Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (39 page)
J
ill fled into the house, ran blindly into the guest powder room, where she promptly threw up.
ill fled into the house, ran blindly into the guest powder room, where she promptly threw up.
“Miss! You have to pay for the pizza!”
Jill clutched the toilet bowl, waves of dizziness assailing her, Lady E.’s headless, bloody body engraved on her mind. The delivery boy continued to shout at her. Jill could not focus on what he was saying.
Lady E. was dead
.
Lady E. was dead
.
She wretched again, but dryly.
The delivery boy was banging on the door now.
Jill turned and staggered out of the bathroom. What should she do? She was mindless with shock and confusion.
Suddenly she ran across the parlor and into the kitchen. Oh, God! Where was her tote with her Filofax?
Jill rushed back into the parlor, saw her tote by the door where she had left her duffel bag. As she ran to it, she saw through the window that the boy with her pizza was leaving, already on the sidewalk, about to climb into his Renault. Jill reached for the tote as another wave of dizziness swept over her. Lady E. was dead. Really, truly, brutally dead.
Someone had
beheaded
her.
beheaded
her.
Where was the damn Filofax? Her hands shaking, Jill threw tissues, a pen, her lipstick and mirror, a tour guide of Britain, and her relatively new black Ray•Ban sunglasses violently from the bag. They scattered
across the floor. A few old business cards followed. More tissues, a map. She finally seized the Filofax. The closest phone was in the parlor. Jill ran to it, opening the book as she did so, P … Preston. She dialed and prayed.
across the floor. A few old business cards followed. More tissues, a map. She finally seized the Filofax. The closest phone was in the parlor. Jill ran to it, opening the book as she did so, P … Preston. She dialed and prayed.
Alex picked up instantly—and she had called him on his private line at his office. “Preston.”
“Alex, she’s dead, someone cut off her head!” Jill choked.
“Jesus, Jill! Who’s dead?”
“Lady E.!” In spite of the fact that Jill’s mind did not seem to be functioning, she realized what Alex was thinking. “One of the Siamese cats. They cut off her head, left her on the porch, oh, God, I’m going to be sick again.” Jill dropped the phone and ran back to the powder room, only to wretch violently and dryly again.
When the heaves had passed, she was on her knees, and she pressed her cheek against the side of the sink’s medicine cabinet. Tears began to flow freely down her face. She gasped, trying not to cry, but she failed. And then she thought of Sir John, upstairs, hiding under her bed, crying so pitifully. Now she understood. He had been terrorized—and was now mourning the death of his mate.
Jill froze. The comprehension was brutal, searing—terrifying. A noise in the garden had awoken her from her nap in the first place. That, followed by a cat’s yowl and a crash. Oh, dear God.
Jill managed to stand upright. She was shaking uncontrollably.
Someone had caught Lady E. and killed her while Jill was asleep—or just after she had woken up—right there by the house.
What if that someone was still lurking outside?
Jill ran to the front door and bolted it. Panting, she froze, straining to hear anything—anyone. To her dismay, she had left the phone off the hook, and now she could hear it buzzing loudly. She remained motionless, attempting to filter out that sound. She did not think she could hear Sir John crying upstairs. Her heart twisted painfully whenever she thought about him.
Had he stopped mewling—or was the damned telephone interfering with her ability to hear?
Pain stabbed through her again. Poor Lady E. How could someone so grossly murder the lovely, elegant, personable cat?
The tears poured down her face. Why had someone done this? Why?
And then Jill knew why. It had not been a prank. Oh, no.
Jill wet her lips and slammed off the entryway lights. The downstairs was immediately cast in shadows and darkness, but the upstairs remained
lit. Jill did not dare go up those stairs. It occurred to her that Lady E.’s murderer might have stolen into the house—if he or she had wanted to—while she was upstairs with Sir John—or downstairs with the pizza boy.
lit. Jill did not dare go up those stairs. It occurred to her that Lady E.’s murderer might have stolen into the house—if he or she had wanted to—while she was upstairs with Sir John—or downstairs with the pizza boy.
