Shattered Virtue

by Magda Alexander

  And the shot that would have killed me blasts a hole in my shoulder instead.

  The excruciating pain cuts off my breath. I drop the ladder and grab my shoulder. Even in the weak light of the moon, I can see my hand is red. Son of a bitch. My only thought is for her. Madrigal.

  Her window flies open and she screams my name. “Steele!”

  Gritting my teeth against the pain, I yell one word. “Hide!” Changing direction, I race toward the front door; my only thought is to get her.

  When another shot rings out, I duck. But then I realize this one came from somewhere inside the house. Looking up, I spot a dark figure running out the front door. From this distance I can’t tell height or sex. Before I can react, the figure climbs the fence with my rope and is gone. Nimble bastard. I run into the house, up the steps. Madrigal’s pounding on her door from inside her room. I kick the damn thing in, and she flies into my arms. “Trenton. Oh, my God. You’re hurt.”

  Figures. The first time she voluntarily says my name, I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. “Yes.”

  Now that I see she’s safe and sound, my heart slows down, and I manage to take a full breath. “You’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Thank God.” I wrap her in my arms, kiss the top of her head. I don’t know what I would have done if she’d been hurt.

  “Madrigal?” More pounding on a door several rooms down from Madrigal’s.

  “Olivia? He must have locked her in too.”

  I kick down that door as well, and a fortysomething woman, her brown hair every which way, barrels out.

  “Madrigal! Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I am, but Steele’s not. He’s bleeding.”

  “I heard two shots.”

  Pandemonium’s beginning to reign downstairs. More than likely servants rushing in from somewhere, dressed in pajamas, robes. Someone screams. A female. “Oh, my God.”

  “Where’s Gramps?” Madrigal asks, but I don’t have the answer to that question.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

  She breaks free from my embrace and takes off down the stairs into Holden’s study. I follow her as fast as I can. But not fast enough. When I arrive in the study, she’s standing in the center of the room, a look of horror on her face. No wonder. Holden Gardiner is no more. He’s facedown, half his head blown off, his brains strewn over the antique desk he’d pounded a few hours ago.

  “God, no.”

  I turn her face away from what’s left of Holden Gardiner. “Don’t look, Madrigal.” Taking her hand, I lead her away.

  Outside the study, that same mahogany table I first saw the day of the picnic fills the vestibule; a vase of fresh flowers rests on it. Such a normal sight for such a horrible night. A servant dressed in pajamas runs in holding a shotgun.

  “Hartley,” Madrigal says. “Gramps. He’s . . . dead.”

  Mitch bursts in through the front door behind Hartley. “What the hell happened? I heard shots.”

  “Holden. He killed himself. We need to call the police.”

  Ignoring my request, he rushes into the study as if he has to find out for himself. Thirty seconds later he walks out, his face deathly white. “There’s no note.”

  “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

  “No. Of course not. You’re hurt.” By this time Hartley and Olivia are attending to me. Somebody fetched a first aid kit, and they’re doing their best to patch me up.

  “Not to worry. I’m a skillful healer, sir,” Hartley says.

  Yeah, of horses. But I can the snark. One rule of thumb I’ve lived by: you don’t snap back at someone trying to help you. “I can tell. Thank you.”

  I’m much more concerned about Madrigal. She’s gasping for breath. Her skin’s clammy and the shade of a ghost. “Olivia.” I touch her arm as gently as I can. Her lost look tells me she has to be experiencing some trauma herself.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you get Madrigal a glass of whiskey and a blanket? She’s going into shock.”

  “Yes, of course.” She turns from me and directs one of the servants to bring her what she needs. When she tries to give her the glass, Madrigal won’t take it. “No.”

  I take it from Olivia’s hand, and with my good arm, the one not bandaged by Hartley, I bring the glass to her lips. “Darling, drink this.”

  “I don’t like the taste of whiskey.”

  “Sweetheart, please. For me.”

  She studies me for a second or two before she nods. “Okay.” After she takes a sip, she coughs, but I give her more until she’s consumed the last drop.

  “Olivia, could you get her to lie down? Put her feet up higher than her head.”

  “I’m not leaving you. You’re hurt,” Madrigal protests.

  “Hartley patched me up. See?”

  Sirens sound in the distance. Before too long, this house will be filled with police, crime scene investigators, medical examiner’s reps.

  “Madrigal, you really shouldn’t be here for what’s coming. Go with Olivia, love. I’ll come up as soon as we deal with . . . things.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Of course I promise.”

  Once she disappears up the steps with Olivia, I turn to Mitch, who’s been quietly observing the whole thing.

  “When I warned you off her before? I was wrong. You’re exactly what she needs.”

  “A mutt from the wrong side of the tracks?”

  “A decent, caring man who’s in love with her.”

