Her Deadly Inheritance Read online

  The woman pursed her lips. “Well, no. But I don’t aim to be the first.”

  Jill inhaled a bracing breath. How could she convince this woman for her own sake that she was wrong?

  An idea came to her. “Mrs. Fenton, do you believe in God?”

  The woman arched indignantly. “Of course!”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “What about the Bible? Do you believe that it’s God’s Word and tells us the truth?”

  Mrs. Fenton nodded decisively and then stopped to eye Jill with suspicion. “Hey, what are you getting at?”

  “Well, it says, people are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.”

  “So?”

  “It means we have one life to live. When we die, we go immediately before God, and then to wherever we will spend eternity. Our spirits don’t stay on earth.”

  Mrs. Fenton wasn’t buying it. “So you say, but what about my pa? I saw his ghost with my own eyes.”

  “My friend, Nona, could explain this much better than I can, but here’s what she told me. What appear to be ghosts aren’t. They’re evil spirits who have the power to appear as people who have died.”

  The housekeeper slanted a narrow-eyed glance.

  “Whatever you saw, Mrs. Fenton, wasn’t your father. It was an illusion from God’s enemy.”

  The woman thrust forward a stubborn chin. “Why would Satan do that?”

  “He’s the father of lies. I imagine he did it to deceive you. To frighten you. To take your attention away from God.”

  The housekeeper tilted her head to one side. She appeared to be wavering.

  “You have nothing to fear, Mrs. Fenton,” Jill continued. “My mother is already in her eternal home. She’s nowhere near Windtop.”

  “You’re sure the Bible says that?”

  “Yes.” Jill let the housekeeper chew on this truth for a few moments. “Did you know my aunt values your work? She said we can’t do without your help.”

  “She did?” Mrs. Fenton pursed her lips, glancing first at Lenore and then back at Jill. Finally, she stuck out her hand to Jill. “Okay, I’ll stay, but the minute anything funny happens, I’m outta here.”

  Jill shook the woman’s hand. “Fair enough.”

  Lenore brushed past Jill. “Well, then, Mrs. Fenton. Let’s get you settled in.”

  The woman eyed Lenore as if she might be entertaining second thoughts. “I guess.”

  “Tia,” Lenore said, “show Mrs. Fenton to the rooms above the kitchen. She will want to choose which one suits her best.”

  Jill waited until her cousin left with the housekeeper before she addressed Lenore. “You knew the movers were on their way when we talked earlier this morning. Before you asked my permission.”

  “I did.” Lenore shuffled some papers on the desk as if looking for something important.

  “Then why bother to ask?”

  Her aunt shrugged. “Drew insisted I get permission, so I did the best I could. After all, I had no way of contacting the company to reschedule.”

  “You could have said so.”

  “I could have, but I didn’t want any fuss. My way was more”—Lenore flashed a triumphant smile—“efficient, and may I say you impressed me just now. You were quite clever in how you handled Mrs. Fenton. Your suggestion about us all helping to clean Windtop’s rooms is also excellent, so hadn’t we better get to work? The trucks must leave by evening, and we have much to do.”

  Tia poked her head in the room. “Mrs. Fenton says breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “And we will be ready.” Lenore smiled sweetly. “Won’t we, Jill?”

  Barely nodding, Jill held her tongue. Lenore might think she had won this round, but Jill knew better. She had a good reason for giving in to her aunt. The less she rankled the woman, the more her aunt would concentrate on Windtop, and the more Jill would be free to look into her mother’s death.

  With only a few minutes to spare before meeting the family in the dining room, Jill hurried upstairs. Button couldn’t be shut up alone in the bathroom all day. He must be hungry by now.

  She opened her bathroom door, and the kitten greeted her with urgent mews. Picking him up, she gathered his food and water dishes and went down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  Nearly finished with breakfast preparations, Mrs. Fenton muttered to herself as she went from refrigerator to cupboard to stove. Jill stayed out of her way and prepared Button’s food.

  As she placed the food dish and the kitten on the floor near the back door, a shriek rent the air. Button crouched, ready to run, and Jill looked over her shoulder.