Don’t be afraid, Jill told herself, inhaling raggedly. There’s no reason the cat’s killer would come inside.
Her heart was pounding like a heavy drum inside of her breast. Fear almost immobilized her. Jill started very slowly across the parlor, pausing every few seconds to listen for the sound of an intruder, hiding inside or outside of the house. She only heard the sound of her own labored breathing and the goddamned phone.
Before she entered the kitchen she peeked inside, her back flat to the adjacent wall. It appeared to be empty. Jill slammed off the lights, ran across it, closed the back door—which had been ajar. Oh, God! As she locked both the push button on the knob and then slid the small bolt home, she realized the two locks looked silly and incapable of deterring even the least experienced of burglars.
What had Alex said? He had said he could pick the front locks with his eyes closed.
And Jill heard the screech of tires and the roar of his monster’s engine even from the kitchen, where she stood, forgetting to breathe. She did not move.
Lady E. was a warning. Jill was certain of it. Who had delivered that warning?
Someone who did not want her identifying Kate’s murderer. A Sheldon—or even Alex Preston.
“Jill! Jill!” Alex was knocking loudly, repeatedly, on the front door. “Jesus!”
Jill began to shake again. Alex was very loyal to the Sheldons, but he would never go so far. He was not a nut, and he had not murdered Lady E. He had been in his office.
But what about call forwarding?
“Jill! Are you okay? God damn it!” he exploded from outside.
Jill did not move. For all she knew, he could have been outside with his cell phone, taking her call moments ago.
Or he could have had someone else do his dirty work for him.
Glass exploded, shattering.
Jill cried out.
Suddenly Alex was racing through the house, lights flooding it as he hit switch after switch. He halted in his tracks when he saw Jill, who remained
standing frozen in the kitchen, her back to the door she had locked only moments ago.
standing frozen in the kitchen, her back to the door she had locked only moments ago.
“Thank God you’re okay!” He strode to her.
His face was a mask of concern. But she stepped away from him, ducking out of his reach.
His eyes widened. “Jill?”
She tried, desperately, to think clearly—to get a grip on her hysteria and fear. But her emotions were out of control. Jill felt as if she were approaching the very worst downhill descent on a roller coaster. “Someone killed the cat!”
“I know. Jill. It’s okay,” he soothed.
She couldn’t back up again—her spine was pressed against the door, the tiny bolt digging painfully into one shoulder blade. “It’s not okay. Lady E. is dead. Who killed her?”
“How the hell would I know?”
She just stared at him, her mind going round and round in spinning circles, with Lady E.’s bloody image the heart of it all.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” He stepped toward her, reaching out for her.
Jill stepped away. “It wasn’t a prank.”
His eyes widened.
“It was a warning.”
“A warning,” Alex repeated, as if he did not understand English.
Jill nodded, and she started to cry.
Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace. “You’re shaking. You’re stiff as a board. Honey. It was a prank.”
“You’re one of them,” she wanted to say, but she didn’t, because she was weeping, all over his pale blue button-down shirt and red checked tie.
One of his big hands stroked through her hair, over and down the back of her head. “Don’t cry. Don’t you know that’s the one thing us big machos can’t handle?”
She smiled against his chest.
He held her more tightly. “Oh, shit. This is out of hand,” he muttered—or she thought that is what he said.
Jill hoped she hadn’t heard him say that. Maybe she had misunderstood his meaning. Maybe he had meant he couldn’t deal with her tears. In any case, she was being paranoid to think that he had anything to do with the cat’s death, to think that he might know who had a hand in it. Alex might be protective of his family, but he was not a “sick.” Only
someone with the lack of morals of a sociopath would decapitate a beloved pet—or any animal, for that matter.
someone with the lack of morals of a sociopath would decapitate a beloved pet—or any animal, for that matter.
He felt safe now, when the night felt terrifying.
His hands stilled, now on her shoulders.
