The Heir of Thornfield Manor

by Ellie Thornton

  The love-triangle participants all started yelling. Debbie tried to step in and calm them, but it only made the problem worse. In moments, half the guests were shouting and—in Kristy’s case—smacking her husband over and over on his chest as he tried to restrain her. Lauren in turn grabbed Kristy’s hair to stop her. That brought Frank Marshall and Steve Baker over. Each of them grabbed a woman as they shrieked at one another.

  Elizabeth considered jumping in and breaking it up, but the men had it covered, and she was frankly more interested in Patrick, who kept a blank expression on his face as he watched what was happening. While she couldn’t tell what he was feeling, she swore she could almost see the gears in his mind whirring around. She found it slightly unnerving.

  As Frank and Steve separated the women, Frank, who was holding Lauren, lost his balance and fell back into Phil, knocking him, Lauren, and Frank to the floor. A heavy slur of cuss words streamed out of Phil’s mouth as he shoved the two in his attempts to get out from under them.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “For crying out loud.” She marched over to the tangled mass of arms and legs, grabbed the first hand she saw, and pulled Frank to his feet. She then reached for Lauren, but froze, along with the rest of the room, when four loud bangs, a pause, and a fifth bang reverberated through the house. She jerked around, her heart thudding in her chest harder than the gunshots she’d just heard.

  “What was that?” someone asked.

  She didn’t wait to explain. She pulled her firearm from her ankle holster and ran.

  * * *

  Elizabeth raced to the kitchen, reaching it in seconds, certain that’s where the shots had come from. It was the only room close enough for how loud the shots were. Out the open back door, sheets of pouring rain obscured her view. She kept her gun high and lifted the hand holding her flashlight to brace under her gun hand to see what she was aiming at; it did nothing to penetrate the dark outside. With her toe, she pushed the door shut, locked it, and went back to the kitchen.

  From the hall, she saw a body in the middle of the floor with blood seeping out from under it—too much blood. Her training kicked in. She leaned against one side of the arch, then shone the light to the right, then the left as she scanned the room for a perpetrator.

  Whoever had done this was long gone, but she had to look.

  Once sure the room was clear, she dropped next to the body—Susan Strong, she could now see—and took her pulse. Not so much as a thready beat. Not that Elizabeth had expected it. Blood seeped through Susan’s shirt in several spots where there were holes. Susan had been shot in the same execution style as Doctor Newlin and Katelyn Daley. And the only people who hadn’t been in the library when she’d been shot were Alice, Shaw, and Finley.

  As far as she knew, Finley was the only one with the gun.

  Mere seconds after she came in the room, the rest of the group crowded in the doorway.

  She knew she should stop them, keep them from trampling all over her potential evidence, but her mind reeled as she considered the possibility that Fin—sweet, lumbering Fin—could’ve been responsible for it all.

  There were several gasps, and then Phil pushed through the crowd, nearly bowling over Bridgette, who’d pushed to the front of the group right away. Phil stopped in his tracks.

  Elizabeth’s gaze fell on him as he took in the sight of his wife lying dead before him.

  His face fell, pain searing his every expression. “Susan? No. No!”

  He rushed forward, and Elizabeth’s heart fell. She’d seen spouses dealing with the murder of loved ones before, but always after the fact. She’d never be able to wipe his expression from her mind. She hadn’t liked the man, but no one deserved this. No one. In a beat, Elizabeth was up and between Phil and his wife’s body.

  He slammed into her. “Get out of my way,” he sobbed.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Move or I’ll move you!” His sorrow morphed in a blink of the eye to anger as she struggled to hold him back. Then he was yanked away from her. “Let me go!” Phil fought against Frank and Steve’s grasp.

  “This is a crime scene, Phil,” Frank said. “We can’t let you touch her.”

  Phil let out a sob and dropped to his knees. The two men holding him dropped with him, and Steve wrapped an arm around his back. Ellen came forward then and sat next to them. Phil buried his head in her shoulder. And behind them, the rest of the group stood still.

  All she saw was Patrick: his wide eyes, slightly agape mouth, and tight posture.

