A Dagger Cuts Deep

by Kathy L Wheeler

  He shook his head of the visions. “I’ll head out to the cottage. See if I can take a look around before the temporary tenant settles in. There might be something there to give us some clue about who murdered him.”

  “That is an excellent plan,” Wyn said.

  Jackson shoved away from his desk. “So it is.”

  8

  Deidre sat at the small breakfast table with Lori and Mrs. Phillips. “We are very close to the water,” Deidre said. She was not thrilled having learned that but it was an island. So no matter when one went, the path would inevitably lead to water.

  Lori’s brow crinkled. “Do you think my mother will have trouble finding us here?”

  Oh, no. This wasn’t exactly a good time to tell Lori her mother wouldn’t be looking for them. Ever.

  At only four, Lori was highly sensitive to others moods. She jumped down from her chair and rushed to Deidre’s side, hugging her waist. “Don’t be sad, Aunt Dee. Please. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  Blinking back tears, Deidre hugged her back. “Oh, darling, you didn’t hurt my feelings.” She picked her up and settled Lori on her lap. “I’m afraid I have some… difficult news for you. Your mother isn’t coming back. She’s… she’s an angel now.”

  “An angel?”

  Deidre laid her cheek on the top of Lori’s head.

  “Oh, you mean she’s dead.” Her voice was so matter-of-fact, Diedre found herself too stunned to respond. She lifted her head and pulled back, looking her small, upturned face.

  Lori wrinkled her nose. “Ralphie’s meemaw is dead. He said she went to hell.”

  Across the table, Mrs. Phillips mouth gaped. She took a deep breath, near to combusting with a string of words Deidre couldn’t deal with at the moment. She put up a hand to stop Mrs. Phillips. The situation was delicate enough as it was. “In a manner of speaking,” she said to Lori. “Only, I think your mother went to heaven. She’ll be there to look out after us. I have a feeling Ralphie’s meemaw did as well.”

  Lori didn’t say anything for a long time. “Oh.” She spoke with a small shrug. “At least I have my doll. I’ll take good care of her since it will be a long time before I see my mother again.”

  Deidre kissed her forehead. “That’s an excellent thing to do, darling. One more thing, and this is important Lori. You must never go near the water without me or Mrs. Phillips accompanying you, no matter how tempting. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Do you understand why?”

  Lori’s fine, dark hair was pulled up in a high ponytail and bobbed when she nodded. “Because I don’t know how to swim?”

  “Exactly. So I would like your promise that you will not go down to the water.”

  She nodded. “I promise, Mama.”

  “Thank you,” Deidre said solemnly. She glanced at Mrs. Phillips. “I would like to go into town this morning and speak with Melinda. She owns the Cobblestone Café. I have some questions for her. I’ll walk in the event you should need the car. It’s not very far.”

  “What shall Lori and I do today?”

  “The town is readying for the arts fair. You may have seen the banners when you disembarked the ferry. You might enjoy just taking in the few sights there are. And perhaps see about obtaining packing boxes. The market might have some.”

  Mrs. Phillips looked at Lori and smiled. “We shall try that. I think we shall also see about picking up a few new books too. How would you like that, my dear?”

  “That would be lovely, Mrs. Phillips,” said the ever-polite Lori.

  With Lori’s help, Deidre cleaned up the tiny kitchen then waved Mrs. Phillips and Lori off.

  Afterwards, Deidre donned the only pair of walking shoes she’d thought to bring and headed toward town. The morning was beautiful with clear, deep blue skies unmarred by a single cloud. At the fork of the drive where one could turn toward the church, she paused and shaded her eyes, looking in the direction of the gothic revival-style structure. There were no cars about, and the ghostly fingers she’d felt the day before again raised the hair on her nape. Melinda hadn’t said how the minister had died, but Deidre’s intuition told her his death had not one of a natural causes.

