by Kari Bovee
There were murmurings around the room.
“Well, who is it?” a male voice shouted out.
The lawyer raised a hand again. “The bulk of the estate, all holdings, properties and assets go to Elsa Mayfield, Mr. Travis’s only child. As of yet, we have not been able to locate her, however. If anyone might have information as to her whereabouts, please see me after we conclude.”
Gasps and murmurings filled the room.
“Well, what do you know?” Felicity whispered. She turned to me with raised eyebrows.
I was just as confused as everyone else. Where had this child come from? Obviously not Pearl Davis. From the look of shock and surprise on everyone’s faces, apparently no one knew about these two other women in Mr. Travis’s life.
“This is ridiculous!” Florence stood up again. “Edward has no children. Said he never wanted children. This makes no sense!”
The sound of someone lighting a match pulled my gaze away from Florence. Mr. Johnson, sitting at the far end of the first row, calmly lit a cigarette. I wondered again what he stood to gain from the will, if anything.
“Miss Thomas, please sit down.” The lawyer made the request a bit more firmly this time. “The will further stipulates that if the child is not of age, her mother, Greta Mayfield, will stand in as executor until said child becomes of age. Is Greta Mayfield present?”
Again, no one answered. I glanced over at Miss Davis, who seemed nonplussed by the whole event. Either she had quite the poker face, didn’t care, or knew this bit of information already. I turned to the back of the room, to the piano, and the woman who’d been standing there was gone. I wondered if she might be Greta Davis, but she hadn’t stepped forward. That wouldn’t make sense, though. Why would she come to the reading if she wasn’t going to take what Mr. Travis left her? She was probably just another one of Mr. Travis’s conquests, disappointed at not getting his riches.
I noticed, to my disappointment, that Detective Walton was gone, too. I would have thought he’d want to speak with Miss Davis at least. It made me doubt how hard he was working on this case.
Voices filled the air as people speculated on the private affairs of Edward Travis. The lawyer banged his gavel again. “If we might continue,” he said. “I am not finished.”
A hush fell over the room.
“Should the heir, Elsa Mayfield, be deceased, or in the event of her death, the bulk of the estate will go to Pearl Davis—well, that explains that—and the mansion to Florence Thomas.”
“No!” Florence, again, could not contain herself, but this time she remained seated. “How could he have done this to me? I am his lawful wife!”
Ignoring her tearful outburst, the lawyer continued. “Should these said heirs not be able to accept these bequests for any reason, the estate, holdings, assets, and mansion will be put into a trust under the management of Mr. and Mrs. Alastair Travis, and Preston J. Travis, parents and brother of Edward Travis, respectively.”
Florence stood up again. “I can’t listen to this anymore.” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she put the back of her hand to her mouth. She practically tripped over people as she scurried through the row. She ran out of the room, and Lenora Lange gracefully got up from her chair and followed her. As she passed the back row where Felicity and I were seated, she glanced my way, and our eyes locked. Goose pimples rose on my forearms, and tingles went down my spine.
The lawyer continued listing items and their recipients for the next five or ten minutes. Pearl Davis left before he finished, and since she no longer had claim to the house—at least for the moment—I couldn’t help but wonder where she currently resided. For that matter, did Florence even have a right to remain at the mansion? I supposed she could until this daughter was found. Then she’d have to leave. And what about Felicity and the cottage?
Finally, the lawyer read the last bequest—the Chinese vases. They were to go to Felicity, who seemed quite touched and pleased about it. The will also confirmed she could remain in the guest house for as long as she wished, regardless of who ended up inheriting the mansion.
Before the meeting adjourned, Mr. Johnson strode out of the room.
Helen Clark stood up abruptly and fled from the room, also, sobbing. Nothing had been left to either one of them. Had this been an act of cruelty on Edward Travis’s part? To insist they be there to learn they hadn’t received anything?
“I’m going after Helen,” I whispered.
Felicity’s eyes went wide. “I’m going, too.”
We hurried in the direction she’d gone. At the end of the long hallway, Helen turned the corner into a large foyer and out of the house. We broke into a jog. When we reached the foyer, she was already rushing through the front door. She walked up to a car parked at the foot of the steps and got into the back seat.
“Helen!” I yelled after her.
She slammed the door, and the car took off.
“Rats! We missed her.” I watched the car pull around the arc of the drive and head toward the street.
Felicity, a little out of breath, placed her hands on her hips. “That we did. But if I know Timothy, he’ll get that script whipped into shape in a jiffy and we’ll be back at work tomorrow. You can talk to her then.”
I sighed. She was probably right. If not, I’d find a way to speak with Helen.
My thoughts drifted back to the reading of the will. “I wonder why this Greta Mayfield didn’t show up,” I said, turning to Felicity.
“Sounds like she is missing, as well as the child,” Felicity speculated.
I took in a sharp breath. “Maybe someone knew about this heir and her mother and—”
Felicity looked at me with large eyes. “Did away with them?” she whispered, finishing my sentence.
“And what about his other wife? Pearl Davis? She could have done it. Or as much as I hate to think it, Florence . . .”
