by Angie Fox
"Melody did some research into county records and discovered the identity of your great-aunt, the woman listed in the document I saw."
He watched me carefully. "You're acting like this isn't good news."
"It is, mostly," I said quickly. It meant he shared blood with someone he already cared for. It also meant she was in danger. "It's Maisie."
He stiffened and took a step back.
"You had no idea," I said, reaching out to try to comfort him.
He eluded my grasp. "Why would I?" he asked, stopping for a moment, stunned. "How can you be sure?"
"She listed Madeline Angelica Learner on her marriage license. Same birth date. Same year as on the document I saw. She's the same person, Ellis," I said, as gently as I could.
"Give me a second." He pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "This is a lot to take in."
"I know." I tried to close the distance between us, to offer him some kind of support. "I'm sorry."
He dropped his hand. "You didn't do anything."
Except dig up secrets from the past. "I have to think this is going to be a surprise for Maisie, too."
Ellis hitched a thumb under his belt. "She isn't going to take this news easy."
"I'm not even sure how to tell her," I admitted.
It would have to be done delicately. Ellis believed me about seeing ghosts and projections of documents, even though he couldn't experience them himself. Maisie might very well think I was bat crazy, and I wouldn't blame her.
Ellis lowered his hand. "We can't keep that kind of a secret from her, especially when it puts her in danger. And we're sure not going to leave her alone."
"Okay, good." We had a plan of sorts in place. "So how do we approach this?" He knew her best.
Ellis glanced at the small shack. "Together," he said, taking my hand, giving it a slight squeeze. "We go in there, find the right moment, and do this together."
"And hope she doesn't shoot us," I added, glad to have him on my team.
His lips quirked. "That too."
Chapter Fourteen
ELLIS OPENED THE door for me and together we walked into the kitchen where Maisie stood over a bubbling pot on the stove. The scent of rich broth, garlic, and onions made me miss my grandma's cooking.
"You're staying for dinner," she said. It was a statement, not a request.
"Yes, ma'am." There was no way I'd pass on an offer like that, even without a killer on the loose.
I surveyed the kitchen. I'd been mistaken before about the state of this room. Yes, the style harkened back to the 1960s, with an original almond defrost fridge, crocheted yellow kitchen curtains, and a linoleum floor patterned to resemble red brick. But Maisie's home was bright. Loved.
A sun catcher in the shape of a star hung over the window overlooking the yard, and pots of fresh herbs crowded every available inch of counter space. She suddenly reminded me of a mad scientist cook.
I was about to shatter the illusion of a peaceful evening. Maisie was in the path of a murderer. We had to figure out a way to keep her safe. It would be like trying to lock a bear in a garden shed, but it had to be done. I didn't have high hopes that this would go over well.
Ellis inspected the pot, vying for a taste, while I stopped to smell a particularly full and gorgeous rosemary plant. "This reminds me of the kitchen garden my grandmother used to grow." She'd passed the plants to her friend Annice when she'd grown ill.
"Your grandma and I used to share sprigs from our best plants," she said over her shoulder, while batting Ellis away from her stew. "I'm pretty sure that one came from her."
I drew a finger over the stiff leaves. "Maisie, we need to talk."
"Talk away," she said, adding spices to the pot. "This'll be the first good meal I've had in a week. I don't bother fixing much if it's just me."
And she certainly wouldn't feel like eating after what I had to say.
"Maybe this can wait," Ellis began.
Maisie turned to him. "Can you be a dear and check out that heater? It's gonna get nippy in here when the sun goes down."
"Right," he said, sharing a glance with me as he headed downstairs.
Maisie lifted her chin. "You're acting funny."
Didn't I know it. "Can I help with anything?" I asked, remembering the manners my mother taught me.
Spoon in hand, she directed me to a seat at the kitchen table. "You can keep me company." She dipped a piece of bread into the stew and tasted. "Just needs a little more basil." She reached for a pot on the counter and broke off a few healthy green leaves. "This is one of my best plants. When you're ready to start your own kitchen garden, I'd be glad to give you a starter sprig."
