by Jenny Goebel
Cara and Ian shared a worried look before answering together. “It’s tomorrow.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Aunt Beatrice had lived her life spewing spite. What Amy didn’t know was how much venom the old woman had held back for distribution after she was gone.
The family lawyer slipped a finger inside his collar and tugged, just as Mr. Berman had a few minutes before. “Beatrice Cahill left specific instructions for how we are to proceed,” he said, almost croaking out the words. “She requested that those present remain silent, and that no one be allowed to leave until the reading is over. So please, no matter how, er, ugly, this gets, do not vacate your seats.”
Whatever Amy’s aunt had said in her will—it was bad.
Murmurs of confusion rippled through the room, but curiosity won out. No one protested. When the room once again fell silent, Mr. Smood said, “Thank you. I will now begin.
“ ‘I, Beatrice Cahill, a resident of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.
“ ‘Item One: I give and bequeath to my neighbor, Sophia Fairchild’ ”—the fur-clad woman sitting next to Amy scooched forward in her seat, her full lips parting to once again reveal her bleached white smile—“ ‘absolutely nothing. You weren’t expecting that, were you, my dear?’ ” Mr. Smood read. “ ‘Oh, how I wish I could be there myself to witness that plastic smile of yours being wiped clean off your face.’ ”
Amy cringed as the woman’s jaw indeed fell, gaping open. Mr. Smood’s eyes flicked to the woman, full of pity, but he continued reading nonetheless. “ ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice what you were hinting at every time you complimented me on my silk scarves or commented on my lovely china settings.
“ ‘I am not vapid, you know, although, I cannot say the same for you. As for your husband, he could certainly use a new fedora or a good herringbone cap to cover up that monstrosity of a hair transplant, but I will not be the one paying for it, if that’s what you think.’ ” The man sitting next to Sophia Fairchild withered in his seat.
“ ‘Item Two,’ ” Mr. Smood continued, and what followed was a slanderous attack directed at Beatrice’s hairdresser.
“ ‘Beth Moorgate, you are a hopelessly unfashionable woman with no scissor skills whatsoever. Whatever possessed you to entertain the thought of beauty school in the first place, I cannot imagine.’ ” Sitting two rows ahead of Amy, a young woman wearing Crocs, a plaid skirt, striped knee-high socks, and gold hoop earrings covered her face with both hands.
“ ‘Ms. Moorgate, to grant you any inheritance would be ludicrous. If anything, you should be paying back my estate the money I spent on that dreadful perm.’ ”
The woman began to tremble behind her hands, and Amy was hit with a wave of compassion.
Item Three was a general denouncement of anyone who continued to patronize the corner store on Washington and Third Street. Beatrice said the shopkeeper there had once treated her in an “undignified manner.” If Amy recalled correctly, the man had accused her aunt of shoplifting when she accidentally dropped her handbag and no less than a dozen ceramic cats came spilling out.
The barrage persisted, with Aunt Beatrice slamming everyone in the room with varying degrees of insults without bestowing anything of any value to anyone. It appeared her aunt had asked Mr. Smood to gather them all here merely to dish out one last verbal lashing.
“ ‘Item Twenty-Three: As for my great-niece and -nephew, Amy and Dan Cahill …’ ” Mr. Smood paused, pinning Amy with a sympathetic look, and she braced herself for the onslaught she knew was coming.
“ ‘Being charged with your care and upbringing was by far the worst thing that ever happened to me. Dan, you were such an uncouth child, and ever unapologetic for your ill-mannered ways. Sadly, you were beyond reform by the time you were placed in my custody.’ ”
Amy burned with anger. Thank goodness you couldn’t get your claws in him! she thought.
“ ‘Amy, I had hoped that one day I might turn you into a highly regarded member of café society. Wouldn’t that have been marvelous?’ ”
Um, no. Amy had zero interest in living the life of a socialite. She’d always been far more interested in history and the world than being seen at the trendiest clubs. I hate the spotlight.
