Fences: Smith Mountain Lake Series - Book Three

by Inglath Cooper

  “It’s actually Andrews now,” I say. “I found a key to a safe-deposit box in which Jeffrey left a copy of a will, expressing very different wishes from the one his mother presented to me a year ago.”

  “Yes, well, I—”

  “Are you aware of this will, Mr. Taubman?”

  More silence, and then, “He sent me a text on the day of his death, indicating that he’d written a new will.”

  “How much did she pay you?” I ask, ignoring the accusation beneath the question.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “Judith. How much? It must have been a good bit for you to risk your profession and your reputation.”

  “Look, Ms. Taylor, Andrews,” he corrects. “Bring the document to my office in the morning, and we’ll verify it.”

  “I’m sure you will, Mr. Taubman,” I say and hang up.

  IT’S ONLY AFTER I get home—why does that word feel so applicable to Cross Country when I have no real claim on the place—that Lucille tells me of Judith’s illness.

  She’s asked me to step into the living room, away from the chatter of the girls who are eating the snack she has prepared them, and tells me in a low voice of the call she had received earlier from Angela. “They don’t know what is wrong yet, but she is very sick. She’s in the hospital in Roanoke.”

  “What happened?” I ask, wondering how I can feel such empathy and alarm even after finding out about Jeffrey’s will this afternoon and the likelihood that Judith had kept it from me.

  “Angela found her last night. She was unconscious on the kitchen floor.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. Odd as it may sound, I’m glad to know that I take no pleasure in the news.

  “I would like to go see her,” Lucille says. “Even after everything that has happened, I spent many years of my life with her.”

  “You should. You go. When Tate comes down for dinner, I’ll let him know where you are.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Go.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it once, “I will call you in a bit.” She’s at the end of the hall, when she turns and says, “If we don’t do better than those we accuse, we have no right to complain.”

  Watching her go, I cannot deny that she is right.

  78

  Angela

  SHE’S SITTING BY her mother’s bed, waiting for the next doctor to come in. Lucille has just left, and Angela had almost given in to the temptation to ask her to stay. Lucille had been as much of a loving mother figure as she had ever known, and she misses her constant presence at the house.

  In all honesty, she is surprised that Lucille had come at all. It wasn’t as if her mother had ever really been kind to her. She remembered then something Lucille had said to her many times over the years. Try to live by your own sense of right and wrong. Not in response to someone else’s treatment of you.

  She lets the words roll through her mind, staring at this helpless version of her mother on the bed beside her. She’s never seen her mother like this. She seems to have aged twenty years in a day. Her skin has taken on an almost gray pallor. Her lips are pale and dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked from her body.

  Angela takes her hand between her own, squeezes softly, wishing for a moment that she could infuse some of her own life force into her mother.

  Regret swings its inevitable axe, striking dead center in her heart. Why couldn’t things have been different between Angela and her mother? Why had there been so much disappointment and unhappiness?

  Life is short.

  Never had the statement felt so true to her.

  A cell phone rings. She recognizes the tone as belonging to her mother’s phone and realizes it’s coming from the purse she’d grabbed before running out to her car and following the ambulance to the hospital.

  She pulls it from the side pocket and sees the name of the consulting firm her mother had hired to evaluate the company in preparation for the sale. She puts the phone to her ear and says hello.

  “Judith?”

  “Yes,” she says, even as she wonders what she is doing.

  “We should meet. I’ve found some discrepancies in reported income and apparent sales. It’s large enough to make me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?” she asks softly, hoping he won’t realize he isn’t speaking to her mother.

  “Yes. Possibly embezzlement.”

  “What?” The word comes out sharp and disbelieving. “Who?”

  “Someone high up,” he says. “And with extensive knowledge of your accounting practices.”

  “How much?” she asks.

  “I’m guessing millions.”

  Angela feels as if she has been sucker punched. She taps the end call button without saying goodbye. She stares at the screen and then at her mother, still and lifeless.

  Clarity hits her in a flash. Millions of dollars taken from the business. There is only one person who could possibly be responsible.

  Sickness washes over her in a wave. She grabs her own phone from the nightstand and leaves the room.

  79

  Jillie

  THE GIRLS ARE asleep. Tate and I have said good night over the phone. I grab my purse and keys, then check on them a quick last time. I won’t be gone long. I lock the door of the house behind me, slip in the car, and roll quietly down the driveway.

  I looked up her address earlier and put it in my GPS. I know the lake area roads by heart, but her house is in one of the newer developments, and I don’t want to waste time looking for it.

  I question the wisdom of what I’m doing, but there’s something I have to know.

  I have never confronted the woman I’ve suspected had an affair with my husband.

  It’s not that I haven’t wondered what that says about me. I have. Many times. But maybe some part of me understood why Jeffrey had looked elsewhere. Admitted that I hadn’t loved him the way a wife should love her husband. That maybe I had married him to fill a void in my life. And I’ve known plenty of guilt for this admission.

  Maybe some part of me thought I deserved it.

  My daughters, though, are a different story.

