his head exposed, hanging onto the rope with both hands. Charlotte had thrown down her oar and was holding onto Alan. Gerard was left to paddle madly from one side to the other.

  It would be funny, Lindsey thought, if they weren’t all about to drown themselves.

  With the end of the rope wrapped around the tree, Jonathan and Barlow pulled it inch by inch, and gradually the boat neared the bank. Finally it drew as close to the edge as possible, but obviously it was a matter of concern as to how the three were to get out of the boat without being pulled back into the rushing creek.

  “I’m going down there,” Rachel said. “Stay here, Lindsey, and lock the door.”

  Her tone brooked no protests, and Lindsey obeyed simply because it was Rachel. She locked the door and hurried back to the window. In a moment she saw Rachel run out into the rain and join the men. Jonathan had made a loop in another rope, tied it to the tree, and lowered it over his head and shoulders. He let himself down into the swirling water just far enough to catch hold of the front of the boat and try to pull it forward. Mr. Caldwell was attempting to make a loop in a third rope, but without success.

  Barlow had sat down on the top of the hill and looked done for the day.

 
Rachel helped Mr. Caldwell make the loop, and they threw it out to Charlotte. She caught hold of it, lowered it over herself, and Jonathan helped her climb out of the boat. Mr. Caldwell and Rachel held the rope taut until Charlotte had pulled herself up the incline. Then they did the same with Alan and Gerard. Jonathan let go of the boat and worked his way up the rope until he was on solid ground. The fishing boat flew across the creek, lodged itself against a fallen log, and turned over.

  Charlotte had collapsed into a sodden heap of jacket, slacks and hair. Alan’s shirttail was hanging out and the buttons were ripped off, showing a white and generous paunch. Yuck, Lindsey thought. Gerard lay face down and didn’t move.

  Barlow and Mr. Caldwell headed back to the house. Jonathan leaned against the tree and pulled the rope over his head. Rachel tried to help Charlotte get to her feet. They were all soaking wet and covered with mud.

  Lindsey decided she’d missed out on enough, and left the room. She thought briefly about telling Isabella what was going on, but when she got downstairs Isabella was already heading toward the back door.

  “The lights woke me—I saw the whole thing from my window,” she said to Lindsey. “I’ve told Reba to bring blankets.”

  Soon they were all tromping into the house. Reba came running with towels and blankets. They stayed on the porch to wipe off as much mud as possible. Charlotte was wailing.

  “Will you shut up, for Pete’s sake,” Alan said, still panting. “It was your idea.”

  “No, it was that phony Frenchman’s idea! He said it would be easy to row across the creek. He said if Brianna died we’d all be accomplices to murder, for not getting her help in time. Besides,” she sobbed, “I wanted out of the house. There’s a psycho running loose!”

  “It’s true,” said Gerard glumly, trying to button his shirt, and finding only one intact button. “It’s wrong not to try to go for help. And I’m not a phony,” he added, with an edge to his voice. “I was born in Lyon.”

  “Well, you certainly are concerned about her,” Charlotte said, beginning to calm down. “Are you in love with her or something?”