chapter three
Elizabeth didn’t even turn around to try to catch a glimpse of the anonymous men as they dropped her back on the black wrought iron bench at the Battery. The dampness of dew seeped into her thighs. She jerked the hood off. For a few minutes she sat motionless, waiting to see if there was a second act to the evening’s events.
But she was alone. When the realization hit her, she lifted herself off of the bench and ran. She wasn’t sure her legs could keep up with the pace she was inflicting on them, but they would have to give way before she’d slow down. The drone of the cicadas followed her pounding footsteps. She ran as if the hounds of hell were chasing her, back to her town house on East Bay Street.
Elizabeth knew how to repress fear. She had done it most of her life—so well, in fact, that no one who remotely knew her would believe she had ever been afraid of anything.
This was different. Tonight the threat was inside her.
Her feet thudded loudly on her front steps as she fumbled for the house key stuck inside the tiny pocket of her running shorts. The brass door handle felt cool beneath her touch. She steadied her hand and tried to do the same with her breathing as she placed the key into the lock.
She flung the door open, flinching as the alarm began to beep. She shut the door quickly and locked it firmly, then stood staring at the illuminated buttons of her alarm pad while the beep counted down the seconds until the siren would blare. She had known the code when she left. What was it? A blaring alarm was the last thing her nerves needed. Her hand rested on the keypad, tapping at the plastic numbers lightly until instinctively her fingers entered the code. Silence. Not necessarily what she wanted now either.
Her feet began their frantic pace again as she walked through the foyer turning on every light, including the small lamp that sat on the antique chest underneath the stairwell. Her hand shook as it turned the small rolling switch on the cord. Continuing her campaign of illumination, she headed toward the kitchen, turning on every light along the way, and then opened the refrigerator door wide. She guzzled down half a bottle of water before she even thought about closing the refrigerator door.
On the black granite kitchen island, the little blue light on her Bluetooth earpiece blinked. She wrapped it around her ear and held down button number three on her phone.
“Aaron, you awake?”
“No.” The word came flatly over the phone.
“Aaron, please, I know it’s late.”
“It’s beyond late, Lizzy; it’s like tomorrow.” He yawned through most of his answer.
“I know, and I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t really important. Something—well, something odd just happened, and I really need to talk through it. Could you come over?” She hesitated. “Please.”
She could hear him moving. That was a good sign.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. I doubt traffic is too bad at two in the morning.”
The line went dead. Two a.m. She had been gone four hours.
She paced, closing all the shutters and turning on even more lights. The perspiration from her run had cooled her, and she was shivering. She found a University of South Carolina sweatshirt in the hall closet and pulled it on. Then she began to pace back and forth across the hardwood floors, never pausing until she heard the knock on the door.
Aaron Davis stood there, his hair disheveled from sleeping. He kissed her on the top of the head and then walked past her into the kitchen, his flip-flops slapping against his heels and his baggy navy blue sweatpants hanging loosely from his hips. This attire was a far cry from the suits and ties he wore as her father’s right-hand man. He had stayed on with the old man even after Elizabeth’s abrupt and rather nasty departure.
She closed the door, locked it quickly, and turned to follow him.
“So what’s this all about, Lizzy?” He opened her pantry door and looked inside. “Please tell me you have at least one cereal that doesn’t contain bran.”
She turned the corner into the kitchen. “I have oatmeal. It helps cholesterol.”
His head stayed buried in the pantry. “So does sleep, I’m sure.”
“Do you really have to eat now?”
He pulled the pantry door toward him so he could see her face. His brilliant blue eyes stared at her. “It’s morning, Lizzy. That means it’s time for breakfast.” He let out a sigh. “Next time you invite me over for breakfast, I’m bringing my Frosted Flakes.”
She slid a wooden stool out from underneath the counter and sat down in its scooped seat while Aaron rummaged for a bowl and spoon and retrieved milk from the fridge.
“It’s about my father’s will, Aaron.”
He let the spoon fall dramatically on the counter. “Please tell me you didn’t call me over here to talk about your father’s will. Quit obsessing, will you? You’ll know soon enough. The reading is today. Surely you could have waited just”—he looked at his watch—“eight more hours.” He slapped his forehead with the palm of his. “Right,” he said. “I forgot. You always obsess.”
“I already know what is in the will,” she said flatly.
He paused, a spoonful of bran flakes halfway to his mouth. “How? Wills are supposed to be sealed until the reading.”
“Tonight was the reading, apparently.” Elizabeth stood up and began to pace again.
“Please don’t pace. I hate it when you pace.”
She kept on pacing. “I was running tonight, you know, like I always do. I stopped at the Battery just to rest for a minute before I headed back home, and two men grabbed me from behind and threw a sack over my head.” She replayed the highlights, then added, “And that’s when I called you.”
Aaron had lost interest in his cereal about the time she mentioned the black hood. He jumped down from the counter and took her face in his hands. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
She patted his hands and tried to laugh. “No, I’m fine.”