  They deserve to know why their father chose to leave them.

  And I think Poppy has the answer.

  THE LIGHTS ARE on in the house when I turn in the driveway. I recognize Angela’s car immediately and wonder if I should leave and come back another time.

  I lower the window and breathe in the night air. Is this a mistake? There’s an argument for leaving the past in the past. Refusing to dig up unnecessary pain.

  A sound shatters through the night. A scream follows, and I realize both have come from inside the house.

  I get out of the car and run to the front door, knocking once, twice, but there’s no answer. I try the handle. It’s locked.

  I run around the side of the house to the deck at the back, taking the stairs two at a time.

  The sliding glass door off the kitchen is unlocked, and I slide it open, stepping in and calling out, “Angela?”

  I cross the tile floor, stopping abruptly at the sight of Poppy in the arched doorway. She’s holding a gun, pointing it straight at me.

  “I heard a scream,” I say, finding her gaze and holding it. “No one answered the door.”

  “It is a little late for a visit, wouldn’t you say?” she asks, without lowering the gun.

  “Please put that down, Poppy.”

  “Why don’t you join Angela and me in the living room?” She directs me forward with the gun.

  I walk past her and down a short hallway to the large, open room where Angela sits on a chair in the middle of the floor, her hands tied behind her back. She meets my gaze with fear in her eyes.

  “What are you doing, Poppy?” I ask, trying to force calm into my voice.

  “Angela arrived here earlier with some rather unfortunate accusations that I am being left no choice but to deal with.”
<
br />   I look at Angela. “What accusations?”

  “Facts,” Angela corrects. “Ten million of them.”

  “I see no reason for you to be so upset, Angela,” Poppy says. “It’s just money. And you’ve always had plenty of it. Be honest now. Do you really think I’ve been adequately compensated for everything I did for your family and TaylorMade Industries?”

  “No,” Angela says, shaking her head. “I think prison will be adequate compensation for that.”

  Poppy laughs. “A sense of humor. Pretty rare in you. I like it.”

  “What are doing, Poppy?” I ask. “This is crazy.”

  “I might ask you the same. Showing up at my house. Late at night. I could easily think you were a burglar,” she says, pointing the gun directly at me.

  “Put it down,” I say, “before you dig yourself a hole too deep to climb out of.”

  “Ever practical Jillie. No wonder Jeffrey became so bored with you that he turned to me.”

  The words achieve their intended effect, and I draw in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Was that your interest in him then? To distract him from the fact that you were embezzling from the company?”

  “Such an ugly word. I prefer self-compensation.”

  “Did Jeffrey know?” I repeat.

  “Unfortunately, he did. I’m afraid he felt a lot of guilt over his weakness for me. It did turn out to be a rather expensive one.”

  “You really have no shame, do you?” I say, staring at her in disbelief.

  Poppy laughs. “Shame? Such a waste of energy, that emotion. My daddy did his best to drill that particular one in to me. Afraid it never stuck. A girl does what she must.”

  “And for you that includes using everyone in your life for your own gain,” Angela says, bitterness in her voice.

  “Any relationship worth its salt should serve a dual purpose,” Poppy reasons.

  “Was that the purpose of your affair with Jeffrey?” I ask. “To distract him from the fact that you were bleeding the company dry?”

  “Have a seat, Jillie,” she says, waving the gun at me. “Since we’re going to have a heart to heart, you might as well.”

  When I refuse, she aims the gun at my head and says, “I insist.”

  “You sent the picture of Tate and me to that rag paper, didn’t you?” I say.

  “I admit I got a little nosey after a dinner party at your mother-in-law’s house,” Poppy says. “I wanted to see the room Jeffrey shared with you. Running across that picture of you and Tate seemed too good an opportunity to ignore. I had hoped you two would make up and leave Smith Mountain Lake to live somewhere else, happily ever after, so that you wouldn’t be tempted to look into Jeffrey’s unfortunate choice of death. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.”

  My thoughts are racing, running together so that I can only wonder why I didn’t tell someone I was coming here. “Poppy, this needs to stop now.”

  She smiles, her teeth white and perfectly straight. With her free hand, she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, saying, “It was his conscience that forced me to make a decision for him.”

  “What do you mean a decision for him?” Angela asks sharply.

  Poppy shrugs. “Sadly, he was going to do a tell-all with Jillie here. And I couldn’t let him do that. So I put a little something in his coffee one morning and decorated his desk with the bottles of antidepressants he’d become so fond of.”

  “You poisoned him?” I manage, my voice breaking.

  “It was incredibly easy,” she says, and I hear the pride underscoring the words, realizing how much pleasure she gets from thinking she has outsmarted all of us.

  “You didn’t even ask for an autopsy. And neither did his mother. You must have both thought his life bad enough to justify suicide.”

  “You’re despicable,” I say.

  “Maybe,” she says. “But I’m about to retire a very wealthy woman far, far from here. And actually, you two shouldn’t do so badly if Judith ends up succumbing to her . . . illness.”

  Angela looks at me, her eyes going wide in horror. “Did you do something to her?” she asks Poppy, her teeth clenched together in rage.

