Fran Keighley

by The Next Heir (lit)

  "You did excellent well, love," Gerald comforted. "You thought to obtain and drop that kerchief of Julian's, and all may still be well. He will not inherit if hanged for murder, and even if Uncle Henry survives, Julian will surely be disinherited."

  Amanda gasped at the cold-bloodedness of it, and the incongruous affection of Gerald's manner toward Eulalia. Yet this was Lyndon of whom they spoke-her beloved Lyndon! Bad enough that they meant to kill her and her unborn child, but to make it seem that Lyndon was responsible for all their villainies!

  Eulalia smiled back into his eyes, loving and admiring his foresightedness. "Yes, but enough of this, my darling," Eulalia cut in, more briskly than she usually spoke. "Soon it will be time for nuncheon, and we must be present. Too, we could be interrupted at any moment. I pray you will not delay. We have these stairs so conveniently at hand." She indicated them, pleased.

  He nodded, smiling. "As you say, dearest. Amanda, my profound regrets, but you must understand the necessity."

  Eulalia nodded, too. "Poor dear Amanda suffers from faintness and dizziness, in her condition. I'm sure if she has mentioned it to me once, she has mentioned it above half-a-dozen times. No one will wonder at it in the least, particularly as she has already had that one fall, on the stairs of Highbriars. Unless..." she frowned prettily. "Did Julian push her, do you think? In order to be free to marry Lady Hollingcourt? Is it possible to obtain-oh, another handkerchief, or other possession which is recognizably his?" He beamed upon her. "Excellent thinking, dearest. You have the mind of a man, not a feeble female."

  Amanda's heart raced, and she did indeed feel faint. The moment of her death was at hand. Losing consciousness almost seemed to be desirable, for then she would not be aware of being thrown down the staircase.

  Eulalia preened under what they both considered a compliment. "Truly, I believe I do have something more of a quickness than most."

  However, moving toward Amanda, Gerald hesitated, frowning. "Perhaps the stairs are not the best idea? There is no certainty that death would be instantaneous, and if she was able to speak...?"

  Eulalia frowned, too, and then her face cleared, brightening. "The ramparts. She would never survive such a fall as that."

  "Right you are." Gerald actually smiled at Amanda. "There, it's the ramparts for you, cousin. Come along. Don't think of crying out, or you'll regret it."

  He reached to escort her on upward, the final flight of stairs to the rooftop walk, offering her his arm as courteously as if escorting her out onto the ballroom floor, but his fingers were bruisingly hard on her arm.

  Amanda drew a deep, fortifying breath, but not to scream. That would be futile. So would any struggle. And yet, how unbelievable that her death was at hand. How-how craven-it seemed to meekly acquiesce, without any fight to save herself.

  What, really, did she have to lose? He was going to kill her, anyway.

  Therefore, as they stepped out of the tower room onto the landing, she first sagged as if losing consciousness.

  Then, with all her might, desperation lending her strength, Amanda shoved him toward the descending flight of stairs.

  Suddenly, they were not alone.

  The staircases and landing were full of people.

  Shouts, and struggles-screams-!

  And Lyndon's arms were about her, pulling her out of the fray to a safe spot back in the little room, holding her close, lovingly murmuring to her.

  "You're safe now, my dearest love. Thank God I came after you, to make up-and that Warrenby and Grandpapa were hard on my heels. We heard all, and how you could remain so calm, in the face of it all, and keep them talking, admitting to their wickedness, is beyond all."

  The duke was there, patting her arm, her back, both scowling and beaming. "Thank God, indeed. Ah, what a fine mother for a duke you have proven yourself to be. Your mama would be proud of you!"

  Out on the landing, the stairs, the struggle continued, with yelps of pain, shrieks from Eulalia, and then-

  "They've got away! After them!"

  * * *

  Epilogue

  "What a fine sunny morn we have for young Charlie's christening." Lyndon beamed down at the wriggling infant in its cradle.

  "Charlie!" Amanda echoed indignantly. "His name is Charles, sir."

