The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  “What a can of worms!” Abigale said. “No wonder Michael thought Uncle Richard seemed preoccupied.”

  “You got that right. But don’t you go worrying yourself about it. It’ll all get straightened out in time.” Smitty waved a hand at the house. “You’d better go on and get yourself inside now. The temperature’s dropping like a rock. Feels like a storm’s brewing.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  The cozy warmth of the kitchen felt good, and Abigale was in no hurry to get in the car and drive back to Margaret’s. She found a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator and poured a glass, reflecting on what Smitty had told her about the hunt turmoil. Her perception of the duties of a master had always been that it was mostly ceremonial. More of an honor than a job. She’d had no idea so much politicking was involved. Wonder how Manning would handle that?

  Abigale sipped the glass of wine as she wandered past the gathering room to her uncle’s study at the far end of the house. She turned on the desk lamp and dropped down on the high-backed swivel chair, letting the rich leather swallow her as she sank against the tufted padding. This part of the house held almost no familiarity to her. Not that it had been off-limits to her exactly; she just remembered it as Uncle Richard’s quiet place where he went to be alone with his books.

  The room could easily have been in an old English manor home. In fact, other than the electrical lighting, it could have been transported from another century. She could almost imagine Heathcliff brooding on the Windsor chair beside the rugged stone hearth.

  Nary a computer nor other form of modern technology was in sight. Even the telephone was a replica of an old-fashioned candlestick phone. Heavy brocaded drapes framed the deep casement windows, no doubt hung to shield the artwork and antiques from the strong southern sun. And to protect the books. The room was overcome with books. There must have been over a thousand of them, lined precisely along the oak-paneled shelves. A wheeled ladder allowed access to the ones out of reach.

  Abigale ran her eyes over the spines, wondering which books had been her uncle’s favorites, and which he hadn’t yet gotten around to reading. She promised herself she’d go through them, when she had time. But the piles of papers stacked neatly across the generous desktop demanded her attention first.

  The desk blotter that gobbled up the center of the surface was empty except for a legal pad and leather-bound journal, lined up side by side. She brushed her fingertips across her uncle’s initials embossed in the top rail of the blotter, remembering when she and her mother had purchased it from a store on Banhofstrasse in Zürich, as a Christmas gift a few years back. The Waterman fountain pen she had bought for her uncle in Paris—with the money from her first photo shoot—rested in the pen well.

  Abigale slid the chocolate-brown journal closer and flipped it open, using the silky green ribbon that peeked out at the edge of the page bottoms. It was a day planner, opened to the day her uncle had died. A chill wiggled through her and she rubbed her hands along her arms as she scanned the entries on the page: JAY BARNSBY; HUNTING; LONGMEADOW—OPEN DRAINAGE DITCH; TJ.

  None of the entries noted a specific time. Rather, Uncle Richard’s bold script sprawled among the lines, irrespective of the times printed at the left of the page; it was more like a list than an actual schedule of appointments. Abigale read the notations again, wondering who or what “TJ” was.

  She flipped back a page: DR. PALEY—FALL SHOTS; HUNT BOARD MEETING; LONGMEADOW—REPAIR TIMBER. The preceding pages held more of the same, mostly entries about work to be done at Longmeadow and innocuous daily appointments. She thumbed through the days until a single notation caught her eye: TIFFANIE. The name was sandwiched between HUNTING and NATIONAL SPORTING LIBRARY RECEPTION. Who was Tiffanie?

  Abigale kept a finger on that page as she flipped back. There, six days earlier: TIFFANIE JENNER. She stared at the name. Jenner. Was she related to Charles Jenner—the man she and Smitty had just been talking about? His wife, perhaps? She wet her fingers and rifled back several days: MEETING WITH TIFFANIE JENNER—DOGWOOD LANE.

  She sipped her wine as she eyed the entries: TIFFANIE JENNER; TIFFANIE JENNER; TIFFANIE; TJ. So TJ must refer to Tiffanie Jenner. Uncle Richard had an appointment with her the day he was murdered. A meeting that most likely had never occurred, since the reference to TJ was listed after the notation regarding Longmeadow.