  Poppy smiles. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done yourself if you’d had the courage to do so.”

  Angela bolts up from her chair, screaming, “I’m going to kill you, Poppy!”

  She charges at Poppy, the chair making her stumble and then right herself as Poppy points the gun at her.

  “I will shoot you, Angela!” she screams.

  “Angela, stop!” I yell out, but she keeps charging, and I launch myself toward her just as Poppy aims the gun and pulls the trigger.

  I tackle Angela, and we both go down as I hear the awful roar of the gun being fired. Surely, it has missed Angela. And then I feel a sudden, blazing pain in my left shoulder. It’s as if that side of my body has been set on fire. I fall away from Angela, collapsing onto the floor.

  “That wasn’t very smart, Jillie,” Poppy says, staring down at her. “But then that particular affliction seems to run in the family.”

  I gasp, disbelief forcing my gaze to the blood oozing down my arm.

  “You shot her!” Angela screams.

  “You can blame that on yourself,” Poppy says in a calm voice. “Now, what to do? Should I finish you both off? No, that would be entirely too messy and hard to explain.”

  “Poppy, she’s bleeding,” Angela says in a frantic voice.

  I feel suddenly lightheaded and try to recall anything I know about slowing down blood loss. My thoughts track over one another, and I push away the fog enveloping my brain.

  In the pocket of my jacket, I feel the silent vibrating of my phone. I have no idea who could be calling me this late at night, but I slip my hand inside the pocket and slide my finger across the screen, hoping whoever it is will be able to hear.

  “Poppy, let us go. You’ll never get away with killing us. Your only option is to leave us here and give yourself time to get away. You can tie us up. We won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Jillie,” Angela says, sounding shocked, “you’re going to die if you don’t get to a hospital.”

  “I don’t think Poppy is going to be very accommodating. Your only option is to leave us here in your house—”

  “Why are you talking like that?” she asks, suddenly suspicious.

  “Poppy. Just go. Take whatever you’ve gotten away with and give yourself the only chance you’ve got to get away.”

  I feel the words sticking against my tongue, and it is all I can do to get them out. A funnel of light starts to swirl at the corner of my vision, closing in around me. The room begins to fade. I reach out, as if I can anchor myself to the present. Please don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. The last thing I hear is Angela screaming my name.

  80

  Tate

  I STAND WITH my phone in my hand, stunned. Did I really hear what I think I just heard? I can still make out voices over Jillie’s phone, but I can’t understand what they’re saying.

  What has Poppy done?

  Panic flares up and burns across my chest. I have no idea where she lives, but I grab my keys and run for the car, Googling her name as I go. Then it occurs to me that I should call the police, which I do, praying one of us will get there before it’s too late.

  I find an address for Poppy under a white-pages listing, just as the 911 operator answers. I give the operator the address and tell her a woman has been shot and then give her what information I had overheard. I realize how completely crazy it all sounds and wonder if she will believe me. But the operator takes the information as calmly as if I have provided her with a pizza order. Meanwhile, my heart is racing so hard I can feel it beating in my ears.

  Keeping the call open while she continues with questions, I slam the car into gear and floor the accelerator, knowing nothing more than that I have to get to Jillie. Please. Please. Don’t let it be too late.

  I TURN ONTO THE street just an
nounced by my navigation app. I see the house up ahead, the flashing blue lights of police cars and rescue squads angling in from all directions.

  I’m a block from the house, when I see a car pull out of the driveway of an empty lot. The car’s lights were off but now flick on, and, as I pass, I catch a glimpse of Poppy’s face. Should I go after her? What if she has Jillie with her?

  I stomp the brake and swing the 911 around in the middle of the street, stripping the gears second to third to fourth until I am right on her bumper. She accelerates the car and swings out of the cul-de-sac onto the main road.

  I hit seventy and realize Poppy has no intention of slowing down. The road is narrow, and trees line both sides just past the ditches. Panic roars through me at the thought that Jillie could be in the car, at the very real possibility Poppy might lose control.

  I drop back, giving her some space, trying to decide what to do. I slam my palm against the steering wheel, realizing there’s only one option. I gear down and floor the accelerator, jerking into the other lane and whipping around her.

  If my memory is correct, there’s no turnoff for the next couple of miles and a straight stretch somewhere up ahead. I push the speedometer to eighty, then ninety, one hundred, leaving her headlights behind me. Hopefully, she’ll just think I’m some impatient jerk who’s finally left her alone.

  When she’s out of sight behind me, I hit the brakes and spin a U in the middle of the road, killing my lights. I wait with my heart thudding, my eyes strained against the black night. I count the seconds, willing my courage to hang on. Fifteen. Sixteen. Twenty-two. Twenty-four.

  Just as I reach thirty, the headlights pop over the knoll. I wait another two seconds and then flick my lights back on. She slams the brakes and skids to a stop ten feet from my car.

  I leap out and bolt to her door, jerking it open and hauling her out.

  She screams and begins clawing at me with her fingernails. “What are you doing?”