Aaron took her by the hand and led her through the kitchen to the sunporch. “Sit down.” He pulled her onto the sofa. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you mean, what am I going to do?”
“Okay, you’re tired and stressed. How about I try this another way. What are you going to do? ”
“Well, I’m not being a part of this charade, I’ll tell you that. I have a business that my father couldn’t get his hands on. If he thinks he’s going to control me from the grave, that just confirms he knew absolutely nothing about me.”
“He knew more than you think.”
She ignored this. “Anyway, I own a law practice that I’ve made successful. My clients respect me. I’ve proven to be completely capable of taking care of myself and providing myself with a substantial living. I don’t need my father’s money. Not his trust fund, not any of it!”
“You’re not even going to think about this?”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“This is your inheritance we’re talking about, Lizzy. Your father worked hard to build this estate so he could leave it to his children. Don’t you at least want to try and see if you can do it?”
She looked at him incredulously. Aaron had always loved her father. And her father had loved him. She got up from the sofa and glared down at him. “Did you know about this, Aaron? Did you know this was what my father was going to do?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you did. You’d have to. You’re his right-hand man. I can’t believe I called you.” She was already headed for the door.
Aaron stood up and grabbed her arm. “Lizzy, quit being paranoid. I knew nothing about this. I am as surprised as you are. I thought your father told me everything too.”
Her eyes raked over him, trying to see into his soul.
“He didn’t tell me anything about this. I swear. Apparently no one knows anything but this Executor. Lizzy, you know me. You’ve known me for almost fifteen years. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and I don’t keep stuff from you. Come on, sit.” He tugged her back
down onto the sofa.
“Then who witnessed this will?”
“I have no idea. But it wasn’t me.”
“Sorry. This whole thing is just so ludicrous. It has me acting completely insane. You’d think I was Mary Catherine.” Her body succumbed to exhaustion as she sagged into the sofa cushion. She turned her head slightly toward him. “You’re the best friend I have in this world. You’re right, this whole thing probably has me a little paranoid.”
“It’s okay.” He wrapped his arm around her. She leaned her head into the crook of his arm. “Why don’t you have any girlfriends? I mean, most women would call their girlfriends at two o’clock in the morning.”
“You know women hate me, Aaron.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. The beautiful long legs, the striking good looks, the charming personality, the money. Of course women hate you.”
She nudged him in the ribs. “This is serious.”
He laughed. “Yes, it is. Very serious. That’s why we’re not just going to throw this out the window. Your father loved you, Lizzy, despite what you may believe. If he has required you to do this for a year, then he must have had a good reason. And if you can’t trust him, you need to trust me.”
She looked up at him. “You do know something, don’t you?”
“You don’t need to worry about what I know. You need to worry about what you need to do. And before you go off trying to do this by yourself—”
“If I find out you had anything to do with this . . .”
“I had nothing to do with this, Lizzy. Now sit here and be quiet and let’s just think this through for a while.”
It wasn’t long before her weight grew heavy against him. He kissed the top of her head again, then laid his cheek gently against it.
Every shutter in the house was closed. She was afraid, and he hated the idea that she feared something he couldn’t find, couldn’t deliver her from. He had tried. Tried to rescue her, tried to rescue himself. His heart kept telling him to let her go, but she kept pulling him back in with her need, the very need she adamantly denied having.
She never knew. Never knew he loved her. But there were many things Lizzy didn’t know, even if she thought she knew everything. Maybe tomorrow she would consider what her father might be trying to accomplish from the grave. For now, he’d just sit here and enjoy the sound and the feel of her next to him.
Will stood in front of his condo on Laurens Street. He’d get his car tomorrow; apparently his kidnappers hadn’t wanted him to drive.
The smell of burnt macaroni and cheese, a fatal attempt at cooking earlier in the day, greeted him as he came through the door. He shuffled to his bedroom and climbed between the cool rumpled sheets fully clothed. This was why he never made the bed.
The buzz from his drinking binge was fading, and his head throbbed. He hoped his fraternity buddies would come up with a better prank next time—preferably one that didn’t involve Mary Catherine.
He scrunched two pillows up underneath him and flipped the television on for the noise. Before the control made its way back to the nightstand he was headed for never-never land.
But somewhere in the middle of his dreams he remembered that he needed to set his alarm clock. The reading of his dad’s will was at ten o’clock in the morning, and whatever he did, he sure didn’t want to miss that.
Jeffrey tapped the steering column impatiently as he waited for the gate of the oceanfront community on Kiawah Island to open. His kidnappers had dropped him off at his car. The entire thirty-mile drive home, he had been shaking with fury. Thankfully the hour-long commute had proven much shorter in the early hours of the morning.
On the way home he checked his cell phone. No missed calls. Not even from Pamela. She was so different from his other conquests. He was on her mind only when he was in her sights.
He pulled the Mercedes SL500 coupe into the driveway of the massive stone-and-cedar-shake home. His Mercedes. His home. His prizes for a life well lived.
