by Jan Neuharth
Should she make a dash for the car? The keys were hanging by the back door. But her cell phone battery was dead, the charger in her duffle back at Margaret’s. She wouldn’t be able to call for help from the car. She remembered Margaret telling her that Michael and Thompson lived nearby, but if she drove to get one of them, the intruder—her uncle’s murderer?—might get away. She wasn’t willing to risk that. No. She’d call from here.
Her eyes darted to her left, spotting the dim outline of the winding staircase. The phone in the kitchen was closest, but she preferred to put more distance between her and the intruder before calling for help. Casting one final look in the direction of the study she turned and fled, cringing as the sound of her slapping footsteps seemed to thunder through the silence.
CHAPTER
41
Abigale flew across the foyer and sailed up the stairs, eating up two steps at a time. She barely slowed as she flung open the door to her uncle’s bedroom. The light from the hall streamed a path halfway to the bed, beyond which she saw only inky darkness. Stumbling beyond the light to the bed, her hands slid along the mattress until her fingers hit the edge of the nightstand. She searched blindly for a light, grasping the cold metal feet of a lamp base. Her hands ran up along the thick crystal column, searching for a switch at the neck of the lamp. Nothing. It must be on the cord.
She felt her way back down the lamp and located the cord that emerged at the back of the base, slid her shaky hand along the rubbery cord to the in-line switch, and flicked it with her thumb and forefinger. The switch slid through her fingers and Abigale jerked her hand back, swiped her sweaty palm against the bedspread, then groped for the cord again.
The instant her knuckles scraped against the cut crystal, Abigale realized she’d aimed too high, shoved too hard. Both hands flailed in the dark, stretching for the falling lamp as it crashed to the floor. The clatter seemed deafening in the stillness of the bedroom, but was it loud enough to be heard downstairs? Abigale’s heart pounded against her chest. She held her breath, listening.
The rain drummed a beat on the nearby window, making it impossible to hear much of anything else. Abigale tore her gaze away from the top of the staircase long enough to peer in the direction of the nightstand, making sure she didn’t dislodge something else as she groped for a phone.
Her hand brushed across the glossy dust jacket of a book, bumped up against a metal picture frame. But no phone. It had to be on the nightstand on the other side. Abigale’s eyes flickered toward the stairwell as she scrambled on all fours across the king-size bed.
A lamp perched in the center of the opposite nightstand but she ignored it, preferring the safety of the dark in case the intruder had heard the crash and came upstairs to investigate. Her fingers skimmed the polished wood, skipped deftly around a crystal decanter. Something metal, heavy, sat in front of the lamp. It didn’t budge when she ran her hand along it: a rectangle, about a foot long and almost a hand’s width across. She frowned, exploring with her fingers. Beneath the metal rectangle was a smooth stone base, marble maybe. What—ah, of course! It was the bronze of Sommerset that Uncle Richard had commissioned when he retired the horse from racing. The artist had sculpted Oinkers, the potbellied pig who was Sommerset’s constant companion, nestled between the horse’s front legs.
Abigale slid her hand to the left of the bronze. Yes! An old-fashioned European-style desk phone. She lifted the receiver and reached for the dial. It was push-button, but the keypads were arranged in a circle to resemble a rotary phone. Her fingers trembled as they flew over the dark keys. There were twelve in all. Okay, zero through nine, plus the asterisk and number keys. But which keys were nine and one? She felt a metal lever at about three o’clock on the dial, figured it must be where the numbers began, and started counting counterclockwise from there.
One, two, three. Wait. Did the dial start with one, or zero? One. It had to be one. She mouthed a silent prayer and counted to nine, pressed the key, then punched the first key twice.
Silence.
Shit. Okay, so the first key had to be zero. She hesitated. Should she just press zero? Did phone operators even still exist in America? No, 9-1-1 was a safer bet. An operator would eat up valuable time transferring the call. Her fingers skipped ten keys to the left, then back to the second button.