“ ‘But you hated the spotlight,’ ” Mr. Smood read. “ ‘In fact, all this attention is probably making you uncomfortable right now. I can just see your face turning that unattractive red.’ ”
Aside from the crack about Dan, Amy had been doing just fine up until that point. But when the audience turned to look, blood did in fact rush to fill Amy’s cheeks. It made her so angry she could feel hot tears gathering behind her eyes.
“ ‘Even worse than being shy, you proved to be as ruthless and cruel as your grandmother before you.’ ”
The scorch of embarrassment transformed into something more. Shame. Maybe, deep down, Amy feared she was on course to becoming every bit as ruthless as Grace. Perhaps she already was.
“ ‘Now, I have heard the whispers that I am nothing more than a bitter and disagreeable old woman. To that I say, hogwash.’ ” The crowd tittered and even Mr. Smood looked as though he was restraining a chortle.
The absurdity of Bea’s words reeled Amy back in. It reminded her just how batty and self-absorbed her aunt had been to the very end. The heat drained from Amy’s cheeks. Nothing that woman says is going to touch me again.
“ ‘I want everyone to know that if there is an ounce of truth to these accusations it is only because my heart was shattered by these insolent children. I have never fully recovered from being tasked with their guardianship. Amy and Dan, neither of you will receive a single dime of inheritance money.’ ”
Mr. Smood finished reading and glanced in her direction. He was clearly measuring her reaction with his gaze. Amy rolled her eyes to let him know that she was fine. Aunt Beatrice had been bitter long before they ever came into the picture. And they certainly didn’t want any of her money.
The lawyer let out a tiny puff of air and smiled warmly at her before moving on to the next item.
“ ‘Item Twenty-Four: Not a one of you knows how difficult it has been to hold my tongue all these years.’ ”
At this, Amy slapped a hand to her mouth to keep a laugh from escaping. When had Beatrice Cahill ever held her tongue? But the laughter died in her throat as Mr. Smood went on. “ ‘I have been forced to stand by while the idiocy of family and friends (primarily family) has caused me great strife. However, I did find small comfort in recording the wrongdoings in my extensive diary collection.’ ”
Aunt Beatrice kept diaries?
“ ‘My diaries provide important documentation of the Cahill family history and should be treated in a manner worthy of their value. Therefore, it is my last request that they be added to the Cahill Library at Attleboro.’ ”
Mr. Berman shot up from his chair. Amy glowered at the back of his head. It was now blatantly obvious why he was here. Whatever the Outcast was trying to hide by killing Aunt Beatrice might have been recorded in her diaries.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Berman. I’m not finished,” Mr. Smood said curtly.
“I’m sorry. I’m … I’m … not feeling well.” The butler clutched his stomach and moaned unconvincingly. Then he pushed his way down the row of people, tripping over legs and purses as he went.
Amy whipped her head around. Snake! He’s going to look for the diaries!
Amy considered following as he broke free from the room and disappeared up the staircase. But the man was an idiot. Even if he did manage to locate Beatrice’s diaries, there was no way Amy was letting him leave with them. It was kind of nice to let someone else do the legwork for once.
While the lawyer moved on to the next item, Amy discreetly pulled out her phone once more. She punched in three lines of text for Hamilton and Jonah:
MEET ME AT AUNT B’S STAT
LOOK FOR GRACE�
��S GHOST
DON’T LET THE BUTLER LEAVE
Mr. Smood droned on for another fifteen minutes, reading Aunt Beatrice’s sometimes trivial, sometimes bizarre requests. Occasionally, Amy would hear a rustling noise upstairs. Either Bea had done a halfway decent job of hiding the diaries, or else Mr. Berman was even more inept than he looked.
At last, Mr. Smood came to the final item. “ ‘Item Thirty-Seven: Let there be no further speculation. I am leaving the entirety of my estate, all liquid assets as well as those that can be auctioned off, to be used as funding for the Porcelain Cats Are People Too Foundation, and for a museum which will be erected in my honor and which will house my beloved and enviable collection of ceramic felines.’ ”
The room gasped, but Amy couldn’t help grinning. You had to hand it to Aunt Beatrice—her parting shot was a good one. Amy leaned over to the woman sitting next to her. “You know she had more than twenty million dollars, right?”
