by Sarah Andre
Chapter 23
“I can’t believe the cops are still working in this weather,” Sean remarked. He parked the van next to a squad car in the Wickham circular driveway.
Hannah didn’t answer. Her head hurt, and her eyes, although no longer red—thank God—stung from all the crying. She just wanted to get this part of the project wrapped up and go take a nap until her depression lifted. Wishful thinking. She had three more apartments to tour, even though she could already tell from the website that they probably weren’t suitable.
Sean cut the engine, and she jumped out, shivering as the north wind whipped her coat and ponytail. “It’s too cold to construct the crates out here.” He opened the back of the van and grabbed the toolbox next to the stacks of lumber.
“Well, we can’t traipse through the house with all this. Or hammer and drill next to all his artifacts.”
He glanced at her oddly. “I meant, we’ll have to move all of the supplies out on the driveway and work in the shelter of the van.”
Heat burned her face. Before she could apologize, he very kindly glanced at the sky, where dense clouds in battleship-gray hung low. On the horizon, angry purple-black clouds plowed ominously forward. “But we’d better haul ass.”
The air felt damp, and instinct made her pause. “If it rains, the wood will get wet.” They stared at each other, and she knew his frustration at working on a Sunday and in such conditions was mirrored on her face. “It’d be safer to construct the crates in the basement. Let me go ask Mr. Wickham for permission.”
She jogged up the front steps and rang the doorbell. A gust almost blew her off the front stoop. Unprofessional as it was, she hopped up and down, teeth chattering until the door opened.
Joseph greeted her, and Rick peered over his shoulder, only to turn away, frowning. “Good morning, Miss Moore,” Joseph said kindly, ushering her inside. She almost brushed by him in her haste to be out of the cold.
“Weather sure changed fast,” she gasped.
He nodded with a slight smile. In the four days she’d been on this project, he’d greeted her without a glimmer of recognition, and yet he’d been such a fixture in the times she’d spent here with Devon. Did she look that different, or had Devon brought home so many girls during his high school years that Joseph eventually paid no attention? Nothing used to get past him in this busy domain, and he’d known her name and spoken to her often back then. But it hurt to be treated like—well, a businesswoman. Hannah shook the idiotic thoughts from her mind and quickly explained the situation to him. “So if you could ask Mr. Wickham if we can construct the crates in the basement, I’d appreciate it.”
“He’s not expected back until afternoon, miss, but I think that’s a splendid idea.” He held out his arm. “The basement is—”
“I remember.” She froze. If he hadn’t known she’d been the disheveled girl with Devon down there one lazy Saturday afternoon, she’d just outed herself.
Merriment flickered in his eyes. He nodded. “Very well, miss. May I provide you with staff to assist in transporting the wood?”
“That’d be perfect. Thank you, Joseph.”
What was the Moore and Morrow van doing here? The massive front door opened, and Devon turned. Joseph stood in the doorway with a steaming mug of coffee on a small silver tray. Despite his miserable mood, Devon grinned. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Entering the warmth of the foyer, he almost groaned. “I’d forgotten how the weather turns in the blink of an eye.”
“Yes, sir. We’re expecting severe storms later this afternoon.”
Ah, thunderstorms and this house. An epic combination. “Is Hannah working?”
“After you…left for the police department yesterday, she notified me she’d rather finish today.”
“When does my father get home?” He swapped his coat for the coffee.
“We expect him closer to noon, sir.”
Devon glanced at his watch. Over two hours. Good. He didn’t need the added complication. Whatever Francine’s problem was, she had to get over it before his father became even more overprotective. “Has my sister been like this before?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. Miss Francine seems to have…” He tightened his lips, a sure sign he was uncomfortable gossiping about anyone. Devon nodded impatiently. “Been out of sorts since Miss Honey’s death.”
Since before that. Todd had left the house before nine o’clock, when Honey had last been seen, which meant Frannie must have been hysterical around six or seven. “Who was the last person to see Honey alive on Friday night?”