He parked in the first slot of the four-car garage and entered the kitchen through the mudroom. He could still smell the remnants of Chinese food. Takeout, of course. His latest wife hadn’t cooked a day since they had been married. A few plastic-wrapped fortune cookies lay on the marble countertop.
“I’d have better luck with one of these as my inheritance,” he muttered, tossing one across the counter. The plastic made a scraping sound as it slid across the marble and onto the floor.
Jeffrey opened the refrigerator and studied its contents. Six Slim-Fasts, five yogurts, a package of peaches, and two shelves full of bottled water.
He slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Why did I come home?”
He dragged himself heavily up the stairs, wishing he could come down and start the day over. But no amount of wishing could change what had happened.
He opened the bedroom door and was greeted by heavy chainsaw snoring coming from across the room. He grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms out of the closet and retreated to the guest apartment over the garage. At least the guest quarters had a well-stocked liquor cabinet; he poured himself an enormous glass full of top-shelf vodka. He studied the clear liquid through the clear glass and thanked God for man’s many achievements.
As each swallow burned its way through him, it coated and numbed the events of the evening. His body sank onto the white linen sofa, and he studied his sterile surroundings. His current wife liked the crisp look. He had never really cared up until this point, but now it irritated him that there was hardly any color in his house. The kitchen was white; most of the furniture was white. The walls were white. Come tomorrow he was hiring painters.
“Each wall will be a different color,” he muttered, taking another long burning drink. “One blue, one yellow, and one a brilliant shade of orange. Maybe that will get rid of her.” He fell silent, concentrating on finishing the last drop in his glass.
“I hate being told what to do,” he said, his speech starting to slur. His imaginary audience offered no response.
When Mary Catherine arrived back on her front doorstep, she was still praying profusely. She stumbled into the foyer feeling like a woman who had been beaten for three weeks straight, a feeling confirmed when she caught a glimpse of her face in the hall mirror—smeared mascara and skin as pale as paper. She could hear the sound of the television coming from the family room. The smell of her spaghetti sauce still hovered thick in the air.
She held on to the wall as she made her way through the kitchen. That was when she saw the second horror of the night. Her new husband lying in front of the television. Laughing.
At that point her patience officially ran out. She dashed into the family room screaming at the top of her lungs. “Why in the world didn’t you come and find me?!”
Clearly she scared the heebie-jeebies out of both her husband and the dog. Both looked up wide-eyed.
She headed straight for Nate, arms flailing, tears running down her face. Coco jumped from the sofa and parked herself in the chair on the opposite side of the family room. Close enough to watch. Far enough to avoid.
“What are you doing?” He jerked his hands up, trying to shield himself from her attack.
“Did you not even notice I was gone?!”
“Calm down!” Nate grabbed both of her wrists and held on. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Have I lost my mind?” she yelled. “Did it not one time seem strange to you that your wife was gone for . . . for . . . for half her life !”
He held on tighter. “It’s two a.m. You’ve been gone four hours.” He stared at her, dumbstruck.
Mary Catherine grabbed the remote control and punched the off button, then threw the control across the room. “I was gone for four hours, Nate. Four hours! Did it not occur to you when you got home and I wasn’t here and there was no note and my car was still here and the sauce was still on the stove that something might have happened to me?” She finally took a breath
He scratched his head.
/> “I was kidnapped! Kidnapped! By at least ten horrible men dressed in black and they took me to a dungeon and they handcuffed me and tormented me! I’ve been defiled, Nate! Defiled, I tell you!”
“I didn’t know, MC. I just thought maybe you had gone for a walk on the beach or something.”
“For four hours? Did you think I took a walk to Florida? And don’t call me MC! My name is Mary Catherine. Not Mary! Not Cat! Not MC! Mary Catherine!”
“Okay, okay . . . calm down. Let me get you a glass of water.” He stumbled to the kitchen and fumbled in the cabinet, finally retrieving a glass. “Come on, baby, now sit down and tell me what happened.”
“It was . . . these men. They snatched me from . . . from . . .” She held her shaking finger up and pointed to the kitchen in front of the stove. “They snatched me from right there.” She gasped for breath. He made her take a sip of her water.
“They threw a black bag over my head,” she went on, “and they drove me around for at least an hour. Then they put me in a dark room, and when I got there my brothers and sister were there. And some strange man that looked like the bad guy in that movie we saw—you know, with Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts. The one where Mel Gibson bit the guy’s nose.”
“Conspiracy Theory ?”
“Yeah,” she shivered. “He looked like the man in that movie. And he read Daddy’s will. And . . . and it was awful !” Her whole body heaved.
“But your dad’s will isn’t supposed to be read until this morning.”
“I know,” she wailed. “But they read it and it was . . . it was horrible !”
Nate stood up, his bare feet pacing the sea grass rug. “What did it say, Mary Catherine?”
“It said that I’ve got to go back to work—” She started hyperventilating again. “For free!”
Nate frowned. “Stop crying for one minute, Mary Catherine, and tell me what is going on!”
Her blue eyes widened at his tone.
“I’m sorry, baby, it’s just, well, this is all real stressful.”
The Will of Wisteria Page 3