  I’ve tried hard to cover up my feelings for Madrigal, but after tonight there’s no doubt. He’s right. I’m in love with her. Something about her calls to me. I want to protect her, love her, cuddle next to her by the fire on a cold winter’s night. I scrub my face. “We’ve got other things to worry about, Mitch, than the state of my love life.”

  “Why do you think he shot himself?” Mitch asks.

  “Who knows? Maybe he thought he couldn’t stop the truth from coming out.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “I don’t know.” But I’ll find out if it’s the last thing I do.

  The next couple of hours pass in a blur. The police arrive and with them a Detective Broynihan. They secure the crime scene and set about the task of interviewing the servants, Mitch, me. Mitch fetches Madrigal, and they take her to the kitchen to interview her.

  After she’s questioned, I accompany her back to her room. She doesn’t need to see her grandfather’s body being carted off. I ask Olivia to give us a minute so that we can talk.

  “Feeling better?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to do? Tonight, I mean? Do you want to stay or come home with me?”

  She burrows into my arms. “I should stay, shouldn’t I? Everyone will look to me now.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand if you don’t want to be here at least for tonight.”

  “We’ll need to get Madison back,” Madrigal says.

  “We will. In the morning.”

  “We’ll need another place to live. Madison doesn’t want to stay here, and frankly, neither do I. But I’ll need to figure out things first. The servants, the estate.”

  “There are plenty of other places for you to live. Mitch’s for one.” Mine for another.

  “No. Not Mitch’s. Somewhere far away from all this.”

  I know it’s just the tragedy talking, but I can’t help but shiver at the meaning behind her words. Because “somewhere far away from all this” includes me.

  CHAPTER 31

  Madrigal

  In the morning, Mitch, Trenton, and I drive to the Meadowlark mental health facility to release Madison. I don’t wait for us to get back home to tell her what happened to Gramps. After we grab some takeout from one of her favorite places, we stop at
a roadside stand with picnic tables, and I explain what happened the night before after we eat.

  “He’s not still there, is he?”

  “No, sweetheart. They took him away,” I say.

  “There will be a funeral,” Madison says.

  “They’ll need to do an autopsy first to determine the cause of death, Madison, and then, yes, we’ll have the funeral,” Mitch says.

  Looking down, Madison wrings her hands. “Everyone will know how he died.”

  Madrigal squeezes her sister’s hands. “You’re right. We can’t keep that information from coming out.”

  “He would have hated that.”

  “Yes, he would have.”

  Looking off into the distance, Madison wipes a tear from her face. “So what happens now?”

  “We’ll need to start fresh. You and I. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for much of the time you were growing up. First it was college and then law school. We’ll need to reconnect.” That much I’ve learned in the past few weeks. I should have made more of an effort to talk to her, but I’d been so busy with my own life, I hadn’t bothered with much more than a hi and bye every time I came home. But that’s all going to change.

  “Where will we live? Not in Gramps’s house.” Madison shivers.

  “No. Not there. Somewhere else.”

  “Where? I’ll want Marigold to live with us.”

  Steele laughs. “Marigold is a horse.”

  She shoots him a scathing glance. “Yes, I know. But she’s been part of my life since I was ten. I won’t leave her. If I can’t go horseback riding, I’ll go stir-crazy.”

  “What about your stint at the Washington Courier?” I ask. “Do you still want to work there for the summer?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. All I want to do is go home. Except I don’t know where home is.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. I’ll be your home. You can count on me.” I wrap her in my arms, and together we climb into the car behind Mitch and Trenton.

  The medical examiner’s office doesn’t release Gramps’s body for a week. During that time, friends and staff from the law firm call to offer their condolences. I depend on Trenton and Joss to head off any potential visitors. Last thing any of us want is to upset Madison. Gramps’s death has hit her hard, harder than me. Maybe it’s because I’m older and spent less time with him. She may have had a discordant relationship with our grandfather, but I think she loved him more than she knew. After Gramps’s funeral we’ll sit down and discuss our next steps. For now, Madison takes off in the morning and goes riding, comes home for lunch, and spends the afternoon holed up in her room.

  Worried, Olivia asks me if she should force the issue of having Madison communicate, but I tell her to leave her alone. When she’s ready to talk, she’ll come to us.

  The day of the funeral dawns bright and hot and sunny, a picture-perfect summer day, but then it’s early July. Gramps is buried in the family vault in Loudoun County Cemetery.

  After the funeral, we return to the house for a feast. The servants have gone all out, especially our cook. “Thank you, Helga. You did a magnificent job with the food.”

  “Danke.” Helga’s roly-poly smile shines from her face.

  Steele draws me aside and asks, “Helga?” He and Mitch have been with Madison and me the entire day, accompanying us to the church service and the grave site. When we returned home, Madison insisted Mitch accompany her to the stables so that she could show off a new foal. But Steele remained with me.

  “Yes. Our cook.”

  “Is her last name Carlsson by any chance?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  A shadow darkens his face. “Helga Carlsson was a key witness in your parents’ case. Was she the cook in your parents’ home?”