  Was this what it had been like for him when he’d come home to find Katelyn dead? Had there been anyone here to keep him from picking up her lifeless body? Had there been someone there to hold him?

  Elizabeth sucked in a gasp and covered her mouth. Her emotions were pushing up her throat. She had to calm down, to take charge.

  “Elizabeth.” Patrick stepped around the group huddled on the floor and was to her in three strides. He grabbed her shoulders. “You’re covered in blood.”

  She glanced down. She was. She hadn’t noticed how much she was getting on herself when she’d taken Susan’s pulse.

  “Are you okay?”

  She swallowed hard, then one more time. “I’m fine. Are you …?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask if he was okay. How could he be?

  “What’s happening?” Alice’s voice called out from behind the door.

  Finley and Shaw pushed through the group, Alice close behind. Fin held his gun, and Alice held a stack of towels. “Is everyone all right? We heard gunfire.”

  Elizabeth pushed Patrick aside and aimed her gun at Fin. “Where were you?”

  Shaw drew back a step and froze.

  Alice shrieked and dropped the towels, then turned her back. Helen was there and reached for her. The two stepped back until they were against the cupboards.

  Fin lifted his hands in surrender. His gun finger was off the trigger. “Whoa, whoa. Elizabeth, what are you doing?”

  “You three were the only ones not accounted for when the shots sounded, and as far as I can see, you’re the only one with a gun, Fin,” she said.

  “We were all upstairs, together.” He glanced over at the older woman.

  Alice kept Helen’s hand but stepped forward. “It’s true. We were pulling the towels out of the cupboard when we heard the shots. He was with me the whole time.”

  “And none of you noticed when Susan vanished?” she asked.

  “Alice showed her to a bathroom downstairs, and the rest of us went upstairs to get towels.” Fin’s gaze flicked to Patrick and back. “Come on, Elizabeth. You don’t really think I did this?”

  Did she? Not really. Unless she could believe the three of them were in cahoots, which she didn’t. She lowered her gun.

  “Thank you.” He rubbed his palms on his pants.

  “What’s that?” Shaw’s gravelly voice was stressed as he pointed to the body.

  Elizabeth turned. She hadn’t been looking at the floor when she’d first come in; she’d had her eyes up and searching for the shooter. And then her focus had been on Susan, and then on Phil. She’d missed it. A message written in blood.

  Shaw read it out loud. “‘Too many pieces at play; I’ve come to wipe all evidence away. I’m waiting.’”

  “I’m waiting?” Noah said, taking a step back. “Does that mean the killer’s still here?”

  “Oh, please.” Bridgette folded her arms.

  Elizabeth tightened her grip on her gun and noticed a similar reaction from Finley. That was a pretty long message to be written in blood. If she’d missed the writing, had she missed something else? She glanced around the kitchen, looking for anything else unusual. Back by the pantry sat a bowl that looked full of some kind of plant.

  Patrick stared from the message to Noah, and then slowly around at the rest of the group. “This is exactly how my wife was shot. Whoever killed my wife is here to clean up after himself. And he started with Susan.” He faced Phil. “Come on, Phil. Why w
ould someone want to kill your wife?”

  Phil buried his head in his hands.

  Elizabeth marched over to the bowl and picked up a stem with green leaves and one bright purple trumpet flower. A nervous sensation swirled around in her stomach as she tried to remember where she’d seen it.

  “If you know something, Phil,” Finley asked, “now’s the time to tell us.”

  “I didn’t know.” Phil began to sob again.

  “You didn’t know what?” Finley asked.

  “I got her killed. I got my Susan killed.”

  “Phil, what did you do?” Frank said, his police chief voice coming out for the first time that night.

  Phil wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I needed a loan. We were going to lose the farm, but Calhoun’s bank wouldn’t give it to us. So when Calhoun called me and said he’d give me the loan provided I do him a favor in the coming weeks, I agreed.”

  Elizabeth turned back to the group, her stare firmly planted on Phil. Well, this was just getting better and better.