Again Joseph hesitated. “An upstairs maid saw your father leaving her suite. Miss Hartlett was alive and well inside the room before he closed the door.”
Devon sipped the coffee. He should be heading to his sister and her crisis, but he needed to lay out a timeline and motivations. His call to his father had occurred before the Rogers Park meeting at six. Someone else had been on the line and heard the facts about Honey conning his father to inherit the vast fortune. Then Harrison must have canceled their plans, no surprise, and no doubt visited her room at nine to kick her out of the house. Which was when the maid saw Harrison leave Honey’s bedroom.
But what didn’t make sense was the next morning Harrison told the chauffeur to have the car ready for another function he and Honey were to attend that night. Was that a lie, like Devon had originally suspected? Or had she said something in her room to convince Harrison she loved him, and their engagement was back on? “Joseph, did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary that night?”
“No, sir.”
“When did you go to bed?”
“I retired at ten.”
“Did you”—how to say this without sounding like an accusation?—“happen to overhear the conversation I had with Harrison over the phone that evening?”
Joseph, the ageless, stoic butler who’d been with them since before Devon was born, swallowed audibly. “Yes, sir. I saw the telephone off the hook in the parlor, and went to hang it up. I did overhear a bit by accident.”
“Were you ever suspicious of her?”
“I’m uncomfortable answering, sir.”
He opened his mouth to press Joseph but let it go. Frannie was the priority right now, not fishing for clues as to whether his father had committed a second murder. Devon nodded his thanks and wound his way to the back of the mansion.
Rick paced beside the closed paneled doors of the sunroom, hands deep in his pockets.
“I’m here. So what’s the story?”
Rick glanced up, the worried expression instantly clearing. “Hey.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like a brewery. He wore wrinkled olive khakis and an orange T-shirt that said: You Wish. “From what I’ve been able to gather, Brady’s on his way over to take Todd.”
A trickle of unease crept down Devon’s spine. “What do you mean, ‘take Todd’?”
“I don’t know. But Frannie immediately locked herself and Todd in the sunroom, and won’t come out or talk or anything. I’ve been knocking and calling for half an hour.” Rick shook his head. “Ever since you came home, it’s like she’s gone around the bend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation. I mean, she’s been a mess since announcing the divorce and moving back here, but it was more hyper and energetic. In these last few days, it’s like…she’s cracked or something.”
“It’s called Honey being murdered, asshole. It’s Frannie having to relive our own mother’s death. Keep my visit out of the equation.” Devon grazed his knuckles against the door. “Frannie? Open up.”
“I already tried that, Batman.”
They stared at the white, arched doors for thirty seconds before a lock clicked and the right panel flung open. Frannie launched into Devon’s arms. He jerked the mug away and caught her, coffee scalding his hand. He winced, swallowing the howl of pain as he circled her thin body with his other arm.
“Thank God you came. I hav
e no one else to turn to,” she said, sobbing.
“Well, fuck me,” Rick muttered, and walked off.
“So what’s going on?”
Frannie squirmed out of his embrace, sniffing a very congested nose. “Get in here.” She yanked his arm, and to keep the remaining coffee in his cup, Devon allowed himself to be pulled into the sunroom. She slammed the door and turned the old-fashioned key.
“I hear Brady’s on his way.”
“Todd told him what happened Friday night. He’s gone to speak to his lawyer and threatened to come take my son right after. He said any court in the land would side with him.”
Devon looked over at Todd, slouched miserably in the corner of the yellow-flowered sofa. “Dude, why’d you do that?”
His nephew shrugged. “He has a way of tricking you with his questions. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Help me,” Frannie whispered. “If he takes him, I’ll kill myself.”
Devon’s teeth clicked tight. “I don’t want to ever hear that phrase come out of your mouth again.” His sister glanced away, nodding and sniffling. “Have you called your lawyer?”
She shook her head helplessly. “He won’t get here in time. He lives in Des Plaines.”