“Come on, come on,” Abigale whispered, glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the stairway from that side of the bed and the half-open bedroom door shielded her view of the hall. She scooted up against the headboard and stared at the two-foot-wide strip of light in the doorway, as if her vigilance could will the intruder away.
Nothing moved in the hall. Abigale blew out a breath and tore the silent receiver away from her ear, pressed the lever. She bent over the nightstand, her face inches away from the phone dial, but could make out nothing on the keys. Damn it. Why couldn’t Uncle Richard have had a cordless phone like everyone else?
“Okay, third time’s a charm.” Abigale counted clockwise this time, down from the lever. Gambling that zero was first, she pressed the second key, which should be nine, and was fingering her way around to one when she sensed a movement behind her.
She whipped her head toward the door. What was that? A shadow? The creak of a floorboard?
There it was again. A slow, deliberate squeak. Measured footsteps.
Abigale replaced the receiver and slipped to the floor, huddling against the side of the bed. She ducked her head and peered at the door. From beneath the bed she had a sliver of a view, enough to see if someone entered the room.
A shadow appeared first, then two largish, light-colored athletic shoes, legs draped in a black track suit. Undoubtedly male. He crept forward, the nylon track suit rustling, then stopped just short of the end of the stream of light. Abigale froze in her contorted position, fighting to ignore the cramp that seized her muscles, spearing a burn across her lower back.
Darkness and the element of surprise worked to her advantage, but that wouldn’t get her far. She needed a weapon. She considered the lamp, but God only knew where it was plugged in. If she made a move, he’d be on top of her in a heartbeat; and if the cord held the lamp back for even an instant she’d never have a chance to swing at him. There had to be something else. The objects she’d felt on the nightstand raced through her mind. The bronze was heavy enough, but maybe too heavy for her to heave with the kind of force that could do damage. Then she remembered Margaret’s parting words from their phone call. There’s a gun in the drawer of Richard’s nightstand. Just in case. Hope surged, leaving Abigale almost giddy for an instant. But which nightstand?
The intruder’s breathing grew louder, and Abigale could tell he’d turned his head in her direction. She tensed, ready to spring toward the nightstand if his feet moved an inch. He took a step back, then turned toward the door. Abigale’s heart sank as she watched him turn right, heading down the hall rather than toward the stairs.
She spun around and ran her hand up the front of the nightstand. Open shelves lined with books ate up the bottom half; above that she felt the beveled edges of two drawers. She grabbed the knob of the lower drawer, eased it open, and slipped her hand inside. A long, narrow velvet box was tucked in one corner, probably containing a watch or jewelry of some sort. Other than that, the drawer was empty.
Abigale yanked open the top drawer. Yes! Her hand closed around the pistol, feeling the familiar ruggedness of the Luger’s carved handle, the worn leather strap that protruded from just below the barrel. She fingered the empty cavity in the butt of the handle. Shoving her hand back in the drawer, she fished around for the clip; she felt a pen and notepad, a couple of small foil packets. Condoms? Oh, God. Too much information. In spite of the circumstances, she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment at the thought.
She patted down the rest of the drawer. No clip. Where was it? The ammunition had to be close by. It made no sense otherwise. She ran her hand inside the drawer again. All the while, the nightstand across the be
d tugged at her, as if screaming it’s over here. She frowned in that direction. Would Uncle Richard have done that? If he had a gun in his nightstand, it would be because he wanted quick access. In the middle of the night. No way would he put the clip out of reach of the gun…
Abigale shoved the top drawer shut and grabbed the velvet box from the drawer below, feeling a surge of adrenaline as she held the solid weight in her hand. She placed the gun on the floor and flipped open the box. Her fingers traced the outline of the clip.
The creak of a board in the hall made her jump and she grabbed the gun, shoving the clip into it as she flew across the room. Flattening herself against the wall, she peered through the crack in the open door and caught a glimpse of a short white shirtsleeve as the intruder stepped back into the room. A second later, the overhead light flicked on.