Felicity shook her head. “Florence seemed genuinely surprised. Either that or she’s a really good actress, which—don’t tell her I said this—we both know she isn’t.”
“I can’t believe Mr. Travis has two wives,” I said, still reeling at this new information.
“Who knew?” Felicity shook her head.
“It’s been a strange day.” I sighed. “I should get back to the ranch. Let’s get those other boxes out of my car.” We left the ballroom and went back down the hallway to the kitchen.
“I guess you just never know about people,” Felicity mused, her thoughts obviously still with the reading of the will. “Even when you are living on his estate!”
“You made out pretty well,” I said to her, referring to the vases. “And you get to stay here until the roof of your rental is fixed.”
“Yes. I’m so grateful I can stay in the cottage for a while, because it seems that not only am I out of a house but I’m out of a job, except for the work at Ambassador, and to be honest, it’s not paying much. Who knows if this Miss Mayfield will want me to continue with the remodeling project—if she’s ever found.”
“Right.”
We passed the swimming pool to see Lenora Lange sitting in one of the lounge chairs lining the concrete-and-tile deck. When she saw us, she got up and glided toward us. She was wearing her customary white, this time a cotton and lace afternoon dress with an ivory-petal trim cloche and pearls.
“Miss Michelle, Miss Jones,” she greeted us.
“Hello,” I said, not really wanting to talk to her. She made me feel things I didn’t like feeling.
“May I speak with you alone?” she asked me.
I stifled an impatient sigh. With raised eyebrows, Felicity gave me a look and went to my car.
“I fear a tragedy for someone in your circle.” Miss Lange’s light-blue gaze penetrated mine.
My eyebrows dipped down. “A tragedy? What do you mean?”
“I can’t be certain, but Joshua has spoken to me, and they claim it will happen soon. Within the next forty-eight hours.”
Joshua?
Oh yes. Her collective of souls. I wasn’t sure what to make of him, or them, or whatever. Yet, the news, whether or not she was to be believed, was unsettling. Or was it her obvious need to impart this information to me that made me feel that way?
“Who is this ‘someone’?” I asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know. Joshua does not always know. But you keep coming up in my conversations with them.”
Irritation pricked at me. Why me? And why give me only part of the information? All this would do was cause anxiety. With Lizzy’s needs, Daniel’s surly attitude, Ida and Susie’s trauma, and my lack of sleep and horrible nightmares when I did get a wink, additional anxiety was the last thing I needed. Why was this woman hounding me?
I crossed my arms. “What am I supposed to do with this information?”
She smiled. “Take heed.”
Oh, for god’s sake!
“Well, thank you, Miss Lange. I will bear that in mind.”
She reached out and placed a hand on my forearm. It was ice cold, and the goose pimples returned.
Take heed. When? Against what? Or whom?
Chapter Thirteen
I returned to the ranch late in the afternoon, my mind awhirl with all this new information about Mr. Travis’s wives—plural—and the mysterious Elsa and Greta Mayfield. They could be the whole key to his murder because they had the most to gain by Mr. Travis’s death. Had someone killed them, too? Could one of them have followed him to the party? Had they been just waiting for their chance to get him alone somewhere that couldn’t be traced back to them? Or perhaps they’d hired someone to follow him around. There were so many possibilities, it was overwhelming. And where to start?
As I motored up our long driveway along the alfalfa pasture sloping up to the hills, I was bothered by a whisp of hair that had fallen into my eyes. I looked into the rearview mirror to straighten it, and my eye caught two Model T’s coming up behind me. I didn’t recognize them.
When I pulled up to the house, Chet came out from the barn. I parked and got out of the car. “Hello, you,” I said. He came over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Who do you think this is?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.” But our question was quickly answered.
Detective Walton, in his rumpled trench coat and battered fedora, got out of the passenger side of one of the cars, and Officer Clayton got out of the driver’s side. Another officer got out of the other car. What did they want now? I hoped they weren’t here to question the children again. This situation was pressingly stressful.
“Detective Walton,” Chet said with a questioning tone in his voice. “What can we do for you?”
“We’d like to search the house, if you don’t mind?”
Chet and I exchanged a glance.
“Of course,” Chet said. “What are you hoping to find?”
“Murder weapon.”
“Ah. Well, I’m not sure why it would be in the house. Don’t you think the killer would have disposed of it or taken it with him?” Chet asked.
“Or hid it—in the house.” Detective Walton smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’d also like to speak with Daniel Blaine again.”
“Daniel?” I asked.
“He here?”
“I think he’s out checking the fence lines,” Chet said. “At least that is what he’s supposed to be doing. Not sure when he’ll be back, but I can go find him.”
The detective smiled again. “I’d appreciate it. In the meantime, we’ll check the house first.”
My stomach turned. I wondered why they wanted to speak with Daniel again.
“Maybe you’ll be back with him by the time we finish searching the house.” The detective took off his hat, signaling to us he was headed inside. Taking the cue, we led him to the kitchen door. When we entered, Rose was there, cleaning things up and getting ready to prepare that evening’s supper.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” Detective Walton greeted her.