  Phil continued, “I didn’t know what was going to happen. That someone was going to kill Katelyn. I’d already taken the loan. I … I was stuck. I had to tell them I’d seen that homeless man that night.”

  Finley and Frank turned to Calhoun. Noah backed up, but his wife pushed him forward none too gently.

  “You killed her?” Frank asked.

  “No! No. I didn’t. You don’t understand.” Noah held his hands up as though he expected to be punched. “I didn’t kill her. I was blackmailed. I got an anonymous phone call telling me that if I didn’t offer the Strongs the loan, they’d …” He looked at his wife.

  Elizabeth tightened her grip on her gun. “Tell your wife you were sleeping with Lauren Holt?”

  Noah’s gaze flew to Elizabeth, his jaw dropping. He nodded slowly.

  Kristy slapped him across the face.

  He grabbed his cheek and shrank back.

  Lauren stepped out of her boyfriend’s embrace. “How could you do that? A woman was killed!”

  Noah hung his head.

  Elizabeth ran her finger over the somewhat smooth side of the leaf pressed in her fingers. She glanced from face to guilty face. Who was next?

  Finley placed his hands on his hips. “Who else has something to share?”

  Debbie inched forward and raised her hand. “I do.”

  Everyone faced her.

  Shaw stepped forward. “Debbie.”

  Debbie lifted her chin. “It’s the right thing to do, Police Chief Shaw. The night Katelyn was killed, someone broke into my store, downloaded a virus into my computer system, and wiped everything. My records, my video surveillance, everything. It happened sometime after eleven when I left for the night. Police Chief Shaw told me that he knew who’d broken into my store, and that he had another witness who saw him leaving for the Daley Manor at exactly 10:20, and that if I said I’d seen him too, that I’d seen him with a gun, he could kill two birds with one stone. Get the guy who’d broken into my store, and Katelyn’s killer.” She faced Patrick. “I’m so sorry. He seemed so sure. I thought I was helping.”

  “I want my lawyer,” Shaw said.

  “I’m sure you do.” Finley sounded as disgusted as Elizabeth felt.

  Chief Frank Marshall turned to Steve and Frances Baker. “What about you two? Why are you here?”

  Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone’s here for a reason,” Finley added. “What’s your part in this?”

  Patrick stepped forward, making his presence known for the first time since the confessing started. “He has no part in this. Not really. He and Frances saw the homeless man, Alan, counting money the day that he killed my wife.”

  Elizabeth looked up. What? The day that Alan killed his wife?

  “The homeless man killed your wife? How do you know that?” Finley asked.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Patrick stared at his feet. “Someone with enough money to bribe a well-respected police chief—I’m guessing to be the sole beneficiary of his uncle’s estate—and to blackmail a banker; someone who’s smart enough to get several people caught up in a conspiracy found out that Alan Houser—that’s our homeless man’s last name—was a sniper in Vietnam. He hired him to kill my wife and disappear. As was evidenced by the Bakers when they saw him counting money.

  “But Alan has found out, I’ve been digging, and now he’s back to cover his tracks. Of course, when lies make it into the official police report, it’s no surprise that pertinent testimonies like the Bakers’ would be excluded.” His voice warbled, and he cleared it before finishing. “Regardless, he’s back to finish what he started, and from the looks of it, he’s the best at what he does.” His stare trailed to Susan.

  Bridgette guffawed and crossed her arms. “Oh, please.”

  Patrick turned on her. “What?”

  She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him.

  “I almost forgot about you,” Patrick said. “What’s your part?”

  “You tell me.” She raised her chin. “You invited me here.”

  “Yes, I did. It took me years to figure it all out. How the Strongs needed the loan, how Noah Calhoun was having an affair and being blackmailed, Shaw’s shoddy work and reward, Debbie’s misguided intentions, the Bakers, and you … Bridgette. I’ve been planning this moment out for weeks. Exactly what was going to happen, and how I’d make it work.”

  Make … it work? Elizabeth’s stomach did a flip-flop as she lifted the plant and stared at it.