Abigale shouldered the door out of her way as she flicked off the safety and cocked the gun, aiming the Luger at the man’s back. “Stop right there! Put your hands up. I have a gun.”
The man half-raised his arms. “Okay, take it easy.”
“All the way up!”
He spread his fingers and shoved his arms in the air. “All right.”
“Now turn around. Slowly.”
“Listen, just calm down.”
Abigale jerked the gun up, fixing her aim on the back of his close-cropped dark hair. “Now.”
“All right.” He wiggled his raised hands, turning slowly toward her. “My hands are up, okay? I’m not going to do anything. Just take it easy.”
He faced her full on and his dark eyes narrowed as he dropped his hands. “Abigale? Jesus Christ, I heard a noise up here and came to investigate. I thought there might be an intruder.”
Abigale stared wide-eyed at Thompson as she lowered the gun, resting it against her thigh. She eased out a long breath and swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “What are you doing here?”
Thompson jabbed a hand toward the hall. “I came to get some files from Richard’s study. Then, like I said, I heard a noise up here and came to investigate.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I had no idea you’d be here. I’m so sorry. It just never entered my mind to think anyone would be here.”
“How did you get in?” She had locked all the doors after her conversation with Margaret. She was sure of it.
Thompson fished in the pocket of his track pants and palmed a single gold key. “I have a key to the front door. I do all the bookkeeping for the hunt, and the files are kept here in the study. Richard gave me carte blanche to come and go whenever I needed to access the files. Of course, I was always respectful of Richard’s privacy. I’d never have been so rude as to intrude in the middle of the night when he was here.”
He ran a hand across his mouth and snorted, giving an angry shake of his head, clearly irritated with himself. “God, what an idiot I am! I must have scared you half to death. I am so sorry. I can’t apologize enough.”
“It’s all right. No harm done.” Abigale glanced down and wiggled the gun in her hand. “I probably scared you just as much as you scared me.”
The lines around Thompson’s eyes crinkled as his face relaxed into a smile. “You got my attention, that’s for sure.” He aimed a finger at the gun. “Is that thing loaded?”
She nodded.
He arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Really?”
“Why, does that surprise you? A girl has no business handling a loaded gun?”
“Well, yeah, kind of. No, not the girl part.” He held up a hand to smother her retort. “But that gun looks like an antique. Is it safe to shoot?”
“It’s almost old enough to be an antique. It’s a relic from World War Two.” She released the clip into her palm, then offered the gun to him. “See the Reichsadler?”
Thompson ran his fingers over the barrel. “Is that a swastika?” he asked, raising it and peering closely at the engraving.
Abigale nodded. “Hitler’s emblem. A wreath of oak leaves surrounding a swastika, held in the talons of an eagle.”
He held the gun gingerly, as if bad karma might rub off on him. “Holy cow. How did Richard end up with it?”
“My grandfather took it off a German soldier he’d shot dead. He smuggled it back to the States after the war.”
“Do you know how to shoot it?” Disbelief tinged Thompson’s tone.
“Quite well, actually. Uncle Richard taught me to shoot it when I turned sixteen.”
“That’s a hell of a sweet-sixteen gift.”
“I thought so.”
Thompson eyed her through thick, dark lashes, the corners of his mouth creeping upward into a slow grin. “I’m beginning to understand what Margaret meant when she likened you to Ruffian. ‘A filly through and through, but more than able to take on the boys.’ That’s how she described you.”
Abigale felt heat rise in her cheeks and Thompson’s smile seemed to broaden. The man knew how to lay on the charm, no doubt about that. He wasn’t overtly sexy, he didn’t have the undress-you-with-his-eyes air that Manning possessed. Nor did he have Manning’s rugged good looks. Thompson was more refined, genteel, his features almost too perfect. Handsome, in a gentlemanly way. She regarded his neatly trimmed hair, the white cotton T-shirt tucked tidily into the waistband of his track pants. So proper. The antithesis of Manning, really. She tried to picture Thompson losing control, or drunk, but couldn’t.