Jill finally, slowly, looked up, into his eyes.
Their gazes locked.
“Do you know who killed the cat?” Jill heard herself say very calmly now. But the calm was superficial. She remained sick inside of herself.
He stiffened, releasing her. “Let’s talk.”
Jill nodded. She went to the kitchen table and sat down. Alex went to the counter, opening up cabinets. “I have no booze,” she said.
“Great.” He opened the refrigerator, scanned its contents, closed it. “You need help here, kiddo. Now I see why you’re so thin.”
“He took my pizza.” Jill wasn’t hungry, but she heard how dull her tone was.
He came and sat down, pulling his chair close to hers. “Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“I’ll call.”
She seized his wrist. “Why?”
“So the kid who did this gets his due,” Alex said with anger flaring in his eyes.
Jill looked at him.
He stared back.
“Someone wants me to go home,” Jill said flatly. “Because of Kate—and you know it, too.”
He studied her. “I don’t know if I buy that,” he said, his tone even. He turned away, but not before Jill saw the anger in his expression.
Was he furious because someone had done this to her? Or because someone in his family had something to do with it and she had correctly guessed so? Jill stared. She could not decide.
Alex did not have to do his own dirty work. He was loaded.
Jill closed her eyes briefly, wishing she’d not had that thought—again.
If he was involved in any way, then he was an utter sociopath.
“Let me make a few calls,” Alex said. “I’ll have someone come over and clean up, I’ll have some scotch delivered, and some food, too. You want a Valium?”
She didn’t answer, thinking that she was afraid not to have her wits about her.
“That doctor I mentioned. I can call him right now and—”
“No.”
“Okay.” He smiled at her, but his gaze was searching. “Hey. You are one helluva tough gal.” He touched her cheek briefly with his fingertips.
His touch was comforting. Jill stood, confused. “I don’t want to stay the night here alone,” she said cautiously.
“Of course not. I’ll stay. On the couch,” he added, returning her stare.
Jill nodded. “Lady E.” She stopped, fighting her sudden loss of composure. “We had become friends.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”
J
ill had changed into sweats and thick white socks. As she combed her hair, which was damp from a shower, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was utterly devoid of color, except for her hair, which appeared a dark red, and her mole, which stood out against her pale skin. Jill’s hand stilled. She felt as if she were looking at another version of Kate Gallagher.
ill had changed into sweats and thick white socks. As she combed her hair, which was damp from a shower, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was utterly devoid of color, except for her hair, which appeared a dark red, and her mole, which stood out against her pale skin. Jill’s hand stilled. She felt as if she were looking at another version of Kate Gallagher.
She felt as if she were looking at her twin.
She laid the comb down. A few minutes ago she had heard Alex speaking with someone downstairs—perhaps a delivery boy or whoever he had called to clean up the porch.
Jill’s knees buckled and she gripped the small sink for support. She had to tell Allen Barrows about his cat. And she had to ask him what he wanted to do with her. The prospect was unpleasant.
Sir John remained beneath her bed, crouching and watchful. Jill wanted to pick him up and hug him, but she was afraid she would chase him away.
Jill left the bathroom, making little noise in her thick wool socks. She checked on Sir John, who stared unblinkingly at her, and left the bedroom. The downstairs was cast in silence—Jill wondered if Alex had fallen asleep on the couch before offering her a scotch. She was about to take one step down those stairs, her hand on the smooth wooden banister, when she suddenly heard his voice. He was talking in very low tones, so she could not hear what he was saying, but he was extremely angry.
Jill stiffened, straining to hear. Now there was only silence.
Who was he talking to? And why was he angry?
Her pulse began to pound. Jill stepped down the stairs, one at a time, careful not to make a sound. On the bottom landing, she froze. He was, she thought, in the kitchen, on his cell phone.
Why hadn’t he used her telephone?
“I’m warning you,” Alex suddenly ground out. “You’ve fucked up big-time.” There was a pause. And Alex said, his tone hard and angry and mocking, “Right.”
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