The Final Vow

by Amanda Flower

  Benji and Piper stood a little bit away from me, in the shadow that the church’s steeple cast on the green. The pair was in a heated conversation. Tears rolled down Piper’s face, and Benji’s jaw was set. I bit the inside of my lip and told myself not to get involved.

  Brandon joined me. “As much I would love to stay and see all the drama unfold, I have to go. The coroner called and has the report on Vianna’s body. He’d like to share it in person.”

  “Did he tell you the extent of her injuries?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Not something I’d share with you.”

  That’s what I’d expected her to say, but it didn’t make it any less annoying.

  The detective headed toward Maple Grove Lane, then paused and said over her shoulder, “Nice try, attempting to hide from me that Piper and your assistant are a couple.”

  My face fell.

  She grinned. “And that expression just confirmed it. Thanks for that.” She turned back around and walked across the road.

  I felt sick. A moment later, Piper ran in the direction of Maple Grove Lane as well. Benji remained rooted where she stood, staring at the front door of the church.

  I wanted to go to her, but my own phone rang. I checked the display and saw that the call came from the Cherry Foundation. I should have expected this. I wanted to talk to Henry about what he knew about Vianna Pine, but per usual, he’d made the preemptive strike and contacted me first. As far as I knew, Henry had never had been in the military, but he probably should have been. He would have been great at strategy and sneak attacks.

  “This is Kelsey,” I said into the phone.

  “Hello, I’m Henry Ratcliffe’s secretary, calling from the Cherry Foundation. He’d like a meeting with you this afternoon at two o’clock.” The female voice was prim and proper. I wouldn’t have expected anything else from Henry’s secretary. If he had his way, we would all be sent back to the era of Mad Men.

  “That’s great!” I said with all the fake cheer I could muster. “I’m so glad that you called. I’d like a meeting with him too.”

  “You would?” she asked. Not surprisingly, this didn’t appear to be the reception that Henry usually got when he asked someone to a meeting.

  “Yep, you bet,” I said. “Tell Henry I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “You really want me to tell him that?” she asked, sounding confused. “That you’ll be there wearing bells?”

  “Sure do. Thanks for calling.” I hung up.

  In the time that it had taken to answer the short call, Benji had left her vigil at the church and joined me.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Henry’s secretary.”

  Benji scrunched up her nose. “What did she want?”

  “To set up a meeting between Henry and me this afternoon. Fine by me. I have more than a few questions for him. Are you two okay?” I asked, meaning her and Piper.

  She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  I opened my mouth, but snapped it shut when she shook her head.

  Benji tucked a braid behind her ear. “You think Vianna died because of the inheritance?”

  I nodded, understanding her need to move the conversation back to Vianna’s death and away from her relationship with Piper. “It’s the most likely motive for her murder I’ve come across so far. It has to be it. What I don’t know is whether it was because someone wanted what Vianna was going to receive, or to keep what they already had, fearing they’d lose it when Vianna took over the Foundation.”

  “Like Henry,” Benji said, catching on.

  “Exactly, which is why I have to talk to him.” I paused. “And I need to talk to Piper too.”

  Benji frowned. “Why?”

  “Because Detective Brandon knows the two of you are a couple now, and, to protect Piper, I really need to know why she was in jail. I have to know, Benji. I think it’s important.”

  Benji clenched her fist.

  “I’m going to ask her to come to the cottage this evening so that I can talk to her.”

  Benji shook her head. “Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Let me do it.” She held up a hand. “I’ll ask her to come. I’ll come too. I want to hear what she has to say. I need to hear what she has to say.”

  I nodded. “All right.”

  Benji straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to go find Shepley. I need to apologize to him for what Piper did.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I touched her arm.

  She shook her head, and her long braids brushed her cheeks. “That’s where you’re wrong, Kel. I do.” She walked off in the direction of Shepley’s garden with her back straight, even though I knew her heart was half broken.

  twenty-three

  When I reached Maple Grove Lane, my Farm radio crackled. “This is Kelsey. What’s up?” I paused. “Over.”

  “We have a situation,” Judy responded. “Over.”

  There was always a situation on the Farm.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The sheep got out and they’re inside the visitor center.” There was a long pause. “Hey! Don’t chew on that.” And then there was static.

  I groaned and broke into a run. A cluster of tourists stood outside the building. Some pointed at the sliding glass door that gave them a view into the main room.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I made my way to the front of the pack. The sliding glass door opened and I was greeted by a lobby full of bored-looking sheep.

  Barton Farm had seven heads of sheep. They were all female. We didn’t have a ram. When we wanted to breed the flock, we took our ewes to a farmer a couple of counties over. Between the oxen, draft horses, and all the other animals that lived on Barton Farm, I thought a volatile ram would put me right over the edge.

  People claim that sheep are dumb. Perhaps that’s true, but ours were escape artists. This wasn’t the first time they’d made a break for it or unfortunately waltzed inside the visitor center. The cleaning crew that came in the evenings would not be excited about all the hoofmarks they’d have to scrub off of the pine floors.

