Her Deadly Inheritance

by Beth Ann Ziarnik

  The woman checked the slip of paper in her hand. “I have just enough time to tell him. If you give me your address, I’ll pass it on.”

  Jill pulled a pen from her purse and wrote the address on the back of one of her Chicago business cards. “I look forward to seeing him.”

  As she read the card, Helen’s eyes grew large. “Windtop? Jill Shepherd? Oh, are you sure you’re not being too generous?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure.”

  Clay surveyed the flower bed that followed the curve of Windtop’s veranda. Bright splashes of red from newly planted petunias added a cheerful note. He hoisted the last bucket of rocks and weeds into a wheelbarrow and headed for a discreet dumping station in the woods behind the carriage house. He glanced back along the drive that led to the gatehouse. Where was Jill? Why hadn’t she returned?

  His insides squeezed as he continued on into the woods and dumped the bucket’s contents. Doing his job and keeping an eye on her wasn’t as easy as he had hoped.

  Coming back around the carriage house, he stopped short of bumping into the parked Jeep. Jill hopped down inches from him. “Hi, there.”

  His pulse kicked up a notch. “Hi, there, yourself. Where have you been?”

  “Helping a friend.” She held up a card. “And I bought a pass for the ferry so I won’t tie up the family boat or your time when I go to town.”

  Without realizing it, she was always one step ahead of him, complicating his resolve to watch over her, but what could he do?

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, surprised at how deeply he meant it.

  Her smile nearly knocked him over. She gazed into his eyes, her own lit with happiness. “See you this afternoon about two o’clock?”

  What was he doing, grinning at her retreating figure like a love-sick kid? Get a hold of yourself, Merrick. Yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

  When she finally disappeared, he snatched up a garden hose to wash out the wheelbarrow and bucket. If only it were as easy to hose away the rebellion of his heart.

  The sweet fragrance of honeysuckle wafted on a warm breeze as Jill took her place near the porch steps. She glanced around. The luncheon tables were beautifully set and the guests would soon arrive. Where was Lenore?

  Mrs. Fenton came to stand beside her as several cars approached along the drive.

  “My aunt had better hurry.”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips. “She said she changed her mind. You’re to greet these women and Elma will seat them. A lot of to-do about nothing, if you ask me,” she grumbled before ambling back into the house.

  In a starched maid’s uniform of the late 1800s with its long gray skirt reaching to the toes of her black shoes, Elma waited among the round wicker tables spread with damask linen. She smoothed her white apron and danced from one foot to the other, wringing her hands. Her eyes darted nervously, inspecting the tables.

  Each held four place settings of bone china, polished silverware, and crystal goblets arranged around a gold bud vase with a single red rose cradled in greens.

  Jill gasped and turned to her mother’s rose bush. Every blossom had been snipped.

  How dare Lenore! How dare she rob Windtop of the last vestige of my mother? Lord, what is the matter with my aunt?

  Gritting her teeth, she glanced about. The dreadful woman was nowhere in sight and a good thing. Jill wanted to make her sorry!

  At the little catch in her heart, she slowly released her pent-up breath. She had offended God much more than her aunt ever offended her. But each time, God had forgiven her and given her another chance. Should she do less? She wanted to do right, but she’d need God’s help because she still wanted to throttle that woman.

  The first car pulled up before the house. Others parked behind it, and Lenore’s guests began to emerge. With an excited chatter, they moved toward the porch.

  Plastering on her warmest smile, Jill extended her hand to the first woman. While she continued as hostess, Elma stiffly seated each of them. Before long, pleasant conversations flowed in a low, appreciative buzz.

  Elma served the salad course with hot, butter flake rolls. Then Mrs. Fenton appeared with their exquisitely garnished baked whitefish on a bed of flavored wild rice.

  The ladies dined happily enough, but Jill soon heard whispers of “Where’s Lenore?” Picking at her food, she wondered the same. The woman was nothing but a constant irritation.

  The main course finished, Elma removed the plates, refreshed the glasses of sweetened iced tea, and served each guest a small dish of homemade apple ice cream.

  As if on cue, Lenore made her grand entrance. Smiling graciously, she stepped into view garbed in a white 1890s lawn shirtwaist with leg of-mutton sleeves and a long, embroidered, lace-embellished skirt. Her audience murmured appreciatively.

  Elma hurried to Lenore’s side. “May I present Madame Madeleine Antoinette Beaupre, first mistress of Windtop?” She gestured toward her employer, curtsied awkwardly, and scuttled into the house.

  As her aunt moved gracefully among her guests, Jill watched with fascination.

  “Welcome to Windtop.” Lenore’s dark brown eyes glowed with the promise of secrets to be revealed. “My husband, Philippe, sends regrets he could not be with you this day. However, he bid me to offer his greetings and to tell you about our lovely home.”

  Jill sat back in her wicker chair, ignoring her ice cream. Her aunt played the role quite expertly.

  “My beloved husband,” Lenore went on, “had this beautiful home built in the East and shipped to this island in sections. He oversaw every detail before bringing me here as his bride in 1876. Of course, we came at the gracious invitation of Abraham Williams, the first white settler to make a home for his family on Grand Island.”