  "Ahh, he's too wee to be a Charles, and that lends to confusion with his great-grandsire. Charlie." Lyndon teased.

  Amanda came to put her arm about her husband's waist, and to join him at reveling at the sight of their healthy child.

  "There were times when I despaired of ever giving birth to him," she said with a sigh, and then, wryly, "Particularly during that last century or more of labor. And when I think that Aunt Mathilda declared it to be a short and easy one." Gazing at the baby, she conceded, "But well worth it, near as we came to being pushed over the ramparts to our death."

  Lyndon turned to take her in his arms. "Constantly, I give thanks that we arrived in time to save you."

  "And with witnesses, particularly your grandpapa, so that Gerald and Eulalia could not in some manner twist it so that you had killed us and been killed yourself in their attempt to save me." Amanda took considerable satisfaction in that.

  He smiled grimly. "Good to have witnesses, indeed, to clear my name among the family. They have certainly done their utmost to make up for their harsh treatment all those years when Gerald was poisoning their minds against me."

  "You are totally exonerated and quite the fair-haired boy," Amanda considered. "True, your own behavior has done even more to raise their opinions."

  They stood, holding one another close, remembering that fateful day.

  Remembering how Gerald and Eulalia had fled down the tower stairs, out of the mansion, to commandeer the high-perch phaeton of an arriving sporting gentleman, and to whip up the horses. The others were in hot pursuit, as speedily as mounts could be saddled. Pursuit was not confined to the lanes. Even so, Gerald and Eulalia had a handsome start. Might they have made their escape, could they have reached the point where roads intersected to confuse and thereby to slow their pursuers?

  But high-perch phaetons, with their chancy balance, were hazardous to drive under the best of conditions, and on twisting, rutted country lanes, with an overwrought driver who was unused to such a rig, and a screaming passenger clutching at him...

  At a corner, a farm cart ponderously pulled out onto the road. Gerald made a desperate attempt to avoid it. The phaeton careened-and toppled. Gerald was killed instantly; his neck broken. Eulalia never regained consciousness. In addition to Lord Devonridge's birthday banquet and ball, there had been a double funeral, whilst the family was assembled.

  The deaths had been for the best, it was generally agreed. With no one outside Devonridge aware of the attempt upon Sir Henry, far less of any of the subsequent events, the matter could all be hushed up. Not merely for the sake of the family reputation, but to protect the three small daughters of Humphrey and Eulalia. They had gone to live with Humphrey's sister and her husband, who had children of like age, and it was hoped that the different surroundings would help to divert them from the loss of their parents.

  The rest of the immediate family scattered. Lady Mathilda considered it advisable to take Sir Henry to a seaside resort, and his health certainly seemed to have benefited. He had not had another heart attack; indeed, with a more prudent diet, even his dyspepsia had lessened. Lord Devonridge joined cronies in Bath, but they were all back now, for the christening.

  Lyndon hugged Amanda to him even more closely. "Ahh, love, what a fortunate circumstance that Sally directed me to wed you. In you I have found the love of my life, true love, and in little Charlie, a form of love entirely new to me."

  Amanda fairly glowed at his words, although by now she no longer had doubts at the sincerity or quality of his love. Still, it was most gratifying to hear him voice it.

  "Sally, yes." However, she frowned, shaking her head at him. "But Cousin Cordelia takes altogether too much credit for making the
match."

  He heaved a sigh. "I quite see that they could hardly be prevented from attending the christening, but do you think they will ever go home? Even though Eliza can no longer hang about in hopes of wedding Gerald. Lord, what a match that would have been."

  Amanda swatted his sleeve. "For shame. I foresee no difficulties, dearest. With all we have already overcome, ridding ourselves of unwanted guests and discouraging their return will be the veriest trifle!"