  Jason was trying to usher the sheep to the doors, but he wasn’t having much luck. Judy stood beside the ticket booth. Her usually smooth hair was disheveled and she pulled at her bun. I had a feeling Judy would be asking for a raise after this week.

  I hurried over to her. “How did they get in here?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Just like everyone else does. They pranced in through the doors. As to how they got out of the pen, I don’t know.”

  Two seasonal employees stood off to the side, preventing the sheep from entering the cafeteria. For that I was grateful. If the animals went in there, or worse yet, the kitchen, everything would have to be scrubbed from top to bottom. It would force us to close food service down for the rest of the day.

  Behind the staffers were a cluster of tourists watching the proceedings while eating popcorn and potato chips. Giddy smiles crossed all the faces. I don’t know if they were more amused by the sheep in the visitor center or by the Farm staff trying to get them under control. I suspected the latter of the two.

  “We need Tiffin,” I said. “Judy, call my father at the cottage and ask him to let Tiffin out. Tiff will come straight here. He’ll know the sheep got out. He might even be trying to escape the cottage as we speak.”

  “On it,” Judy said, and went inside the gift shop to make the call.

  Jason had four of the sheep clustered in one corner of the main room. With his arms out, he tried to herd them toward the doors that opened onto the Farm grounds. The largest of the sheep, Hollyhock, stared at him with a bored look on her face. It was almost as if she was asking him, “You’re joking, right?”

  Sweat dripped down the back of Jason’s neck and onto the collar of his Farm T-shirt. I knew he
wasn’t sweating because of the sheep, but because there were so many people around watching him. I walked over and patted his arm. Under my breath, I whispered, “Try to relax. The sheep can sense your tension.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he nodded.

  A moment later, the sliding glass door opened and Tiffin barked. He didn’t cross the threshold. He knew he wasn’t allowed inside the visitor center when the Farm was open.

  I clapped my hands. “Tiffin, come!”

  With his tongue sticking out of his mouth, he ran toward me.

  I pointed to the sheep. “Herd.”

  He lowered onto his haunches and barked at the sheep.

  Hollyhock baaed loudly and eyed Tiffin. The corgi barked again, telling her that he meant business. Hollyhock head-butted another sheep as if to tell her to pay attention, and then she headed for the door with Tiffin on her heels.

  As the remaining sheep saw their leader trotting toward the exit, they followed suit. Before long there was a line, seven sheep deep, marching out of the visitor center like they were always this cooperative. The Farm visitors clapped.

  Tiffin led his flock to the pasture. Jason ran ahead, opened the gate, and quartered the sheep off on one side of the pasture, in a large pen, to keep them separated from the oxen. Mags and Betty liked to have their own space.

  Finally, the onlookers dispersed and headed to other parts of the Farm. I gave a sigh of relief. I scanned the area for Jason, but he was nowhere to be found now. I couldn’t help but wonder how the sheep had gotten free. If anyone knew, it was Jason, but he’d poofed. I would have to question him about this later. First, it was best to let him recover from being around all those people.

  Betty and Mags looked on with their usual annoyance as I leaned against the fence. I spotted a scrap of white just on the other side in the field. Litter on the Farm? After checking to see where the oxen were, I climbed over the fence. My feet hit the pasture with a thud. As I drew closer to the scrap, I realized it looked like a museum tag. The white thread, which would have held it to the object, was still intact. I read Benji’s careful printing: J. B. 2013/5 flintlock revolver, c. 1810. Barton House.

  My hands shook. The tag was indeed a museum tag, and it had been attached to Jebidiah Barton’s revolver.

  In the back of my mind, I’d thought that the theft of the items in the trunk could be related to Vianna’s murder, but I’d pushed this idea away. No one could know for certain when the items had gone missing, but now I knew it had to have been recent. I walked the grounds every day, and I would have noticed that tag in the grass. I should have noticed it even before this.

  “How did this get here?” I asked.

  The oxen didn’t answer. They just stared at me and chewed their cud. I knew they must have seen who dropped it, but they weren’t talking.

  Was it possible whoever stole the revolver and other objects from the trunk had run through the pasture, and that was how he or she had dropped the tag?

  I looked around again. On the other side of the pasture was our red maple grove and the Barton Farm property line. Beyond that was the state park, which was heavily wooded. Why would a culprit run out in the open like this? Why would they risk encountering Mags and Betty in the process? The oxen might tolerate Jason or me in their field, but there were few others they wouldn’t charge.

  I flipped the tag over in my hand. It didn’t look any worse for the wear. There were some light water spots that I assumed were from dew, so it had to have been in the pasture for at least one night. Vianna had been murdered only the night before. We’d had a dry summer—I tried to remember the last time it had rained. The tag would have been in much worse condition if it had been rained on; clearly it hadn’t been. I decided that if I checked when it last rained, maybe I could narrow down the time when the theft had occurred. At the very least, I could assume the theft was sometime after the rain.