"Thanks," I said, imagining what it would be like to cook real food with my own fresh herbs. "I could use some help. With what I know about herbs, I might pick poison ivy instead of basil."
She huffed. "You'd only do it once," she said, dropping the basil into the pot. "I know how it is. A lot of young people today don't want the bother."
"No," I said, savoring the smell of the kitchen, "I like this."
She smiled, giving the stew one final stir before replacing the lid on the pot. "That's what I like about Ellis, too. He understands."
We heard him banging around down in the basement. "I had no idea he was handy."
She retrieved a pitcher of tea from the fridge. "He uses YouTube videos. Doesn't think I know." She poured us each a glass. "Ellis wasn't on the force two months when I tripped and fell coming off my porch. I hit my hip pretty hard, was afraid I broke my ankle. Couldn't afford an ambulance. Didn't want to get anybody out of bed. Figured the police could help me get situated." She placed the glass in front of me and joined me at the table. "Ellis did. He was frustrated when I wouldn't go to the doctor, but he wrapped up my ankle, made sure my hip was okay. Lectured me for leaving the porch light off."
"That sounds like Ellis." The man was never without an opinion.
She took a sip of her drink. "Then he realized I didn't have any lights. Couldn't afford the bill that month. Wasn't about to admit that to a Wydell, of all people."
"Let me guess. The lights came back on." Ellis was a fixer. He cared.
"He still won't admit it to this day," she said, glancing out the window at the sunset behind the trees. "But yeah, it was him."
"Stubborn," I added.
A grin formed on her lips. "Not that you or I would know anything about being pigheaded."
I was about to respond when Ellis tromped back up the stairs. "All fixed," he said, closing to the door to the basement. "We hope," he added with a wry grin. "Dang, it smells great in here."
"Wash your hands real good and we'll eat early," Maisie said, pushing up from the table. "You worked hard today."
Nobody argued as she dished out three heaping bowls.
The homemade stew was delicious, the best I'd had since my grandma passed. When we'd all finished, I couldn't put off the inevitable any longer.
I placed my spoon next to my empty bowl. "Maisie, you know I care about you." I folded my hands on the table. "And even though we've only known each other for a short time, I'm here to help you in any way I can."
She placed her spoon in her bowl. "This doesn't sound good."
I was going about this all wrong. I glanced at Ellis.
He cleared his throat. "Verity did some…research around the library after Darla was killed."
"Good of ya," she murmured warily, as if she were afraid of what Ellis or I would say next.
"I wanted to know why," I explained. "What motive could someone have to kill Darla Grace, who only ever wanted to help people." My breath hitched. This was hard, but I forced myself to keep going. "Right before she died, Darla discovered a document written and signed by Leland Wydell that names Madeline Angelica Learner as his legally acknowledged first daughter."
She flinched as though I'd struck her. "I don't go by that name anymore."
I nodded. Her past was painful. Still, something good h
ad come of it. "You're an heiress, Maisie."
She stood, her napkin dropping to the floor. Then she blinked in shock for a moment before giving a sharp nod, as if deciding something. "No, I'm not." She hastily gathered our bowls and spoons.
"It's true," Ellis said. "At the end of his life, he tried to set things right."
She violently dumped the stack of dishes into the sink and slammed on the water, ignoring the hard spray. "I don't wanna be no damned heiress. I don't need that. I don't need you telling me who I am when I know goddamned well who I am."
"If it's true, it doesn't change who you are," Ellis said, his voice reassuring. "It could give you some resources, some help you never had before."
"Too little, too late." She slammed the water off and began dumping dish soap over the mess in the sink. "My mama told me who my daddy was, said we could never tell. She worked as his secretary for thirty-eight years, up 'till the day he died. She would have done anything for the high, mighty Leland Wydell." She banged the soap down on the counter. "But I'm different. I don't care about a man who couldn't even bother to lay claim until he was almost dead in the ground."