“They’d like to search the house,” Chet explained.
Rose placed her hands firmly on her hips. “But I’m trying to cook in here,” she said impatiently.
“We need to cooperate, Mother,” Chet said.
“You can continue, Mrs. Riker,” the detective said. “If you don’t mind Officer Faraday looking around downstairs.”
Officer Faraday was another young officer, probably as old as Officer Clayton, but was shorter, stockier, and had full, rosy cheeks. He tipped his hat to Rose.
She heaved a great sigh. “As I live and breathe,” she muttered under her breath.
We led Detective Walton and Officer Clayton through to the living room.
“Officer Clayton, let’s head upstairs,” the detective said.
I paced the living room while Chet went back outside to look for Daniel. My mouth felt as if I’d just swallowed sawdust so I decided to go into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Rose was stirring something on the stove, a scowl on her face while Officer Faraday rummaged through some cabinets.
“This is just a terrible business.” Rose peered at me over the top rim of her spectacles. “I knew that girl was trouble.”
I bit the inside of my lip so I wouldn’t say something I’d regret. “We don’t know that Lizzy did it, Rose.” I went to the cupboard to retrieve a glass. Then I went to the sink to fill it.
She opened her mouth to say something when Ned came into the kitchen through the outside door, Chet on his heels. Officer Faraday stepped aside to let them in.
Ned looked from me to the officer and back to me. “Did you tell Lizzy she could ride Goldie today?” he asked. “She left all of Goldie’s tack out.”
“Yes, I gave her permission,” I said.
“But Goldie has been in the field all day.” Ned took off his hat and scratched his head. “And Chet’s truck is gone. So is Daniel.”
“One of them must have taken it.” Chet’s jaw flexed. “Without asking.”
“Or both of them,” Rose chimed in. “I told you—trouble.”
I wanted to tell her to be quiet but refrained. “But why would either of them take the truck?” I wondered out loud.
Chet ushered me into the living room and gestured for Ned to follow us out of earshot of the officer. “They might have run away,” Chet suggested. “Maybe Lizzy got scared.”
My stomach tied itself into a knot, and I pressed a hand against it. Running away would be the absolute worst thing Lizzy could do in the situation. It would make her look guilty.
“Daniel might have gotten scared, too,” Ned said. “He hasn’t been himself since the party. I can’t get two words out of him, and if I do, it’s something churlish.”
“No,” I shook my head. “No! You can’t really believe that they would run away.” Then I remembered the police upstairs. This didn’t look good. Not at all.
“Think we should say something to the police?” Ned asked.
Rose walked into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes,” she said.
“No. Not yet,” I jumped in. “They’re searching the house. Lizzy or Daniel might come back before they are done. We shouldn’t assume anything just yet.”
“She’s right,” Chet said. “Hopefully they will return soon.”
I was glad Chet supported my suggestion, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit I was worried about the prospect of them running away. Neither one of them would take the truck without asking; they knew it would get them into trouble.
“Well, I’m headed out to the fields to check those fences.” Ned secured his cowboy hat back on his head and walked back into the kitchen. Rose followed him.
“What if they don’t come back?” I whispered to Chet, my anxiety turning to dread.
He shook his head and released a breath. He gently took hold of my arms. “It’s not good. Lizzy is the prime suspect in the murder case, and Daniel would be seen as an accomplice. They could be in really hot water.”
“Maybe Joe took the truck,” I added, hopeful. Chet had lent it to him on occasion, if he needed an extra set of wheels over at his ranch.
“I told him he could use it today, but, he’s out at the arena working with the new horse. And even if he did take it, where are Lizzy and Daniel?” Chet let go of my arms.
Detective Walton and Officer Clayton came down the stairs. The detective was holding something in his hands. It looked like a white handkerchief.
“Find something?” Chet asked.
He approached us and held out his palm. “Recognize this?”
I blinked. My best pair of scissors, the ones I kept on my pattern-making table, were nestled in the handkerchief. They looked like they’d been in the dirt, and they were crusted over with something dark.
“Those are mine. What happened to them? Where did you find them?” I swallowed hard, my throat feeling dry.
“First bedroom on the right, under the chest of drawers.”
“Susie’s room,” Chet said.
The knot in my stomach tightened. Could my scissors have actually been the murder weapon? Did Susie know something, and she was just too scared to tell us?
“We’ll need to speak with her.” Detective Walton folded the handkerchief over the scissors.
I looked directly into his eyes. “She’s ten!” Why was he so determined to interrogate the children? Based on the little I knew, there were a string of people who had motive to kill Edward Travis. Was the detective talking to all of them, too? He’d left the mansion before the lawyer had even finished reading the will. Why wouldn’t he have stuck around and questioned people?
He raised his eyebrows at me. “Can you explain what the scissors were doing in her room under the dresser?”
I crossed my arms over my stomach in an attempt to quell the anxiety swirling around in it. “No, but—”
“Where is she?” he interrupted.
“She’s probably with Miss Meyers in the schoolroom. She has chores there after school,” Chet said.
