Where There's a Will

by Virginia Hale

  Slipping out of the parlour, she followed the glow of the kitchen light down the dark hallway to the back of the house. She glanced around the space, just as it had appeared a century before. The replica stove—completely operational—was still over there, the deep porcelain sink over here. I taught myself to cook in this kitchen, she thought, graduated from two-minute-noodles to pasta melanges that had impressed even Elma. There were a few extra canisters on the counter that Beth didn’t recognise, some modern appliances next to a brand-new fridge. Elma had always eschewed anything contemporary. I suppose it doesn’t really matter what Elma wants anymore, she thought sadly.

  Beth pushed open the back door and headed for the soft light of the gift shop, silhouettes playing through the blinds. As she passed the defunct stone fountain in the middle of the turning circle, she stopped to gaze up at the facade of the homestead. The original driveway on the north side had been abandoned in the mid-fifties when Old Quarry Road was built. Ever since, guests always approached from the south. It wasn’t as elaborate, but it was more familiar. She could see up into the loft high on the third floor.

  Her gaze drifted lower, to the light of the kitchen on the ground floor. It was hard to believe that half of it was hers—the house, the fences, acreage. Well, two acres. But still…it was acreage. Her eyes tracked high again. The starry canvas didn’t shine so prettily in Sydney. She drew the edges of her coat together against the bitter night air and crossed the parking bay to the gift shop.

  A couple Beth recognised from the tour smiled as they passed her on their way out of the gift shop.

  The man cringed. “Feeling better?” he asked. “This sort of thing isn’t for everyone, is it?”

  Beth blinked. “Sorry?”

  “Dylan said you lost your lunch in there after Sarah’s room,” his wife explained. “No need to be embarrassed, honey,” she added. “My stomach turned a few times, too.”

  Beth forced a smile. For god’s sake… “Have a good night,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Inside, the six o’clock news was playing on the small TV mounted high in the corner. A small, halogen heater at the end of the room buzzed, its bars shining fluorescent amber as it rotated behind Dylan. Briefly, Beth squeezed her eyes closed. Her head was pounding. Coins slid across glass, making Beth’s jaw ache as they screeched their way over the metal edge of the counter and into Dylan’s hand.

  She cleared her throat.

  Dylan’s gaze shot up. “I usually wait until everyone’s gone before I cash off,” she said, her attention falling back to the opened drawer of the register, “But I doubt you’ll roll me for the day’s pay when it’s technically half yours anyway.”

  She swallowed. “This seems so rude now, like I was spying on you.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. “It does.”

  “I just…It was only when you were crossing the driveway to meet me that I realised who you were. I think I just kind of went loopy.”

  Dylan grunted. She shook her head in disbelief. “You mean to tell me you didn’t know who I was? Get real. You were watching me lead the tour, talking to all of them, you could hear me loud and—”

  “No, no,” she clarified, “I don’t mean…I knew you were the tour guide, that you were…Elma’s Dylan. I was about to introduce myself, but then…” She paused. It was embarrassingly apparent that she wasn’t making a word of sense. She squinted. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Dylan blinked. “Am I supposed to?”

  She hesitated. “About ten years ago, when I lived here, I was driving in town and I came to an intersection, the one where they’ve since put an island? You were on your push bike…”

  Dylan’s eyes widened.

  Ahh, so she does remember. How could she not? It was understandable that she couldn’t recall Beth’s face, but their encounter was a whole other story.

  Dylan’s jaw set hard. “You fractured my wrist. I had to have surgery.”

  “You fractured your own wrist,” Beth countered. “My car was stationary. You came out of nowhere and you got a fright. We both know it wasn’t my fault.”

  At the time, the shock had immobilised her, but the memory was vivid. Dylan’s headphones. Her maroon school uniform. A maroon school bag flying over her head as she toppled over the handlebars and onto the asphalt in front of Beth’s car.