"I can see your point," I said. I'd expected the glare, but not the raw pain in her eyes. "But your daddy did the right thing in the end. Doesn't that count for something?"
"The right thing would have been to claim me as his when I still gave a damn." Her breath came hard. "It was hell growing up as a bastard. My mama and I, we survived it. She taught me how to fight. I held on after she died. I held on being married to that asshole, Oskar."
"There's nothing we can do to make this right," Ellis said, approaching her. "But we need to try. If you're part of the family—"
"Don't you dare!" She grabbed a spoon and threw it at his head. Ellis dodged sideways and it struck the floor behind him. "I got my land and my place and I own my life. I ain't about to pretend I'm any society now."
He held his hands out in surrender. "Just think. If this is true, it means you're my great-aunt."
She flinched before the corners of her mouth lifted for a brief moment. "That's the only good that would come of it." Her chest heaved as the energy drained from her. "I need to sit down."
Ellis pulled a chair out for her, but she skirted him and slid into a seat across the table, away from us.
I sat opposite her. "This must be hard."
"I learned about my pa when I was five, after some kid in church called me a bastard and his mama took the time to explain what that was." She scoffed. "Nobody knew who my daddy was. Mama told me when I was older, but it didn't make no difference. He could've made my life a lot easier if he'd claimed me then. But now? Now?" She let out a huff.
"It could still change your life," I told her.
She rubbed a hand over her face, processing it. "The entire time Mom and I grew up outside of town because I had no proper papa, the whole time I was married to that jerk because no one else would have me, that whole time, I watched that pretty house up on the hill and thought about how things would be easier if I were in it." She dropped her hand. "At the same time I hated it, and the gates, and the walls, and everything it stands for. I'm heir to nothing."
"You are an heiress," I told her, "and if someone thinks you're after the Wydell fortune, they might come after you."
Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Don't worry, sugar. I got my shotgun." It was hard to miss. She kept it propped up next to the fridge.
"No way," Ellis said, scooting into the chair next to me. "You're not shooting anyone."
"Try to stop me," she said, matter-of-factly. She looked at him for a long moment. "You realize this news is going to give your mama a duck fit. Why do you want to bring all of this out in the open?"
He stared at his hands for a moment, resigned. "Because it's the right thing to do."
And Ellis always stood up for what was right, even if it was hard. I touched his warm, solid arm and felt the muscles quivering underneath. This had to be one of the most difficult things he'd ever do. If Maisie gained control of the Wydell fortune, it would wreck his family. And if the murderer did come after her, it would be proof that someone close to him was a killer.
Maisie realized it, too. "I don't want your money, darlin'. I just want to be left alone on my land."
Ellis leaned his elbows on the table. "Maisie, the situation isn't as simple as you're making it out to be. Choosing not to come forward isn't going to keep you safe." He shook his head slowly. "As long as you have a legitimate claim, you won't be left alone. The people who killed Darla will want you dead, too." He said it plainly, but I could feel the pain behind his words. He cared about Maisie, and about his immediate family, too. The Wydells would be suspect if anything happened to Maisie. And Ellis would have to enforce the law.
"I can take care of myself," Maisie said, waving him off. "You act like it's easy for people to change. Well, it's not. That's what your generation don't get. Some things are best left in the past."
Ellis gave a small nod. "I know. But not this." He stood. "We'll work it out. If it makes you feel better, think about how this is going to tick off my mother," he said, trying for humor and failing.
I understood his mixed feelings. Despite her black heart and her sins, Virginia was still the only mother he had.
Maisie's voice was frosty. "All the Wydells can rot in a barrel." She nudged her shoulder at him. "'Cept for you."
No doubt this could make her life easier, though. She'd been buried under some hefty medical bills the last time I'd helped her out. And she was getting older. She couldn't keep growing her own vegetables and hunting her own meat forever.
"You might be able to use a little financial freedom," I told her gently. "It's not like you'd have to move into the big house on the hill."