  The phone twittered a shrill ring-ring and Abigale jumped, sloshing the glass of wine. Damn it! A splatter landed in the center of the open page, swelling the word HUNTING into an indecipherable smudge of blue ink. She dabbed at the page with her sleeve and grabbed the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “You’re still there.”

  “Hi, Margaret.” She set the base of the candlestick phone on the desk, freeing up a hand, and continued to blot the page of the journal with her sleeve. “Yes, I’m just going through some of Uncle Richard’s things.”

  “I was getting worried about you. I didn’t expect you’d stay there so long.”

  Abigale glanced at her watch. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “Only?” Margaret gave a gruff laugh. “I guess you’re used to the European custom of dining fashionably late.”

  “I hope I didn’t hold up your dinner.”

  “Don’t you worry yourself about it. I didn’t make anything that I can’t heat back up,” Margaret replied, warmth creeping back into her voice. “When can I expect you?”

  Abigale wasn’t hungry. At all. “I didn’t know you were expecting me for dinner, so I made a snack here,” she said, feeling guilty for lying. “I’m really sorry. I should have called.”

  “Well, no, that’s all right. You don’t have to report to me. I was just worried, that’s all.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Consider it forgotten,” Margaret said, the finality in her tone putting an end to the discussion. “How much longer do you expect to be there?”

  “I’m not sure. I just started going through the papers on Uncle Richard’s desk.” She glanced at the wine-splattered page in the journal. “Hey, I have a question. Is Tiffanie Jenner Charles Jenner’s wife?”

  “Yes, she is. Why, did you meet her?”

  “No, but Uncle Richard had several appointments with her in his day planner.”

  “That’s because Tiffanie volunteered to organize the VIP reception at the races. An offer which in hindsight Richard probably wished he had declined.”

  “Why?”

  “Tiffanie was brown-nosing so hard it was driving Richard crazy.”

  “What was she brown-nosing for?”

  “Colors. Tiffanie is lobbying for her husband to be awarded his hunt colors, never mind that they only joined the hunt last season. Tiffanie throws a nice party, don’t get me wrong, but she makes sure everyone knows it. Her husband’s no better. That might be enough to earn colors with some hunts, but not ours.”

  “I heard Charles Jenner’s name mentioned earlier today. Smitty said there’s a rumor he’s having an affair.”

  “I haven’t heard that, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Charles has a history of it. Who was the source of the rumor?”

  “Percy.”

  Margaret snorted. “Then I’d take that with a grain of salt.”

  Good advice. Unless Percy had changed over the years, Abigale would not consider him a reliable source. “Smitty told me Charles wants to develop Percy’s property.”

  “That’s true. Another reason Richard was up to his ears with brown-nosing from Tiffanie and Charles.”

  “You mentioned Tiffanie is hosting a party. Was Charles doing something else to try to win Uncle Richard’s favor?”

  “Mostly just pestering Richard with good intentions. Charles has more newfangled equipment than you can shake a stick at and he’s always wanting to lend one thing or another to the hunt, most of which he hasn’t a clue how to operate.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It is if you’re fixing to nail
a fence board back up, and Charles insists on hooking his nail gun up to a generator when you could just pound a couple of nails with a good old-fashioned hammer in the blink of an eye.”

  Abigale smiled. “I get the picture.”

  “Charles isn’t so hard to stomach, I guess. He just doesn’t know any other way than throwing his money around—never mind that the ink’s still wet on it. But I wouldn’t turn my back on Tiffanie for an instant.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s a social climber of the highest order. I often wonder if there’s anything she wouldn’t do to be accepted in the right circles. From what I’ve seen, she knows no limits. No wonder Charles strays from time to time.”

  “What has she done?”

  “Well, for example, she wanted to enroll her daughter in preschool: she has a three-year-old, cute as a button, but spoiled rotten. Anyway, the class was full, so her little Brooke was placed on the waiting list.” Margaret cackled. “You’d have thought the President’s daughter had been denied admittance to the Easter egg hunt on the White House lawn. Tiffanie called everyone, trying to figure out a way to pull strings and get Brooke enrolled in the class.”