  “What is that?” her aunt screamed.

  Mrs. Fenton rolled her eyes. “A kitten.”

  “I can see. Get it out. Get it out!” Lenore advanced as if to seize the tiny creature.

  Button backed away, and Jill stood to face her aunt as the screen door creaked. Tia came in, and the kitten shot out before the door closed.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Jill glared at her aunt. “I welcomed you into this house, and you’ve been nothing but trouble. I warn you. This is still my house. The kitten stays, and you’d better hope nothing happens to him before I find him.”

  Letting the screen door slam behind her, Jill left to find Button. She called and called, but he didn’t answer. She looked under the steps and searched every other nook and cranny where he might hide.

  After a while, the screen door opened and Mrs. Fenton stepped out. “Any luck?”

  Jill glanced around one last time and blew a stray lock of hair away from her face. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Don’t worry,” the housekeeper soothed. “He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  “He’s only been here one day.” How far had he gone? Did he know his way back? Would he feel safe enough to return?

  Mrs. Fenton held the screen door open. “You’ve missed breakfast, and Mrs. Bradwell is moving pretty fast. If I was you, I’d keep an eye on her. Oh, and if you’re hungry, I can fix you something quick.”

  Jill took Mrs. Fenton’s advice and found Lenore in the entrance hall overseeing the workmen. They had cleared the area of everything but the grandfather clock and the portrait above the fireplace. On a ladder, one workman lifted her mother’s portrait down into the waiting hands of two others.

  “What are you doing?” Jill advanced, ready to stop them.

  Her aunt intervened. “We talked about this, remember? This portrait wasn’t part of Windtop’s original furnishings.” Lenore waved the workmen on.

  “Where are they taking it?”

  “To the attic, of course.”

  Three other workmen set out to hang another large portrait in its place. Within minutes, the unfamiliar face of a middle-aged gentleman in late 1800s’ garments had taken her mother’s honored place.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped down on the hot words springing to her tongue. Lord, this is going too fast. I know you want me to be patient with Lenore, but it’s so hard. Yet, like it or not, she had given her aunt permission. Now she must keep her word no matter how much she wanted to take it back.

  Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, she nodded toward the men waiting with her mother’s portrait. “Please be careful. Cover it well and make it easily accessible,” she said.

  As they carried it up the stairs, uneasiness enveloped Jill and lingered through the rest of the day under Lenore’s watchful eye. Something awfully wrong was going on here, but she couldn’t quite identify it.

  Working alongside Tia, Elma, and Mrs. Fenton, Jill helped to dust, polish, sweep, and vacuum each empty room. By late afternoon, every muscle in her body ached. Lenore, on the other hand, seemed to possess endless energy.

  How did her aunt do it? Had adrenaline super-charged the woman who had spent years preparing for this day? As the furnishings were put in place, it was obvious Lenore had invested thousands of dollars and an untold amount of time collecting them.

  All those years her
aunt had no hope of owning Windtop.

  An ugly suspicion crossed Jill’s heart with muddy footprints. Surely my aunt would not— Jill closed her heart against such a possibility. Lenore might be many things, but surely she was no murderer.

  Yet, all day, Jill had caught glimpses of Lenore’s wary glances. Clay, too, had kept an eye on her as he helped to move larger items into place.

  By the day’s end, they had completed Windtop’s transformation into an 1890s home, and Jill made the long climb to the third floor, pained to realize her mother’s version of the house was no more. In her bathroom, she gazed at Button’s empty kitten bed and shut the door. Where was he? Was he safe? Would he return?

  She sank into Maggie’s Bentwood rocker and set it into motion. Those long-ago evenings, when their dear housekeeper would rock her before the warmth of the fire and tell her stories, came to her. Back then, nothing disturbed her that Maggie couldn’t quiet with common sense and loving wisdom. Not even Windtop’s dark shadows and night noises.

  Her gaze wandered to the fireplace. Someone had prepared logs and kindling, ready to dispel the evening’s dampness. She rose to take matches from the mantel and stooped to light the fire. It flamed to life.

  In its comforting glow, she pulled back the bedspread and lay down to rest a few minutes before preparing for bed. Please, dear Lord, bring Button back safely.