  “Yes. Gramps gave her and her husband jobs here afterward.”

  “We need to talk to her.”

  “Now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  I catch Helga’s attention and ask her to accompany us to the kitchen, where she has a private office to plan our meals and talk to her staff.

  “Anything wrong?” She twists her hands, glancing between Steele and me.

  “No. Everything is wonderful. The food is superb. We just need to talk to you about something that happened twelve years ago.”

  “When I was working in your parents’ house?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I asked Mr. Steele to look into my parents’ murders.”

  Her face loses color as she collapses on her seat. “Mein Gott.” Her reaction tells me she suspects what we want to know.

  I don’t want to make her more uncomfortable than she already is. I’m not that tall, but Steele looms over her with his height. I take a seat across from her and prompt Steele to do the same. “We just want to know the truth, Helga. That’s all. Can you help us with that?” I ask.

  She blinks. “Ja, of course.”

  “Now, Mrs. Carlsson. Should I call you Mrs. Carlsson or do you prefer Helga?” Steele’s smile is a thing of beauty, nonthreatening, charming. He’s probably honed it over numerous years of questioning witnesses on the stand right before he leads them into a trap.

  “I’m Mrs. Carlsson to the staff, but to the family, I’m Helga.”

  “So which am I, Mrs. Carlsson?” He winks at her.

  Her gaze bounces between Steele and me. “Family.”

  “Very well. Helga it is.”

  She smiles. Unbelievably, in a few choice words, he’s helped her relax. He truly is gifted at interrogating people.

  “Now, Helga, twelve years ago, you told the detective in charge of the case that you’d overheard the two handymen talking about breaking into the house, but then later, on the stand, you denied it.” He reaches over, squeezes the hand that’s kneaded bread for my family for years.

  “Ja. I did.”

  “Did you in fact overhear them planning the theft?”

  She nods.

  “Then why did you take it back at the trial?”

  She looks away before her troubled gaze finds me again. “We loved you and the little one. Our hearts broke when your mother and father were . . .” Tears run down her face. She wipes them off with her apron. “He came to me and told me to lie when I went up to testify.”

  “Who told you to lie, Helga?” Steele’s so very good at this. His voice is soft as honey. No one would guess by his tone how very important the response is.

  “Mr. Gardiner.”

  I hiss in a breath. Even before she said it, I knew what the answer would be. Only my grandfather would have the power to direct her to lie.

  “Do you know why?” I ask.

  “He didn’t say. He said it would be best if I said the detective got confused by my words. That it would help you and Madison. So I did as he asked. Hans and I aren’t going to lose our jobs, are we?”

  “Of course not, Helga. You’ll always have a job with me. As long as you wish.” I have no idea where I’ll be living, but wherever it is, I’ll need a cook. And we can always find something for Hans to do, even if we move into a house that doesn’t have a large garden.

  “Thank you, Miss Madrigal.”

  After we leave the kitchen, Steele and I head for the only room where we can be private—my bedroom. Some of the mourners see us going up the stairs. Tongues will wag, but right now I don’t give a damn.

  When we reach the room, I lock the door behind us. “What do you think?”

  “Recanting her testimony got the case against Billy Johnson and Mike Haynes dismissed. And double jeopardy would preclude the state from charging them again for the murders.”

  I wrap my arms around my middle to keep from unraveling. “You can’t be tried twice for the same crime.”

  Stepping into me, he embraces me, drops his head on top of mine. It
might be illogical, but I feel nothing can harm me as long as he’s by my side.

  When my teeth start chattering, he holds me even tighter. “That’s right.”

  “My g-grandfather knew the handymen hadn’t k-killed my parents, so he manipulated Helga. He asked her to say she hadn’t heard them talking about breaking in.”

  “Yes.”

  “But how could he know they hadn’t killed them?”

  His voice is beyond kindness itself. “Because he knew who did.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Trenton

  It’s been forty-eight hours since Holden’s funeral. As respected as he was, the church service was well attended. The graveside service was private, so only family and a few close friends were there. Afterward, we returned to the house where the servants had outdone themselves. Although the atmosphere was much more somber than at the picnic, the staff served just as sumptuous a spread. Holden would have appreciated it, but then he always expected the best from everyone who worked for him.

  After the rest of the mourners left, Mitch offered to share his home with Madison and Madrigal while they figured out their next step. But Madrigal turned him down, saying they needed a place of their own. Something she can now afford. Holden left everything to his two granddaughters, so money is not an issue.

  I spend a couple of days making inquiries and plans, and when I have everything set in my mind, I call Madrigal and ask if I can come over. When I arrive, she leads me to the screened-in porch at the back of the house where we sit on a wooden swing set. The temperature might be in the eighties, but the overhead fan cools us while we sip that old Southern staple, sweet tea, and she sets the swing swaying with her foot.