  Elma returned, holding a large book with an ornate cover and brass clasp. Lenore held it up for all to see. “This lovely photograph album tells the story of our family which I shall now relate to you.”

  Beginning with Madeleine’s arrival, Lenore told, in elaborate detail, one story after another about the Beaupres.

  In the early afternoon heat, Jill soon found it hard to concentrate. Only Lenore’s sly looks in her direction prevented her from quietly slipping away.

  Bees droned among the honeysuckle, ignoring her mother’s now blossomless rose bush. With Lenore’s story droning in the background, Jill hugged her waist. If only her aunt would stop that endless chatter about people Jill never knew and, at the moment, didn’t care about. She’d much rather listen to the truth about her mother’s death, however hard it would be.

  As Lenore glanced in her direction, Jill held her chin stiffly. A whisper of annoyance crossed the woman’s face before she continued her story.

  “Then in 1898, Thomas Bradwell arrived in Munising. Philippe invited this stranger to our home, telling me in private how the well-dressed young man was from a good family he had met out East. Much impressed by our humble home, this man often enjoyed our hospitality.

  “One day Philippe felt need of amusement. My dear husband had been drinking when he happened on Monsieur Bradwell. The man knew of Philippe’s weakness for the game of cards. While I waited through the long night at home, Philippe played hand after hand.

  “When morning dawned, my sweet husband appeared at our door, supported by Monsieur Bradwell. Strangely enough, this man excused himself and left. I soon learned the reason for his hasty departure. Philippe had done well enough early in the game, but as the long night progressed, and his friend—” Lenore spat out this last word. “—plied him with more drink, Philippe began to lose. On the last hand, he lost our beautiful home to this despicable rogue.”

  Lenore’s face had turned dark with a controlled rage. “Much to our distress, the man who had put his feet under our table made himself our enemy. I wept many tears, but nothing could dissuade Monsieur Bradwell. We and our only daughter were dismissed from our home and its years of precious memories.”

  In Le
nore’s brown eyes, tears pooled.

  How she played her role to the hilt. It would seem Tia was not the only accomplished actress in the family.

  “Now, before I leave you, let me show you our beautiful home as we knew it.” Lenore bid her guests rise.

  As the women followed her into the house, Jill remained on the porch. Across the lawn, Clay conversed with one of the men hired to help landscape the grounds. It was nearly two o’clock. She had just enough time to hurry upstairs and change into jeans and a summer tee before he arrived to help her with the attic inventory.

  Jill made it as far as the second floor when a breathless Tia pulled her into the octagon room. “What happened? Was Mother angry? Did she throw a fit when you insisted she call off the party?”

  “I talked to both of your parents. They—”

  “Yes?” Tia urged Jill on.

  “—refused.”

  The girl’s narrow face froze in disbelief. She whirled away and slammed a hairbrush on her dressing table. “I counted on you. You and your God, who answers prayer.” She turned back to Jill. “Well, maybe he answers your prayers, but he doesn’t answer mine.” She threw herself on the bed and wept.

  “You shouldn’t have given her false hopes, you know.” At the unexpected sound of Carver’s voice, Jill turned to find him leaning against the door frame, a sardonic grin marring his face.

  She shooed him into the hall and shut the door before returning to Tia.

  The girl moaned on her bed. “I wish I’d never been born!”

  “I hope you don’t mean that,” Jill soothed.

  “I do!” The girl sat up, her reddened eyes smoldering. “I thought you were different. I thought you could help me, but you can’t. You’re as afraid of Mother as we are.”

  Jill sat on the bed to be near Tia, but the girl jumped up.

  “I’m not surprised,” she vented. “No one dares stand in my mother’s way. When you stood up to her about the kitten, I thought you might be the one person she couldn’t dominate. I thought your faith in God made you strong, but I was wrong.”

  She speared Jill with stormy brown eyes. “You made a big mistake bringing us into this house. You made another when you let Mother win about the party. You’ll be sorry! Just like your mother.”

  “Like my mother?” Jill’s skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

  “Now that my mother knows how weak you are, you had better watch out.”

  Jill held her young cousin’s wild gaze. Either the girl knew something, or her hateful words were a bluff.

  “Don’t you see?” Tia’s eyes sparked. “We’re both Mother’s helpless pawns.”

  Did Tia really feel this way? Jill didn’t feel helpless. She knew she could face anything if she did her best and refused to quit. Maybe she could help Tia do the same.

  She reached out to her hurting cousin, but Tia pulled back.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get it, do you? You are all that stands between Mother and this house.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A chill slithered down Jill’s spine. How much truth fueled the teen’s passion? How much mere vengeance?

  Tia threw herself on the bed again, her shoulders heaving as she wept.

  Jill quietly withdrew. Closing the door behind her, she wandered to the second-floor railing and gazed below. Since that first day when she arrived, she had been drawn back to this spot where Lenore’s upturned face had paled the first moment she saw Jill.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. Had her aunt believed for a moment Jill was the woman whose life she had snuffed out?

  “You know, Jill—”

  Lenore’s throaty voice startled her. She whirled around.