  She reached for her Bible and lay on the bed, too drowsy to read but reassured by its nearness.

  Clay started down the drive toward the gatehouse, unable to get Jill out of his mind. Please, we must talk later, she had said. Her lovely eyes pleaded with him. Yet the day passed without a single moment to talk alone.

  He glanced back to the house. It was late, but not too late. Lights blazed from the entrance hall and parlor as he knocked on the door.

  Drew Bradwell opened it.

  “Your niece wanted to speak to me.”

  “She’s gone to bed,” the man said. “Can’t it wait ’til morning?”

  Bradwell made sense, but Clay hesitated. He couldn’t shake this peculiar sense of urgency.

  Carver’s voice boomed down the stairwell. “Fire!”

  Hair raised on the back of Clay’s neck. He sprinted toward the staircase. Two steps at a time, he bounded toward the second floor, passing Tia, who stood at her door, her eyes wide with alarm. Footsteps pounding behind him let him know three Bradwells scrambled to reach Carver as well.

  “I smell smoke,” Carver said. “Jill’s door won’t open.”

  “Is she in there?”

  Carver glared at him.

  Clay didn’t wait for the fool to answer. Rattling the door handle, he called out, “Jill!”

  His pulse racing, he pressed his hands to the door … no unusual heat. He put his ear to the door. No crackle or hiss of flames, but he did detect a faint odor of smoke. He pounded on the door. “Jill? Can you hear me? Open the door!”

  No response.

  He turned on Carver and grabbed him by his collar. “Are you sure she’s in there?”

  Carver pushed him away. “I came from the billiards room and smelled smoke. That’s all I know.”

  Clay put his shoulder to the door. It shuddered but wouldn’t budge.

  Bradwell pressed in. “If she’s in there, she won’t last long.”

  Sprinting past the family, Clay skimmed down the stairs to the second floor and raced through the tower room. Yanking open a window, he dropped to the porch roof and scrambled to gain the section of the roof beneath the balcony to Jill’s room.

  His lungs squeezed as he grasped the railing and swung onto the balcony. He came down outside the French doors, his heart hammering. Thick smoke pouring from the fireplace had already obscured the ceiling. Jill was sliding down the door to the hall, holding her hands over her mouth and nose.

  Wrenching the handles of the French doors, he threw his strength into making them give way. Smoke billowed through the opening, clearing much of the room as he raced to Jill’s slumped form. Dropping to his knees, he pulled her away from the door. The wet cloth over her mouth and nose fell away.

  Thank, God! She had taken the precaution and was still breathing.

  “I’ve got her!”

  The door rattled and burst open.

  Aware only of strong arms scooping her up, Jill almost sobbed as she was carried down the hall and through an open door. Cool, damp air washed over her face and arms. Ragged coughs wracked her aching lungs as she breathed in the clean, fresh air.

  When her coughing subsided, she opened bleary eyes. Starlight winked above the large balcony at the end of the hall. Clay’s tense face hovered over hers, his eyes searching.

  Uncle Drew pressed close. “Is she all right?”

  Clay clenched his jaw. “If she hasn’t taken in too much carbon monoxide. She needs oxygen.”

  “I’ll get it.” Her uncle raced away, returning within minutes with a tank and mask.

  “Dad has sleep apnea,” Tia offered.

  While Clay fit the mask to her face, her uncle prepared to feed the oxygen.

  Even in her weakened state, she tried to smile to let them know she appreciated their efforts and to thank them for saving her life.

  A movement behind Clay proved to be Carver joining the family. Lenore stood nearby, fanning away tiny wisps of smoke drifting from the hall. “Has the house been badly damaged?” her aunt asked.

  “It’ll be okay,” Carver assured her. “The fire was contained in the fireplace. I put it out and closed off all the rooms. Most of the smoke is gone already.”

  Uncle Drew ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes pinched with worry. “Thank God Jill is okay.”

  Carver smirked. “God had nothing to do with it. She was just lucky.”

  Jill closed her eyes for a moment. Poor Carver! How wrong he was. At least her uncle had the right idea. God had sent Clay to her rescue and provided the oxygen through her uncle.