The woman broke into tears. “Come on, Harold,” she sniffled, smearing mascara across her face as she dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “We wasted ten years buttering up that dreadful old woman; we’re not going to waste a minute more of our time on her!” With that, the couple stood and marched out, giving Amy a free path.
The grumbles of a disappointed crowd muffled the noise from the upper level, but Amy had kept one eye on the staircase throughout the will reading. Mr. Berman was still upstairs. While everyone else filed out of the house, Amy went to find him.
The second floor had been ransacked. Books littered the hallway and the furniture had been upended. Aunt Beatrice would’ve left explicit instructions for where to find the diaries with Mr. Smood. Amy knew she could probably just ask him where the diaries were. But her Great-Aunt Beatrice was dead, killed in cold blood by Mr. Berman’s employer. And even as nasty as Beatrice was, Amy wasn’t about to let the butler go without a little bit of payback.
She bypassed her great-aunt’s bedroom—where the mattress was askew and the closet had been raked—and followed the trail of disarray to Bea’s study. Mr. Berman glanced up, sneered at her, then went back to rifling through a file box.
“Too obvious,” Amy said, and walked out.
The only upstairs room not disheveled was the bathroom. And in it was one detail jarringly out of place. Mr. Berman came up behind Amy, standing so close she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck.
“The bathroom? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mr. Berman said.
“It’s been a long time since Bea had a living cat in her house,” Amy said. She reached down for the kitty litter box positioned next to the toilet. The butler threw himself over her back. They collided in the space between the bathtub and the porcelain bowl, and Amy gave a last-minute jab of her shoulders that sent Mr. Berman flying. She pushed aside the litter box and pulled up the trapdoor hidden beneath it. Amy yanked out a surprisingly large and surprisingly heavy wooden box. She could see stacks of leather-bound journals between the box slats. Mr. Berman scrambled back. He snatched a glass perfume bottle from the vanity and squirted it in Amy’s face. The overwhelming artificial scent of roses flooded the room, as if the ghost of Beatrice had returned with stinky vengeance for both of them.
Amy dropped the box to grab a towel. By the time she’d wiped her eyes, the butler and the heavy box of diaries had escaped down the staircase. Amy rushed after him, taking the stairs two at a time. She made it outside just in time to catch a glimpse of the butler skidding to a halt on the curb in front of Grace’s shiny Rolls-Royce Ghost.
Jonah was leaning against the luxury sedan. A hideous fake mustache and dark glasses obscured most of his face. Next to him Hamilton, in his usual athletic garb, waved jovially at Mr. Berman.
The butler spun around just as Amy caught up. She flashed him a prickly smile.
“Oh, forgive me for being so rude. Amy Cahill, isn’t it?” he said, now trapped between the three of them. He glanced from one Cahill to the next, pausing slightly longer on Jonah’s mustachioed face. Then he broke into a soft chuckle. “Jonah Wizard. I suppose you think that I am ‘the man that hath no music in himself, let no such man be trusted’ and all that.”
“Yeah, and I’m the man that hath no patience,” Hamilton deadpanned.
Mr. Berman’s face fell. “Well, to be honest, the diaries aren’t really my thing. I far prefer green paper to parchment. If you catch my drift?”
“What? You want money in exchange for the diaries?” Ham turned to Amy. “First the paparazzo and now this scumbag? I don’t know about you, but I’m fresh out of Franklins and embarrassing Jonah clips.”
Encroaching on Mr. Berman’s personal space, Ham cracked his knuckles loudly. But he backed off when an elderly woman leaving Aunt Bea’s shouted, “Is everything all right, young man?” She shook her cane at them. “Is that teenager getting all up in your grill?”
Hamilton looked back and forth between Mr. Berman, who wasn’t anywhere close to being a “young” man, and the old lady who’d obviously wasted too much time on YouTube. His eyes finally came to a rest on Jonah. “What do you say, Wizard? You’re the one with deep pockets.”
“No way,” Amy said as Jonah reached for his wallet. “I’ve had enough of money-hungry people for one week. I can handle the butler.”
Whipping her leg up and around in one smooth circular motion, her kick stopped just shy of Mr. Berman’s windpipe. “Hand over the diaries, or next time I won’t hold back.”