  Her aunt’s cold gaze lingered. “You would fare much better if you ceased your unhealthy musings about your mother’s death. Don’t you think it’s time you moved on?”

  A soft gasp clogged Jill’s throat. She stared at the woman who, because of her anger, had dared to risk her own life and the life of her unborn child. Would such a woman also kill for an unfulfilled dream?

  Her aunt left her gaping and entered the master bedroom. As the door clicked softly behind Lenore, Tia slipped into the hall, her young face dripping with triumphant disdain. “See what I mean?”

  No, she didn’t. At least she didn’t want to. It was too awful to believe.

  Jill turned away and gripped the railing just as Clay strode across the entrance hall. He couldn’t have timed it better. She released a heavy breath as he bounded up the stairs, grinning.

  “Here to help as promised,” he said, apparently not noting anything amiss. “Show me what you have in mind. I’m all yours for two hours.”

  “Give me a minute to change,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the attic.”

  She raced up the stairs to the third floor, aware of Tia’s eyes boring into her back. She shook the eerie sensation away.

  Clay released each lock of the attic windows and pushed them open. Fresh air swept in, carrying the clean scent of Lake Superior while displacing the attic’s smothering heat.

  He turned to survey the attic’s accumulation of her mother’s discarded furnishings. Most of them had been piled into the small space the day after Jill arrived. Pieces this good would bring a good price. Surely some had sentimental value.

  Pushing dust off the top of a fine tallboy dresser, he shook his head. What was Jill thinking when only this morning, she had been sad about the house being stripped of nearly everything that reminded her of her mother? It was none of his business, but he sure hoped that some snake wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. In the meantime, working at her side gave him the opportunity to keep an eye on her.

  He glanced at the attic doorway as the gray kitten dashed through it. Jill darted in after it, and his pulse quickened, every nerve in his body pleasantly aware of her presence.

  She scrambled after the kitten, failing to catch him as he slipped behind a box. “Button, we don’t have time to play.”

  The kitten poked his head around the corner of the box but backed out of reach.

  She sat on her heels and giggled. “Okay. Explore, you little dickens, but don’t get lost.”

  Clay caught himself smiling. “He won’t.”

  He reached out a hand to help her up.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

  The moment her soft hand nestled in his, an electric warmth traveled up his arm. As she stood, the fresh fragrance of her hair teased his nose, and her eyes sparkled with mirth, stealing his breath. He released her hand and widened the gap between them. “What’s the plan?”

  She handed him a clipboard, held up a fist full of tags, and pulled a slim digital camera from a pocket in her jeans. “We’ll tag each item with a number, take a picture, and list it with the corresponding number on these papers. That should give us an accurate record.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  Her gaze swept the jumbled collection. “How about this highboy dresser?”

  She looped a tag through a drawer pull and arranged the number to show. After stepping back to snap a picture, she leaned in to show him the result. “Good enough, right?”

  “Should do.” He jotted the item next to its number on the clipboard paper while she tagged a gate-leg table.

  “We’ll list these out-in-the-open pieces first,” she said, snapping the next picture. “Then I’ll need your help to untangle the rest.”

  From what he could see, this was no two-hour job, but they’d have to do what they could in the little time available. He began listing the items, doing his best to keep up as she tagged and snapped their photos.

  Finally, she took a breather and looked around her. “I suppose we’ll have to untangle the rest.”

  His curiosity got the best of him. “Why are you doing this?”

  She smiled, her eyes filled with delight. “I’m giving them to charity.”

  “Everything?” He knew enough about their quality and the b
ucks each piece would command to wonder if she had thought this through. “Couldn’t you use the money these things would bring?”

  A faraway look invaded her eyes. “I guess we can always use extra money, but no. Along with the house, my inheritance includes an annual income. I also have my job. I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s nothing you want to keep?” A woman with a tender heart like hers must have an emotional attachment to some of these pieces.

  She paused a bit. “I may keep some, but the rest—well, I want Mother’s things to make a difference in this world and could never put all this to good use any other way. Why let them rot in the attic when they could do so much good elsewhere?”

  He grunted, hoping that one day, she wouldn’t regret her decision. “Are we ready to get back to work then?”

  Together, they untangled the four-poster bedroom set that had been moved from the octagon room. She caressed the rich wood of each piece as if saying goodbye. This parting wasn’t as easy for her as she wanted him to believe, yet she forged ahead.

  They continued working their way through mounds of furniture and storage boxes—all part of her yesterdays. Yesterdays he knew nothing about but was beginning to wish he did.

  An hour passed, and they had barely touched the assemblage of decades when she sat down on a dusty trunk. He pushed a drawer back into its place in an oak buffet. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter, but it does in here.” She rested a hand over her heart.

  “Did you sign a contract?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave it, Jill. When you marry, you may want some of these things.”

  She appeared to turn the idea over in her mind, and then shook her head. “Let’s keep working.”

  He pulled the covering from a large portrait, the one of her mother that had hung above the entrance hall fireplace. “What about this?”

  Coming near, she touched the frame tenderly. “I’ll have it crated and sent to my place in Chicago.”

  “Let me take care of that.” He moved the portrait through the door and into the hall.