  “Did anyone help?”

  “Nope.” Margaret’s tone was smug. “She hit a brick wall. But that didn’t stop her. Tiffanie figured if she couldn’t bring Mohammed to the mountain, she’d bring the mountain to Mohammed. She got Charles to pony up the money for a full-time teacher’s assistant so the school could accept more students to the class.”

  “Did the school agree?”

  “How could they not? It benefited all the kids.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Anyway, we’ve wasted enough time talking about the Jenners. You’ll meet them soon enough and you can form your own opinion. I’d better stop bending your ear and let you get on the road. It’s already raining something awful and there are storms in the forecast.”

  Abigale tilted her head toward the window and heard the soft melody of rain pinging against the glass. A perfect night to curl up by the fire with her glass of wine and a good book.

  “I think I might stay here tonight, Margaret.”

  There was a long silence. “You don’t have any of your belongings.”

  “That’s okay. I always carry essentials in my bag. I’ll be fine for tonight, and I can pack up the rest of my things tomorrow.”

  “The rest of your things? You mean you don’t intend to stay here at all?”

  Abigale hadn’t realized until the words were out of her mouth that she really wanted to stay at Dartmoor Glebe. And not just for one night. “I’m not sure, Margaret. It just feels right for me to stay here. I feel closer to Uncle Richard.”

  “I can understand that. You do whatever makes you feel best. I just worry about you being in that big house all alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Um-hmm. Make sure the doors are bolted. When I got there today the front door was unlocked.”

  What was this all about? Abigale had never known Margaret to lock anything. “Has Middleburg changed that much over the years?” she asked. “As I recall, you used to leave your car running when you went into the post office to get your mail.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Margaret replied. “But whoever shot Richard rifled through his wallet and could have gotten his address from his driver’s license. It stands to reason he might try his luck at burglarizing the house.”

  Abigale glanced at the darkened hall and felt a tiny shiver run up her back. The house suddenly felt less cozy, but not enough to make her change her mind. “Okay. I’ll check the locks. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “All right. And just so you know, Thompson lives in the gatehouse at the front of the property and Michael lives in the tenant house back by the kennels. Either one of them could be there in a flash if you have a problem. Let me give you their phone numbers.”

  Abigale scribbled the numbers on a legal pad. “Thanks, Margaret. Good night.”

  “Good night, dear.”

  Just as Abigale was about to hang the earpiece on the base, she heard Margaret’s voice.

  “Wait! Abigale?”

  “Yes?” she said, raising the earpiece.

  “There’s a gun in the drawer of Richard’s nightstand. Just in case.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  Abigale jerked awake, her heart pounding. It took her several seconds to shake off the fog of sleep and remember where she was. She realized she must have had a bad dream, though she remembered nothing of it, just felt a drumbeat hammering inside her chest.

  The digits on the Disney clock beside the bed glowed red in the dark room: 11:23. She had kicked the covers off in her sleep and chilly air pricked goose bumps on her arms. Abigale grabbed the blanket and puffy comforter, pulled them back up to her chin, and turned onto her stomach, greedy for sleep.

  A throaty growl of thunder rolled in the distance, and the wind whistled across the gutters as it pelted rain against the windows. She snuggled into the cocoon of the mattress, lazily cognizant that the rumblings outside her window were claps of thunder rather than explosions and small-arms fire, night sounds all too commonplace in Afghanistan.

  A muffled thump from downstairs joined the cacophony of sounds, almost like a cabinet door banging closed. She wiggled deeper under the covers. Probably a loose shutter blowing in the wind. She’d mention it to someone tomorrow.

  Bang. There it was again, tugging at her consciousness. Abigale squeezed her eyes shut, fought to ignore it. Bang-bang. A double thump, louder this time. She envisioned a shutter crashing against a window pane and felt a twinge of guilt for lying there, all nestled down in the bed. Uncle Richard would never have disregarded the threat of damage to Dartmoor Glebe. She could almost hear him, as she had summer after summer, cautioning the window-washing crew that the original glass panes were irreplaceable.