  “I know everything,” Patrick said. “What little I didn’t know was just given me by all these loose tongues. Everything except who you work for.”

  Crap. Belladonna. Elizabeth cussed under her breath. The champagne. He’d laced the champagne. That’s why he’d taken her glass from her earlier. That’s why Alice and Finley had refrained as well. They’d both been in on it. And that’s why Kristy and Bridgette had seen something in the library; the poison had made everyone hallucinate.

  After the recording in the dining room of a voice that sounded like Katelyn, and Alice saying she’d seen Katelyn’s ghost, it was almost assured what they’d see. The power of a strong drug and suggestion. And that wasn’t all it could do. She went to Susan and knelt beside her again. She grabbed her pulse point, closed her eyes, and waited.

  Bridgette starting clapping. “Well done, Patrick. But can you prove it?”

  One, one thousand.

  “Can I prove that you killed my wife and Dr. Newlin?” Patrick asked.

  Two, one thousand.

  Bridgette giggled and placed a hand to her chest. “You think I killed them? Little ol’ me? I’ve never been a murder suspect before. This is so exciting.”

  Three, one thousand.

  “That’s not how I’d describe it.” Patrick’s tone filled with hate.

  Four, one thousand.

  “I mean, a person would have to be one truly sick individual to kill for money. Would really have to enjoy it to be so precise in their work.” Bridgette smiled and pointed at Susan. “This, however, is desperate at best. A finger painting next to a Monet.”

  Beat. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open.

  “I don’t kill people for money,” Patrick said.

  Elizabeth reached for Susan’s top and ripped it open. Under each bullet hole was placed a squib, designed to explode out and give the appearance of bullet holes in clothing. They were used in movies all the time.

  “Neither do I,” Bridgette said. “And I dare you to prove otherwise.”

  Elizabeth lifted her now bloody fingers and smelled them: sweet and soapy. She tasted it, then spit it out. Chocolate syrup and detergent, and of course red food dye for believability.

  “What are you doing?” Phil’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  “Who says I need to prove it?” Patrick asked.

  Finley moved forward. “Patrick, stop. Don’t say another word.”

  “It’s not blood, Mr. Strong.” Eliz
abeth jumped to her feet. “Fin, can I have a word?”

  He followed her out of earshot. “What’s up?”

  “I know you’ve been in on all this. Now, please tell me you have a phone that works.”

  “In on what?” Finley asked.

  “Susan is alive, but she needs medical attention, now. You idiots overdosed her,” Elizabeth said.

  “Uh-oh,” Bridgette called out from across the space. “Someone’s little girlfriend/cop is mad.”

  Finley moved closer and lowered his voice. “We didn’t drug anyone.”

  “Really? Because from the looks of it, everyone here’s been drugged except for you, Patrick, and Alice.” She pointed her flashlight in the eyes of a couple of the group.

  “Hey, watch it!” Shaw barked.

  “Even with the light right in their eyes, their pupils are staying dilated and people are hallucinating.” Elizabeth lifted the leaf. “All symptoms of belladonna poisoning.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but you have bigger fish to fry. Susan needs a doctor, now.” She put her hands on her hips. “Please tell me you have a working phone?”

  Finley took a deep breath. “No, but I can get help here in minutes.”

  “She’s not poisoned.” Patrick passed them on the way to the pantry, and a second later came out with a little vial of what looked like salt. He knelt down next to Susan, lifted her, and put the vial to her nose.

  Her eyes flew open and she grinned. “Hi, Patrick,” she said around a wide yawn. “Did it work?”

  “Perfectly,” he said.

  “They all bought it.”

  Phil stood. “Susan?”

  Susan’s gaze flew to Phil as Patrick helped her to her feet. “Hey, hon. Did I scare you?”

  Phil rushed her and pulled her into his arms, fake blood mix and all.

  “Fin, how fast can you get everyone out of here?” Elizabeth held the plant in her fist.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “I have a radio in the foyer.”

  “Oh, good,” Bridgette said. “I was getting bored.”

  Patrick looked at Bridgette. “You’re not going anywhere.”