  “It looks like something went wrong with the damper in the fireplace,” Carver said. “It’s all right now.”

  Clay gritted his teeth and muttered so low only she could hear, “Nothing was wrong with the damper.” His hard gray eyes sought hers, their intensity sweeping her back to the gazebo and his words of warning.

  Leave as soon as you can.

  She tried to lick her dry lips. The new tightness invading her chest had nothing to do with anything she might have inhaled. Something was terribly wrong at Windtop.

  “We have to get her to the hospital,” Clay said.

  Chapter Nine

  The French doors stood ajar, admitting early morning sunshine while a warm breeze swept in to play with the hem of Jill’s cotton nightgown. She leaned against the open door to Maggie’s room, her head lolling against the frame as her gaze slowly swept the room. The faint odor of smoke tickled her nose.

  Last night’s surreal images rippled the edges of her memory. Coughing, she woke to a smoky haze backlit by an eerie glow from the fireplace and fear seized her. Holding a wet washcloth over her mouth and nose, she had struggled with the bedroom door. Why wouldn’t it open? Just as weakness overtook her body, the French doors wrenched open, and Clay’s strong arms lifted and carried her to fresh air and safety.

  Most of all, she recalled his muttered words. They chilled her soul.

  She shivered, shaking away their unwanted conclusion. How could he believe her near disaster was no accident? He had to be wrong.

  “Miss Shepherd!”

  Fists jammed on her ample hips, Mrs. Fenton stood in the hall, her kind eyes dark with disapproval. “What are you doing up here? You should be downstairs, resting in bed. You promised the doctor.”

  Jill squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, yes, the downstairs bedroom. With Maggie’s room no longer habitable for the time being, the Bradwells had whisked her to the second floor as soon as she returned from the hospital and several hours of oxygen therapy. If Clay was right, that room nested among her enemies.

  Her chin quiv
ered.

  “Ah, now. You see? You’ve overdone.” Mrs. Fenton arranged a plump arm around her shoulder, gently urging her toward the stairs. “Come and rest. Get your strength.”

  Jill eased herself free and moved back toward the room. “Please. I need my Bible.”

  “Of course you do.” Mrs. Fenton hurried to retrieve the book from the floor next to the bed. She brushed it off and put it into Jill’s outstretched hands. “There ya go.”

  Jill held it close. God, I need you now more than ever. If only she could think of what to do next, but her brain felt so foggy—as if packed in cotton.

  “So now.” Mrs. Fenton peered into her face. “Back to bed?”

  “I need … I need something … to wear to church.”

  “Miss Shepherd, you really shouldn’t.” The housekeeper held Jill’s elbow as if trying to lend her support. “You don’t have the strength this morning.”

  With a huge effort, Jill lifted her chin a bit. “I … I’m fine.”

  But was she? It had taken all the reserves she had to come this far. The second floor loomed before her as if miles away. Would she make it? She clenched her jaw. She must make the half hour trip to the mainland. She wouldn’t find what she needed here in this house. “I’m going to church. I have to.”

  Mrs. Fenton squinted at her, doubt clouding her gaze, but at last she sighed. “Well, if you’re sure. I aired some of your clothes last night and put them in your room this morning.”

  Jill tried to smile. “Thank you.” Words seemed inadequate in light of the woman’s thoughtfulness.

  The housekeeper hovered nearby as Jill concentrated on not wobbling while she moved down the stairs. She’d have to do better than this if she hoped to go to church. Tears pressed behind her eyelids. She fought to subdue them. She wouldn’t let the lingering fright of last night steal her resolve. She would not let it win.

  As they reached the door of Jill’s temporary room, Mrs. Fenton added, “So you won’t worry, your kitten is in the kitchen, eating breakfast.”

  “You found him?” He was safe! Oh, thank you, Lord.

  “The hungry little rascal came to the screen door this morning. Couldn’t resist the milk I set out for him.” The housekeeper grinned. “Should I bring him up to you? Unless, of course, you’re set on going to church. In that case, I don’t mind taking care of him until you return.”