Thompson handed the gun back to her. “I’d better get out of your hair and let you get back to sleep. I’ll never forgive myself for my stupidity, barging in on you like I did. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”
She put the Luger and clip back the way she’d found them in the drawers of the nightstand. When she finished, Thompson handed the house key to her. “I’ll take the files I use most often home with me and coordinate future access with you.”
“You don’t have to give up the key,” Abigale said.
“No, I insist. I wouldn’t feel right keeping it.”
Abigale accepted the key from Thompson and accompanied him downstairs. She leaned against the door to the study, watching as he gathered up manila file folders. Some he slipped back into the drawers in the filing cabinets, others he stacked on the edge of the desk.
“What possessed you to work on bookkeeping at this hour of the night anyway?” Abigale asked. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Right. The perfect cure for insomnia.” Thompson flashed a tired smile, which faded as quickly as it appeared. His brow creased as he flipped through a file folder, hesitated as if considering the contents, then added it to the pile on the desk.
“Seriously, you have a day job, right? Do you have to stay up half the night doing bookkeeping for the hunt?”
Thompson shook his head. “I generally get it done on weekends, but you hit the nail on the head when you surmised I had trouble sleeping. I thought I might as well do something productive, and since I live so close it was no big deal to run up here and get the files I needed.”
“Margaret told me you live in the gatehouse.”
“Yeah, I board my horses with Richard, too. So it’s great to be close by.”
“Except when the paperwork starts calling to you in the middle of the night.”
Thompson smiled. “Nah, it’s not usually like that. Keeping the books for the hunt is no burden. But I guess you know we had an emergency board meeting this evening and voted Manning in as master.”
“Yes.”
He paused, open file folder in hand. “Well, to be honest, it troubles me to think of Manning trying to make a go of it financially. For the sake of the hunt, I hope he succeeds. And if he wants me to continue to handle the bookkeeping, I’ll gladly do so. But frankly, I’ll be very surprised if Manning doesn’t inform me that my services are no longer needed. With that in mind, I thought I’d better spend some time tidying up the files—make sure everything’s in order for whoever takes over the responsibilities.” He dropped the folder into the drawer and slid it shut. “I just hope Manning has the
good sense to know he’ll need someone to help him and not try to tackle this himself.”
“What makes you so sure Manning won’t be able to handle the finances?”
Thompson snorted a little laugh. “Are you serious? Well, let’s see, I can think of a handful of reasons right off the bat. There was his racing fiasco. I hear that set Margaret back a hundred grand or so. Then there was his stint at playing professional polo. That would have driven Margaret to the poorhouse in a hurry if Richard hadn’t stepped in as Manning’s sponsor.”
He held out his hand and spread his fingers, ticking off each damning piece of evidence he named. “Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t have a real job. Sure, he teaches a lesson here and there, but what little money he makes from that he probably squanders on booze. Granted, he made a bundle selling that horse he bought at the track and turned around as a show horse. But not a week went by before he blew it all on a sports car. I think Manning has some romantic notion of himself as the Great Gatsby, and he hasn’t come to grips with the fact that his bank account is more befitting a character in a Steinbeck novel.”
Abigale drew in a breath, ready to pounce back in Manning’s defense, bring up what Julia had said about the success he’d had in California until Margaret and Richard had tricked him into coming home. But she bit back the words.
“Oh, Christ. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Thompson asked.
She managed a tight smile. “No offense taken. You were just voicing your opinion.”
“No,” he said with a groan. “I was out of line. For the second time tonight, I beg your forgiveness.”
CHAPTER
42
Abigale slept fitfully, tortured by unwelcome dreams, swirling images of Scarlet and Manning. She woke herself with a garbled moan, clawing her way to consciousness past a foggy figure brandishing Uncle Richard’s Luger. A weak stream of sunlight peeked through the curtains and she saw from the bedside clock that it was almost seven-thirty.