  Shivering, she hurried away, following South Church Road to Main Street, anxious to speak with the woman who’d already helped her so generously. She trudged past the Tavern Grill, then the Island Inn, and found herself stopped at the same corner where the red car had almost struck her. Again, she waited to cross the street. She’d been so upset at that near miss that she hadn’t noticed the building she’d been standing in front of: the sheriff’s office.

  ~~~

  Josephine Weatherford-Smith, wife of Wyndel Smith, Jr., set a basket of food on her sister Lydia’s desk in the Island Chronicle newspaper office and dropped into the chair across.

  Frizzle, an English mastiff and Jo’s constant companion, set his massive, wrinkled head on her lap.

  There were two telephones on Lydia’s oversized desk, along with not-so-neatly stacked piles of papers of differing heights. All in all, it resembled Lydia’s home workspace. “I thought you made a vow to keep things neater,” Jo said.

  Lydia’s gaze swept the surface with a grimace. Her expression cleared and she sniffed. It came off more as a disdainful snort. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell Preston. It’s too early in our marriage for him to learn of my supposed lack of organizational skills.”

  Jo lifted her brows with a pointed look at the mess. “Supposed lack of?”

  “I’ll have you know, I can lay my hands on anything I need at a moment’s notice.”

  Jo shrugged. “I expect Preston already knows about your slobbish tendencies, and I’m sure he’s not concerned.” Lydia and her husband, Preston, had managed to save Eleanor, the sisters’ mother, from a dire fate. She’d been committed to an asylum for the insane and kept drugged to within an inch of her life over a period of sixteen years. Lydia and Preston had solved a murder and fallen in love. Theirs was the second marriage of the four required to fulfill the terms of Victor’s ridiculous codicil.

  An article regaling Victor’s murder had catapulted Lydia to local fame and secured her position in the news industry, lauding her as one of the first women in the country with her own front page by-line. All because of their uncle’s untimely demise. Funny how think worked out sometimes.

  “I brought you lunch,” Jo told her.

  “Oh, thanks,” she gushed. “I’m famished—” One of the phones rang, cutting her off. “Lydia Weatherford-Guild.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Hey, Hawke.” Lydia looked at Jo and rolled her eyes.

  Hawke, Lydia’s boss, was a talker.

  Waiting patiently, Jo rested her hand on Frizzle’s large head in her lap as she surveyed the office. Lydia’s career was one of those that did not work within the confines of nine-to-five. Three- to four-foot-tall stacks of newspaper back issues lined one wall. A table in the corner hosted a coffee pot filled with what smelled like burnt joe. Jo pushed Frizzle’s head from her lap, rose and meandered over. She turned off the hotplate, wrinkling her nose at the spilled sugar.

  The printing press was located through a door across the room. The Island Chronicle was a weekly, and rightly so, as there were only a couple of thousand residents on the island year round. Jo made her way back to her chair, but before she sat down, Lydia slammed down the phone and dashed to the door.

  Jo’s heart kicked up an erratic notch. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got to find Jackson.”

  ~~~

  Jackson stalked out the door of the sheriff’s office into the bright and blinding sun, smack into an attractive stylishly-dressed young woman. “Pardon me, ma’am—Dear God. Charity!” Jackson’s heart stopped as he caught hold of her arms to steady the two of them. To say he was stunned speechless would be an understatement. She’d darkened her hair. But those eyes. The same guileless,
innocent-looking, hazel-gold eyes that haunted his dreams the last four years.

  Her lips were sweeter then than he’d remembered from their short unfortunate marriage; her eyes gentler, her skin softer.

  Other memories cascaded over him. Her touches, her sweet murmurs of love everlasting, her feckless promises, her price for desertion… His heartbeat kicked in and tripled.

  The old Jackson, the hot-headed Jackson, he’d believed gone, surged through his blood. His fingers loosened their hold on her. “You have a lot of gall showing your face around here.” he snarled.

  “Jackson!”

  Lydia’s startled yell reached him from across the street.

  Jackson tore his eyes from Charity, watching Lydia as she ran. She dashed into the road without a care for her safety. She pulled up in front of him, panting for breath. “It’s Charity, Jackson. She’s dead. Stabbed to death.”