  Abigale sighed and smothered a yawn. Flinging off the covers, she shrugged into the robe she’d dropped on the foot of the bed. Lightning flashed, making dark objects seem to jump out at her, and she fumbled for the light switch by the door.

  Light from the bedroom spilled into the hall, giving her some guidance as she felt her way down the long passageway toward the stairs. A shiver shimmied down her back and she wrapped the robe tighter, yanking at the belt. Had the temperature really dropped that much, or did the howl of the wind add to the feel of chill in the air?

  She switched on the lamp by the landing and headed down the stairs, flinching as another bang echoed from the darkness below. It sounded farther away than it had when she’d been upstairs, which meant the loose shutter was probably at the far end of the house, beneath her bedroom. That was her luck, wasn’t it? No way it could have been a window closer to the door. She decided she’d check it from the inside first.

  Her bare feet padded softly on the oriental carpet in the foyer as she cut through the darkness, and she felt a cold prickle flutter in her stomach. The lamp above bathed the ceiling with a dim glow, but the downstairs was black as pitch. If Margaret hadn’t voiced concerns about her staying there alone Abigale would probably have thought nothing of it, but Margaret’s words rang in her ears, unleashing her imagination.

  “Shit.” She reached down and rubbed her shin where it had collided with the corner of the hutch.

  Abigale groped unsuccessfully for a light switch, then gave up and let her hand trail along the wall, mindful not to dislodge a painting, as she felt her way toward the hall. Her feet touched the cool oak-planked flooring and she rounded the corner, breathing a sigh when she saw the glow of light coming from the study. She thought she’d turned the lights off before she went to bed, but she’d nodded off in the study reading A Portion for Foxes and had been so groggy when she decided to go upstairs that she must have forgotten the lamp. Thank God for that.

  Halfway down the hall, she froze. The last bang sounded as though it came from inside the study. Abigale held her br
eath, straining to hear. Nothing but a far-off grumble of thunder. Had she imagined it?

  She crept forward, then jerked back. What was that? A low rumble, but not thunder. Not outside. More like something rolling and thudding to a stop. In the study.

  The hair on the back of Abigale’s neck pricked to attention. Was someone in the house? She threw a quick glance into the dark abyss behind her and flattened herself against the wall, eyes glued on the study door.

  Abigale craned her head toward the study, straining to hear over the war-drum beat of her pulse pounding in her ears. She forced deep breaths and felt her heart slow, slam less violently against her chest.

  No more sounds from the study. Just the faint whistle of wind. Rain pelting against the windowpanes. “Get a grip, Abigale,” she muttered. This wasn’t a war zone. Bad guys weren’t lurking around every corner.

  Smiling at her foolishness, she padded forward, the dark hall once again swaddling her with familiarity. Almost as if her uncle was beside her. In fact, given that she was now fully awake, after she fastened the shutter she might pour another glass of wine and ride out the storm in the study.

  Abigale was about to enter the study when a shadow danced across the wall of bookcases to her left. What the hell was that? She drew back, her knuckles white where she gripped the door molding. There! It moved again. The shape was indistinct, but it was large, rising up along the shelves of books and mushrooming against the ceiling. It moved slowly, looming across the room. Then, the raspy sound of someone clearing his throat.

  Fear trickled icy fingers down Abigale’s spine. Margaret’s warning rang in her ears: The murderer took Richard’s wallet and knows his address.

  She pressed her shoulders to the wall and slowly crept away, her wet palms fumbling behind her for guidance. Carefully, she slid one foot sideways across the other, never taking her eyes off the study. She heard the thump of wood against wood, followed by what sounded like a stack of papers smacking down.

  Abigale inched her way back twenty feet or so, then stopped and listened. From that vantage point she could no longer see the interior walls of the study, couldn’t monitor the shadowy movements.