“Do it,” he snapped. He spun around and tried the door handle. The flimsy old panels rattled easily in his grip; this fortress would cave in with one kick. He glanced out the window to where three cops chatted over by the cliff, one drinking from a large Styrofoam cup. Yellow crime tape snapped in the wind. He swigged the remainder of his coffee as Frannie picked up the phone across the room.
“Hey, Todd. You ever been in our fallout shelter?” he asked quietly. When the boy shook his head, Devon motioned for him to follow. At Frannie’s questioning glance, he held up a hand. “Be right back.” He ushered Todd out of the room just as Joseph rounded the corner with a platter of donuts, the glaze still dripping.
“Mrs. Farlow heard you’d arrived and made these especially for you.”
The sugary cake aroma enveloped him, and his stomach grumbled noisily on cue. “Tell her thank you and that I’ll visit her shortly to propose.” He took the platter without breaking his stride, ushering the boy down the same back hallways and old servants’ stairs that he’d used yesterday, until they reached the basement door.
He handed the platter over and opened it, startled to find the fluorescent lights already on. They quickly descended. The path he’d taken to get out the side door yesterday was now blocked by a drop cloth and stacks of lumber. An open toolbox lay nearby, with colored files on top. The breath streamed out of him. He’d seen those colored files last night in Hannah’s apartment.
“The art restoration staff must be working here,” Devon said, “so when they come back, I need you to be extra quiet, okay?”
His nephew grunted, but the tone was high; he was clearly afraid.
Devon turned to him fully. “Don’t worry, Todd. I’ll straighten things out with your dad. And you’ve met Hannah, right? The red-haired woman dealing with your grandfather’s art?” Todd shook his head. “Well, she’s really nice, and she’ll keep our secret, but it’d still be better if you stayed as quiet as possible.”
The fingers gripping the platter were white. “Okay.”
Devon scanned the enormous room, his body humming with energy. Hannah was somewhere nearby. Brady was on his way. Devon had to get back to Frannie. He put his coffee mug on the bottom stair. Large boxes, stacked three high, covered most of the east wall. He tugged one of the middle stacks, which eventually slid out. There was enough room between the whole row and the wall for an eleven-year-old boy to hang out until Brady gave up his search and left.
“Get behind there. Here—” He gathered a canvas folding chair and a small box labeled VHS Movies. He placed the donuts on the box and handed over his cell phone. “I’ve got Angry Birds on there, but keep it on mute. Don’t make a sound or come out unless it’s your mom or me. Only. You hear?”
“But you will come back?” Todd’s eyes were saucer round.
“You’re damn right I will—you’ve got the donuts. Get in; I need to get back to your mom.”
“Do you think she’s going to kill herself like your mother?” The words came out through trembling lips.
Devon kept his expression blank with difficulty. The boy didn’t know any better; he’d been brainwashed by his grandfather, probably since he was old enough to understand words. “Your mom will be fine. And my mother didn’t kill herself.”
“You think she was pushed?” Todd paled. “Like Honey?”
“Just get in there.” Devon leaned in and grabbed a few donuts, then shouldered the stack of boxes back into place.
“You okay?” he called, and heard a muffled reply. Apparently a donut was already in his nephew’s mouth. Devon stuffed one in too as he grabbed the coffee and mounted the steps two at a time, then closed the door softly. He paused and stopped chewing, listening for footsteps nearby. A part of him was dying to see Hannah again, despite the hurt. But all was silent.
When he returned to the sunroom, Frannie flew at him, looking seriously unhinged in her filthy sweats and snarled hair. “Where is he? What did you do with him?”
“Relax. In a house this size, no one will find him, and you can honestly tell Brady you don’t know where he is.”
“You’ll stay, won’t you?”
The doorbell chimed its ostentatious gong. “Of course. Sit down and take a couple of deep breaths. Are those yesterday’s sweats?”
“This is a shitty time to be discussing fashion, Dev.”
“It’s more of a discussion on hygiene.” She punched him hard, and he grinned, nodding his approval. “That’s the spirit, sis. Let’s do this.”