  * * *

  Murder for the Mayor

  by

  Fran Keighley

  Copyright 2001 Fran Priddy

  Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Keighley, Fran

  Murder for the Mayor [computer file]

  ISBN 1-55316-034-7 (electronic) 1-55316-971-9 (REB 1100 and 1200)

  I. Title.

  PS3561.E318M87 2001 813'.6 C00-933308-8

  CHAPTER ONE

  The police car stopped abruptly at the curb. The brawny uniformed officer sprang out and strode up the sidewalk toward where we watched from a window. He cradled a brown plush teddy bear in his arms.

  "Culture shock got him." Grimly, tall fair Anita shook her head. "I knew it was just a matter of time till it did. They can't take Pittsville after the big city."

  "The big city after Pittsville could be even worse." Smiling up at her, I turned back to my desk as he vanished into the City Hall entrance. "I'll take a small town's problems anytime."

  "Oh well, yes." Anita hesitated. "Er - what do you suppose he's doing with that bear?"

  "From all I've heard, a great many police forces use bears now in dealing with frightened children. Comfort, reassurance, and so on."

  "Oh. Of course. So first he scares them, looking so grim, and then he..." She shook her head, smiling, then she cocked it, her expression quizzical. "Tell me something else - in hiring a new chief, was the main criterion an intimidating appearance?"

  "I think that was a fringe benefit. He really is very highly qualified." But his big burly frame and ferocious eyebrows and multi-broken nose in a craggy face were enough to make anyone think twice about tangling with him.

  "Probably overqualified. Pittsville never has had much of a criminal element, has it?" She glanced at her watch, and sighed. "Well - I'd better get back to my office. If Hizzoner ever shows up, tell him I really do need to see him. You'll know how best to put it." As most people did, she slurred "His Honor" together into the affectionate "Hizzoner."

  "I should by now." I'd been Mayor Pitt's secretary since he was first elected, five years ago. More than secretary, actually. The mayor was a great campaigner, but as an office-holder, he - mm - delegated responsibilities. That meant I ran the office, and he took the credit. And, as Anita said, I'd learned how to present matters to him so he made the correct decisions. I was satisfied with the arrangement. It was preferable to having him underfoot, poking into things and tangling them up.

  He was certain to be back in City Hall by midafternoon at the very latest. Senator Warren would be here for a town meeting, and Hizzoner loved that sort of thing - associating with the powerful, having pictures taken by the newspaper (and he really was extremely photogenic, the perfect elder statesman) and meeting constituents. This meeting ought to be especially good, since the main reason for it was to announce that a resort would, indeed, be built over at Indian Springs and provide a big boost for local economy, both in jobs and increased trade from tourism. Oh yes, Pitt would be here.

  Often I had to attend meetings with him, suitably respectful. In fact, today I had worn this severely tailored suit, soften by a ruffled blouse, just on the off chance he would call upon me to accompany him. Senator Warren was likely to have a retinue, and Pitt liked to have staff of his own in attendance, too. Accordingly, I settled at my desk, glad of an opportunity to do my work, uninterrupted, before he returned. Relatively uninterrupted. People dropped in, as Anita had - she was city treasurer. The phone rang occasionally, on both regular business and with queries about the town meeting. And Chief Judd wandered in, minus teddy bear, but looking faintly bemused. Anita had a point about culture shock.

  "Coffee?" I nodded toward the pot I kept in readiness; in Pittsville there was no nonsense whether secretaries (or personal assistants, as it was now politically correct to call us) should be asked to make or fetch coffee. When we knew who held the real power, we could concede such trifles. Besides, the one time the mayor undertook to brew it, the stuff was undrinkable. I sometimes wondered if that had been intentional. "Sugar? And creamer?"

  "Thanks." He had nice eyes in that battered face. As a matter of fact, if you liked the type - which was entirely different from what my husband had been - he was quite a hunk. "I've been out patrolling."

  I nodded. We both knew perfectly well that he actually meant he was familiarizing himself with the Pittsville streets, neighborhoods, and surrounding countryside so that in emergencies, he wouldn't have to waste time consulting the map and hunting for addresses. Previous police chiefs had been local men, and while they were familiar with the community and its population, that familiarity created other problems, namely bonds of blood and friendship. At times their loyalties were in conflict. This time an outsider was chosen. Judd had been a military MP, then a Chicago cop who'd risen to plainclothes detective sergeant.