The butler swallowed hard and carefully set down the box of diaries. Jonah scooped it up. “Easy-peasy, yo. Like candy from a baby,” he said.
“I’m calling the police!” the old woman screeched.
Amy dropped her leg, and Mr. Berman immediately raised a hand to his throat. As he massaged his bulging Adam’s apple, he snickered.
“What’s so funny?” Amy asked.
“You may have the diaries,” the butler scoffed, “but you’ll never see your cat again.”
Amy’s heart sank like a stone and she gasped.
Mr. Berman smiled maliciously at her response. “I dumped Saladin at a shelter on the way here and asked them to dispose of him as soon as possible. He’s most likely receiving a lethal injection as we speak.”
Two things happened at once. Amy didn’t hold back as she whirled her leg through the air a second time, and the old lady jabbed Mr. Berman squarely in the gut with her cane. The end result was the butler lying flat on his back, wheezing and clutching his stomach.
“Never mind,” the old lady clucked in her phone. “My eyesight is going. I must have dialed the wrong number.” After she hung up on the police, the woman gave Mr. Berman another jab with her cane before climbing into a car with a CRAZY CAT LADY bumper sticker and driving away.
“We’ve got to find Saladin!” Amy yelled as she lifted the keys from Mr. Berman’s suit pocket. As she slid into the passenger seat of Grace’s luxury sedan, Amy was already searching shelters on her phone. Ham took the wheel and Jonah jumped into the backseat, and they sped off.
There were a total of three shelters between Grace’s house in Attleboro and Aunt Bea’s house in Boston. Amy furiously dialed the number for the first. “Did anyone turn in an Egyptian Mau today? Black spots, frisky attitude?” Amy asked as soon as her call was picked up. “No? Okay.” Click.
Bile was rising in her throat, and her heart pounded in her ears as she dialed the next number.
“Where am I going, Amy?” Ham asked as he swerved around a slower moving vehicle.
“Head west,” she answered, but changed her mind after striking out with the second shelter as well. “Make that south. Sorry.”
“One shelter left,” Hamilton said, and Amy nodded gravely. “Enter the GPS coordinates before you make the call.” Ham cranked hard on the wheel and the Ghost went up on two tires as he took the next corner without touching the brakes.
Come on! Come on! Come on! Amy fought panic as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the phone. Instea
d, the call went to a messaging service.
“Our normal business hours are nine A.M. to five P.M.,” the recorded voice said. Amy glanced at the clock on the dash. It read 5:01. Her phone hand dropped limply to her lap.
“It’s closed for the night,” she said, her voice hollow and disbelieving.
Tightening his jaw, Ham cast a sidelong glance at her as he took the next turn. He looked back at the road just in time to slam on the brakes. Traffic was at a standstill and flashing lights indicated an accident.
“Hold on,” he said, throwing the sleek sedan into reverse. Amy knew he’d aced a course in defensive driving, but her heart still hit her throat when he kicked the car back into drive, then veered around the brake lights and onto the shoulder.
Amy gripped her armrest, scanning for medical personnel or onlookers. She didn’t see any people in their way, but what she did find was even more alarming. Her heart skipped a beat as Hamilton stomped on the accelerator and the car careened toward a tow truck pulled to one side of the road.
The truck’s flatbed was lowered and they sped like a bullet straight for it. Ham didn’t let up on the pedal as they raced up the steel ramp, blasted over the tire blocks, and went airborne.
The surreal trip over the cab of the tow truck stole Amy’s breath away. The next instant, her teeth were rattling and her bones jarred as the Ghost landed, then shuddered back to life on the pavement.
“What are you doing, Hamilton!?!” screamed Amy.
“I always wanted to try that,” Hamilton said. He was grinning like a maniac as he cut in front of the wreck and peeled back into the driving lane.
When the Ghost at last screeched to a stop in front of the shelter, Amy flung open the door and bolted for the small brick building.
She pounded the windows with her fists.
When her friends caught up with her, she was almost in tears. “What if he’s already … ” Amy couldn’t bear to finish that sentence, so she started a new one, her voice cracking as she said, “How am I ever going to break the news to Dan?”