  The woman in Jackson’s clasp shuddered. He turned his eyes to her horrified gaze. She looked ready to bolt. His clasp firmed, searching her familiar features for answers. A deadly calm settled over him. “Then, who the hell are you?” he demanded softly.

  9

  Deidre’s heart pounded. She recognized Jackson Montgomery from the Cobblestone the evening before. She hadn’t had an opportunity to study him then. He looked nothing like the sallow drunkard she’d encountered four years before. She was stunned to discover how attractive he was. Tall, closely cut black hair, sharp and piercing blue eyes, a physique honed to perfection, and a strong hand that gripped her arm. She tried shaking him off, to no avail.

  The seemingly mad woman who’d run out of the Island Chronicle building was having trouble catching her breath.

  Jackson’s astonishment shifted from the other woman back to Diedre, and his hand released her as if her skin was molten lava.

  Deidre shot him a feral smile. Hatred and other less identifiable emotions unfurled in her chest. “My name is Deidre Spence. Charity was my twin, Mr. Montgomery. My identical twin. What a pleasure to finally make your sobered acquaintance.”

  “Twin.” He fairly choked the word out. “Charity had a… twin?”

  “I find it difficult to believe you didn’t know.” Deidre smoothed her hands over her russet crepe skirt.

  “She’s dead?”

  Deidre scowled at his feigned surprise. Of course it was feigned. “As if you didn’t know.”

  One hand went to his hip, the other rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes bore through her. “How the hell was I supposed to know? I couldn’t care less if she were dead or living in a cardboard box in the Freedom Tunnel or residing in Tibet among the monks.”

  “Why you obnoxious, overbearing ox—”

  Another woman, equally fashionable, but apparently too dignified to run, strolled over from the opposite side of the street with a massive hound trotting at her side. She stared at Deidre. “Charity—”

  “Not Charity,” Jackson bit out. “She claims she’s Charity’s twin.”

  “Claims?” Jackson Montgomery’s audacity floored Deidre. “We have the same face!”

  “Oh my. You are the spitting image of her, aren’t you? Jackson, you can hardly deny the fact… except for the hair,” the third woman said. “I’m Josephine Smith. Call me Jo. This is Frizzle.”

  Deidre held out her hand, but Jo’s hands quickly moved to her back. An awkward pause ensued and Deidre rushed to cover. “I’m Deidre Spence. Charity was my sister.”

  Jo’s brows lifted. “Was?”

  “My sister is dead,” she said with a pointed look at Jackson.

  The panting woman had gathered her breath and stuck out her hand. “Don’t mind Jo,” she said. “I’m Lydia Gould. Jackson is our cousin. His manners are atrocious.” She smacked him on the shoulder. “We thought he’d finally outgrown his childish rudeness.”

  He hadn’t appeared to change a single iota to Deidre from four years ago. She shook Lydia’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “So… you’re the one staying at the Knox’s cottage?” Jo said.

  “Er, yes. The Island Inn and Pebble Bed & Breakfast were fully booked for the summer. Melinda at the café found out that I needed a place and she spoke to the owner. I was just on my way there to talk to her. Melinda, that is.”

  “The preacher who lived in the cottage is also dead,” Jackson said flatly. “Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

  Deidre shot him another scowl. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  “Ruth, Reverend Knox’s daughter, is currently staying at the manor house with us, Miss Spence,” Jo said gently.

  “Mrs.” Deidre corrected automatically—her ruse to protect Lori. She hoped no one would notice that she was using the same last name as Charity.

  “Of course. Mrs. Spence. Melinda was right to think of it. Ruth is much too overwrought to go back to the cottage.”

  “Thank you, Jo, but please, you must call me Deidre. Ruth’s feelings are explicable under the circumstances. In exchange for staying at the cottage, I’ve agreed to pack up Miss Knox’s things. Do you know if or when another minister is to be installed?”

  “The sheriff has already notified the Bishops’ Council of the need for a replacement,” Jackson dropped her arm.