  "I wanted something more quiet, but..." He frowned at his coffee. "Cristina, does anything ever happen here?"

  "What do you mean? Just yesterday there was that case..." In addition to a radio tuned to a local station for music, news, and weather, I had a scanner on the file cabinet, and it remained silent for such long stretches that I forgot its presence and jumped whenever voices crackled out.

  "Oh, sure. Big mystery." Dead serious tone but a faint gleam of humor in his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe it's beyond my powers to solve."

  We grinned at each other. A bale of hay had fallen off a green truck headed for the live stock auction barns. He'd been sent to find the truck, and when it wasn't immediately locatable, he went back to move the bale off the road - and discovered the bale had vanished. Possibly its owner had circled around for it, or perhaps someone else seized the opportunity to pick up some free hay. We'd probably never know.

  "They're just giving you time to settle in," I said comfortingly. "Weekends, when there's some serious drinking going on out at the Highway Tavern..." That had always been a trouble spot.

  "Yeah. And if they do build that resort, over east of here at, whatchamacallit - at Indian Springs?" He looked almost hopeful. Yes, life should be busier for all of us. "May even need to increase the size of the force." At present there was only a man for each shift, plus a few who could be called upon in emergencies.

  "Yes, but don't hold your breath." Smiling, I shook my head at him. "In Pittsville the only real crime is in television programs. Some of which are crimes in themselves, of course."

  He chuckled. "Well, I came here because I wanted peace and quiet after the city. I guess I shouldn't complain because I found it. Only - it keeps feeling to me like it has to be the calm before the storm."

  Today I took an early lunch hour. Funeral signs were already being set out on the street in front of the gray-stone bulk of St. Munditia's Church, and I had to at least go sign the register at the funeral home. I gave a little shiver; there seemed to be so many funerals lately. Of course, a great many invalids clung to life through winter, only to die in the spring, but still...the funeral home always reminded me of my husband Tony's services now, and he'd been too young - far too young - when his mother was still going strong, and my parents were, too. It wasn't right.


  Such thoughts were too gloomy on a bright April day. Moving briskly, I got into my little red Mustang, and headed home. Small as Pittsville was, I often walked it on fine days, but I was in the car before thinking of it. This was my town. I'd been born here, grown up here, known Tony from childhood - by now I knew or at least knew of the entire 4,500 population. Many were my cousins of varying degrees or married to them. As towns went, Pittsville was nothing out of the ordinary in appearance. I would have liked an impressive big courthouse in a central square, but Pittsville wasn't the county seat; the handsome Georgian-style red brick city hall did the best it could. The business district was a less scenic three-block strip parallel to the highway, which had the car and farm implement dealers, filling stations, several fast food restaurants, a bowling alley, and a small motel.

  My house was a cozy little silver-shingled Cape Cod Ranch with a breezeway and attached garage and white picket fence - and, I saw with dismay, a brown Chevrolet pickup truck in the driveway. What was Frank doing here? I didn't expect him, didn't want him - especially on a busy day when I planned a quick lunch before doing errands. If I'd thought faster, I would have kept going, but I had already pulled into the drive, and he looked up from digging, waved, and strolled toward me, beaming.

  Digging? He was digging up my backyard!

  "Frank DiLenzi, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

  He grinned. "Making your garden, babe."

  "My garden! I don't have a garden! Not anymore!" I didn't want one, either.

  "No, but I remembered what a good one you always used to have, so I'm making it for you again, just like Tony always used to do. Come on out and tell me what you want planted where."

  Most women wouldn't look at Frank DiLenzi with exasperated despair. My brother-in-law was stocky and muscular, with thick dark hair which hadn't started to silver at all, brown eyes, and warm olive skin - well, typical southern Italian looks, but I was so used to them as to be immune. He was divorced, had taken early retirement from the Navy, and he was of a mind to remarry.