"No way, no how." She folded her hands over her chest. "And you, let's see the proof you found of that man actually claiming me."
Ellis and I exchanged a glance. "It's not something we can show you yet," he said.
She gave him a stony look. "Why not?"
I pressed the tips of my fingers to my forehead. "Well…"
"Out with it," she ordered.
I let out a long exhale. "Right now, what we know came from the ghostly plane."
She scrunched up her face. "Ghost planes? You're talking gibberish."
"I'm talking about supernatural, spirit world information," I said, trying to explain. It sounded unbelievable, even to me.
She barked out a laugh, slapping her hands down on the table. "You got me all worked up over spirit world talk? And people think I'm a loony."
Ellis leaned forward, his hands fisted on the table. "Maisie—" he began, "what Verity's trying to say is—"
"I see ghosts," I said quickly. There. It was out.
She looked at me like I was barking mad.
"We have conversations," I added, starting to babble as my nerves got the better of me. "And I have a gangster named Frankie who follows me around and sometimes introduces me to the spirits of the dead. Unless I find the dead people first."
Her eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No," Ellis said. "Darla left a message saying she discovered something. The ghosts were able to show Verity what Darla had seen. It was a document from your dad, saying he felt bad about how you grew up and that he claimed you as his own."
She wrapped her arms around her chest and her eyes became glassy.
"Whoever killed Darla took the documents she discovered. That's why we think you're in danger."
Maisie leaned back in her chair. "Show me a ghost."
Dang. "They can't always make themselves visible, but I can certainly ask," I offered. I went to retrieve my bag and set it on the kitchen table, along with the urn. If there was ever a time for Frankie to cooperate, it would be now.
Maisie scrunched up her nose and regarded the whole thing dubiously.
"Watch," I said, hoping there'd be something to see. "Frankie." I rubbed the outside of the urn. "I need you
to come out now." When there was no response, I rubbed a little harder. "Frankie!"
"How many times do I gotta tell you?" His voice echoed in my ear. "I'm not the genie in the lamp."
"Sorry," I said, more relieved than truly contrite. For a second, I was afraid he wouldn't respond. "I need you to prove to Maisie that you exist."
"Is that all?" the gangster asked, as he shimmered into view directly in the middle of her kitchen table. "And how pray tell would you like to accomplish that? You want me to read from Shakespeare? Perhaps do a song-and-dance number? Because I'm still missing part of my left foot."
He could have done well on stage. The man liked his drama. "Just…blow a cold breeze at her or something."
"Sure. Let's use more energy," he said, gliding toward the old woman. His form melted into a single orb of light, which wove around her.
I watched for Maisie's reaction, but all she did is frown at me.
"There," Frankie said, hovering near her left shoulder. "Happy?"
Maybe. "You feeling anything?" I asked Maisie.
She rubbed her stomach. "Now that you mention it, I think I ate too much stew." She looked me up and down, as if she couldn't decide if I was truly crazy or not. "You're a cop, Ellis. I never thought you would go in for all this voodoo-hoodoo."
Great. Now even Maisie, the notorious crazy old cat—make that bunny—lady thought I was nuts.
"I'm going to finish the dishes," she said, heaving up out of her chair, leaving Frankie behind.
"I'll help," I said, joining her. Ellis and I exchanged a glance. It was clear Maisie was done with the ghost talk, but maybe we could still convince her to take precautions against the living. "So, do you usually lock your doors?" I began.
She tossed me a dish towel. "Not exactly subtle, are you, sport?" When Ellis chuckled, she glanced back at him. "Neither are you, boy." She shook her head as she turned on the faucet. "You're two peas in a pod."
The sun was fully down now, and it was hard to see anything in the pitch-black yard.
Maisie plunged her fingers into the water. She pulled out a bowl. "Yuck. I was so mad I didn't even prerinse these."
"Here," I said, "let me—" A gunshot shattered the window, spraying glass. I screamed. Maisie rocked backward. I grabbed Maisie and dragged her to the floor.