  I balanced the weight of the tag in my hand, and it felt like a block of lead. All I knew was that I would have to tell Detective Brandon about this, and it was a conversation that I knew well enough to dread.

  twenty-four

  The Cherry Foundation offices were located in Cynthia Cherry’s old mansion, which was tucked away in the Cuyahoga Valley only two miles from Barton Farm. The house was a formidable Tudor that looked better suited to the regal streets of London than to a patch of woods in the middle of Ohio.

  Cynthia’s father had built the home to show off his wealth, and Cynthia, his only daughter who’d never married, had lived in the mansion her entire life—from the day she was born until the day she died.

  Every time I visited the mansion, memories of Cynthia and her kindness to Hayden and me came back in a rush. I didn’t know how I would have survived my divorce if it hadn’t been for her. I’d been a single mom, fresh out of graduate school, with a small son and no job prospects. During my interview for the director position at Barton Farm, she and I had hit it off and she’d hired me on the spot. I could never thank her enough for taking a chance on me. For that, I would be eternally grateful to her. And for that reason, I vowed to find out who had killed her grandniece. Cynthia would have loved Vianna with her whole heart, had she been given the opportunity.

  But Maxwell had kept that from her. He and I had never gotten along—he was a pompous, selfish, and rude jerk. But Cynthia loved him, for all his flaws. It would have broken her heart to know that he’d kept his daughter from her all these years.

  I couldn’t think of a reason why Maxwell had done that. And now, with all three of them gone and the Cherry line ended, I would never find out.

  At Cynthia’s front door—because I would always think of the door as Cynthia’s—I lifted the handle of the knocker and rapped three times. Almost instantly, the door opened, and Miles, Cynthia’s butler, greeted me from the other side of the threshold.

  After Cynthia died, the Foundation had laid off all of her in-house staff with the exception of Miles. At first I’d assumed Henry and the board had kept him because of the prestige a butler gave the Foundation. I later learned that Cynthia had given the Foundation no choice. In her will, she’d declared that Miles was to live out the remainder of this life at the mansion if he so chose. Since he was still there, I suspected he’d made the decision to stay.

  “Hello, Miles,” I said with a bright smile.

  He stared down his long nose at me. Any time I met him, I was struck by his uncanny resemblance to Carson from Downton Abbey. It wasn’t so much a physical appearance, but how he held his head high and kept his posture erect.

  “Miss Cambridge,” the butler said, with just enough disdain to make sure I knew he wasn’t thrilled by my presence. He didn’t make a move to let me inside.

  “I have a meeting with Henry.” I was still all smiles.

  The butler pursed his lips together in such a thin line they all but disappeared from his face. After a beat, he stepped to the side and let me through.

  I stepped into the foyer and the essence of Cynthia enveloped me, almost taking my breath away. There was no place I felt the loss of her as keenly as inside her eclectic home.

  On the outside, the house was regal and stately. Inside, it was a hodgepodge that told the story of Cynthia’s colorful life. She’d been a vibrant person and the interior of her house showed it. As an avid world traveler, each room of the home reflected one of her favorite places to visit. The foyer had a marble and mosaic floor and Athenian busts standing on pedestals, staring blankly into the space. The solarium was a Caribbean paradise, and the kitchen transported you directly to South America.

  I was surprised that over the last year Henry and the Foundation hadn’t made more of an effort to renovate the mansion more to their liking. Considering Henry’s dour ways, I imagined that would include a lot of beige. Cynthia had not been a beige person.

  I patted Miles on the arm. “Thanks.”
>
  He stared at the spot where I’d touched him as if a mouse sat there mocking him. “Mr. Ratcliffe is waiting for you in Master Maxwell’s office.”

  I couldn’t help but smile when he referred to the board chairman’s office as “Master Maxwell’s.” I knew that along with Cynthia’s eclectic décor, this must drive Henry crazy. I liked Miles better for it even though I hadn’t liked Maxwell. “I know the way,” I said.

  He bowed and then strolled down the hallway.

  I took the grand staircase two steps at a time to the second floor. At the top of the landing, I went right, in the direction of the west wing of the enormous house. When Cynthia and Maxwell were alive, Cynthia had lived primarily in the east wing and Maxwell in the west. The house was big enough that they could go days without running into each other if they chose. Maxwell, who was secretive even with his aunt, often chose that. Cynthia frequently complained about not seeing him enough even though they lived in the same house.

  My sneakers made hushed noises on the dense carpet as I made my way down the long hall, up another set of stairs, and down a second long hallway to Maxwell’s-now-Henry’s office. The mansion truly was a maze.

  To reach it, I first had to go through his secretary’s office. The desk there was empty, much to my relief. The heavy dark wood door that led into the inner office stood open, and inside, Henry sat at Maxwell’s expansive and expensive desk, poring over a sheath of papers. His head was bent, and it was clear that he didn’t know I was there.

  I suspected that Maxwell’s office, with its masculine feel, dark wood, and leather furniture, was the one room that Henry would not choose to redecorate, along with maybe the library on the main floor, which was so British in décor sometimes I expected to find Prince Charles there drinking a cup of tea.

  I knocked on the door frame.

  Henry looked up from his papers. “Ahh, yes, Kelsey, please come in.” He gestured at one of the two black leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”