Chapter 24
Brady’s nose cracked under Devon’s fist, an oddly satisfying feeling, which only fed his desire to hit the fucker again. He yanked his limp brother-in-law half off the floor by his bloodied collar. “And this is for what you just called my sister.” He swung his fist back again. It was caught in an iron grasp and held there. He whipped his head around, snarling.
“No need to hit him again, son,” a homicide detective said in a soft Southern accent. “He’s about out cold.”
Devon glared, panting, but the calm smile remained. It was the detective who’d stood up to his father yesterday. Devon nodded stiffly, releasing the shirt, and Brady’s head thumped on the rug. Although the bastard’s eyes were puffy gashes, they remained open and vacant. His linebacker heft had dissolved into a booze paunch, and it was clear by the guttural wheezing that he hadn’t seen this much exercise in years. With immense effort, Devon regained control over the killer-rage instinct and straightened.
A crowd had gathered during the fight. Strange, he hadn’t been aware of anything except going after Brady like some junkyard dog. Besides Joseph and Mrs. Farlow, he knew none of the house staff, and most stared at him with round, frightened eyes. Welcome to the Wickham Reality Show, folks. Starring the vicious patriarch, the violent son, and the batshit-crazy daughter. When his gaze swung back to Joseph, though, he could have sworn the old butler winked.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped to everyone, and only then did the detective release his grip.
“Move along.” Joseph fanned the air with his open palms. “Back to work, plenty to do.”
Devon wiped his mouth with the back of his throbbing hand and sought out his sister. She cowered on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around a pillow. If she were any paler, she’d be laid out on a slab. “You okay?”
She nodded and, of course, promptly burst into tears. Behind her, the patio door stood open, with two cops positioned in the threshold as if blocking an escape route. Gusting wind billowed the bright yellow curtains, and Devon only now felt the chill. How long had they been standing there? The shouting and crack of Brady smashing the antique cocktail table on his first trip down must’ve reached cliff-side.
“I apologize,” he said again to the detective.
“It’s a fight that’s been years in the making.” Since that homecoming dance with my sister. At his feet, Brady stirred and groaned. It was all Devon could do to hold back a rib-cracking kick.
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?”
Everyone swiveled toward the authoritative voice except Devon. Home way too early, damn it.
“I was just about to ask that myself,” the detective said.
Harrison marched past the rapidly departing staff and looked pointedly from daughter to son to son-in-law. “Well?”
Devon remained silent; this was Frannie’s story to tell. Even though Todd had blown it and the truth about the onboard stowaway adventure would come out, it wouldn’t be from him.
“Brady came to take Todd away.” Francine’s words trembled with hate. “And Devon told him to go to hell, so Brady punched him.”
Devon swallowed, tasting blood. Her verbal play-by-play sounded a lot less mature than the testosterone brawl that had just ended. The detective took out a notebook from his breast pocket.
“Why would he have cause to take Todd away?” Harrison asked. “Does it have something to do with Honey?”
Like yesterday, the tender way he spoke the dead woman’s name squeezed the air from Devon’s lungs. Either his father was giving a spectacular rendering of grief, or he actually had been deceived again by Honey, even after hearing the facts.
“No, Father.” Tears dripped from Frannie’s eyes, and she clamped her lips into a thin line. “He wants Todd because he thinks I’m an unfit mother.”
“Out with it, Francine,” Harrison ordered, but he said it gently.
He’d spoken to her like that after their mom died too. That didn’t bode well. Did Harrison think Frannie was going around the bend?
Devon watched her closely. She was still pale, her eyes wide and wild. And that whole homeless look she had going on… But after a shaky inhale, she blurted out the story. Devon shifted his gaze to the spattered blood drying on the Persian rug, while his role as heroic uncle and sacrificial big brother unfolded. When she finally lapsed into silence, no one spoke. He waited, expectation clenching his gut so tight a bitter surge of coffee crept up his esophagus. Somehow his father would turn the tale on its head, and he’d become the villain.