  “Yes, but there’s plenty of time, I’m sure.” Lydia said. “Nothing gets done on the island when the arts fair is going on. Too many tourists.”

  A soft breath escaped from Deidre, she rubbed her arms. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “You must have lunch with us,” Lydia said.

  Jackson recovered his annoying arrogance. “Not so fast, Lydia.” He looked at Deidre. “Mrs. Spence and I have several important things to discuss.” He took Deidre gently by the arm again and turned her to him. “Let’s start with exactly why you’re on the island. I find it much too coincidental that Charity and Knox are both dead. Not just dead,” he clarified, “but murdered—stabbed.”

  The shock of his words was usurped only by his fingers searing her skin.

  He sent a pointed look to his cousin, Lydia, a look Deidre had no trouble reading. “Not a word of this better show up in the Chronicle, cuz.”

  The next thing Deidre knew, she was being hauled back along South Church Road towards the cottage.

  ~~~

  Jackson didn’t trust himself to speak, fuming all the way up the road to the cottage, leaving his cousins behind, gaping. Logically, there was no reason to be angry with Deidre Spence. Hell, he more than anyone knew how Charity could spin a tale to epic proportions. She had been a master at using her sex appeal to manipulate even the most cynical. And Jackson was more cynical than most. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a few flaws of his own. In his own father’s eyes, Jackson had been nothing but a spineless mama’s boy with no future. In the year since his parents’ deaths, though, Jackson wanted to believe he’d matured.

  He liked to believe that in some ways he had—he no longer flew into a rage at the least little slight; his rages had faded with his father’s death; he no longer drank like a fish; and he took his cousins’ ribbings with the dry wit in which they were meant. He’d even go so far as to say he actually liked Jo, Lydia, and Tevi. He wouldn’t have said that some twenty years ago when they’d come to the island and invaded his home.

  He dropped Mrs. Spence’s arm. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gruffly.

  She rubbed the spot but shook her head as they walked on. The silence was not uncomfortable per se, but it hovered like a heavy specter. When they reached the house she didn’t go up the steps to the porch, instead leading them around to the back and down a path that sloped to the water’s edge.

  Deidre Spence’s demeanor was fierce not hostile. She seemed a conundrum of contradictions with her subtle makeup, conservative dress, softer yet fierce tone as compared to Charity’s outrage and mocking one. He came to a stop at the shore’s edge. “You may not believe me, but I am sorry for your loss.” He shoved a hand through
his hair. “I truly didn’t wish her harm.”

  He cut a glance her way in time to see her full lips tighten. She crossed her arms over her midsection as she stared out at the open sea.

  Jackson tried a different tack. “Besides me,” he said with gritty determination, “who else do you suppose would want Charity dead?”

  Her gaze snapped to his, then back over the water. “No one I can think of,” she clipped out in brisk haughtiness.

  He might have found her sarcasm amusing, but with Charity’s demise, there were now two deaths—not just deaths, but stabbings—to account for. He didn’t know how or if they could possibly connect, but—as he had told his cousins—it was too coincidental. Mrs. Spence’s accusations frustrated him and unfurled every deep-seated self-doubt he’d ever harbored in his gut.

  He studied her lifted chin. “I feel like we’ve met before—”

  Curiously, her cheeks pinked, but she cut him off. “What exactly is your vocation, Mr. Montgomery?”

  He laughed. It was self-deprecating at best. “I’m a, uh, private dick.”

  She turned slowly, fully facing him, clearly shocked by his words. “You investigate crimes?”

  An edge of his past temper flared at her obvious skepticism. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his abilities, his feelings, his inner workings. She knew nothing about him. With effort, he tamped back his aggravation. “It’s true,” he said, hating his defensive tone.

  “When was the last time you saw my sister?” she asked.

  “The day before my father paid her to walk away from our marriage—no, wait. There was one other time. But I was, uh, a little inebriated at the time”— a fiery heat crawled up his neck—“so that memory is a bit fuzzy. What about you?”