  “You’re right,” Dylan said. “It was my fault.” Beth didn’t miss the way the younger woman’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  Teenage Dylan wasn’t so acquiescent at the time. Beth had never met a more aggressive girl, and, although Dylan had barely aged a day, it was hard to reconcile that flaming-faced, humiliated teenager with the quirky woman standing here. If Beth was being honest with herself, part of the reason she hadn’t introduced herself that afternoon was because she’d worried that turning up on Dylan’s turf would garner the same response. “You told me to ‘get fucked’,” Beth said.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I was having a bad day. Well, a bad year. Kind of like this year, I guess.”

  Beth moved closer to the counter. She looked down at The Blaxland Files television script, signed by two of the country’s most beloved actors. “I wasn’t spying,” she muttered. “I guess I pulled up here and I was so thrown when I realised who you were, that we had met, and…I was overwhelmed. After a while there wasn’t a chance—”

  “There was a chance. There were a few chances before we’d even left the gift shop and you still didn’t say anything. It was pretty easy. All I was waiting for was, ‘Hi, I’m Elizabeth Hordern. It’s a pleasure to meet you…’”

  Beth blinked. “You knew who I was when we were in here?”

  “Not at first, but then the penny dropped. I Facebooked you after I got a copy of the will.”

  “Oh.”

  Dylan slipped a handful of dollar coins into a calico bag. “How’s the head?”

  “It’s okay. Thank you.”

  Beth looked down at the revolving souvenir stand on the counter, at the pewter axes on keyrings, postcards with blood-dripping borders, the six-dollar fridge magnets. Next to the stand were two six-inch iron figurines, similar to the souvenirs Beth remembered from the Ned Kelly museum in Glenrowan. However, these didn’t depict a notorious bushranger in his distinctive home-made armour. One of Australia’s anti-heroes. No. Before her stood Sarah Blaxland, hatchet in hand. “These are…tasteful,” she muttered.

  Dylan seemed to miss the sarcasm. “Thanks,” she said proudly, “soldered them myself.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

  Dylan pushed the register drawer shut. “I’m good with my hands.” A wink. “Not to brag, but the proceeds from those statuettes contributed very generously to the new thirty-four-inch plasma in the sitting room. Did you see it?”

  “It was hard not to see it,” she said. “You have an incredibly graphic, four-minute murder scene on repeat. It’s not appropriate—children take this tour.”

  “They know where the door is. Blanch all you want, baby, but that video’s a fan-favourite. God’s honour, tour highlight. Everyone mentions it on Yelp.”

  “Yes, so I read…”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” With a grin, Dylan leaned across the counter. “Read all about me on there, too?”

  My god, she has a beautiful mouth. Beth swallowed. “The video needs to go.” She paused. “As does the toilet at the entrance of the driveway.”

  “It’s a letterbox.”

  “It’s a toilet.”

  “Yeah? A toilet letterbox. It’s funny. Postie lifts the lid, puts the letters inside…”

  “Yes, I understand the concept. I don’t like it.”

  Dylan tilted her head as she looked down at Beth. “Did you drop by just to throw your weight around, Lizzie?”

  “It’s Beth, not Lizzie.”

  Dylan clicked her tongue. “It’s just such a shame to let ‘Lizzie’ go when you’ve co-inherited a murder house and your last name is Hordern.”

>   “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

  “Elizabeth Hordern…” Her grin was ear-splitting. “Lizzie Borden.”

  “Amusing.”

  “Very amusing.”

  Beth averted her eyes. “I’m not here to throw my weight around. I came here to introduce myself.”

  “Oh. That went well.”

  Beth’s cheeks coloured. “Can we move past this? Can we start again? Please?”

  Dylan tapped her fingertips against the glass for a moment. “Okay. It’s forgotten.”

  “Thank you.”

  Beth warmed under the combined heat of the rotating heater and Dylan’s gaze. “You know a lot about the case,” she said. “I’ve been on a lot of historical tours like this, and you’re…you’re something else. You’re as good as Elma was.”

  Dylan swiped up the small, wireless EFTPOS machine, then slung the cash bag over her shoulder. “Why, thank you.” Her stare briefly dropped to Beth’s lips, and then back up. Blue locked on blue. “Want to come back to my place?”

  The intensity of Dylan’s stare twisted her stomach into knots. “Your place?”

  “Yeah,” she said casually. “Not usually part of the tour, but it’s included in the price of your ticket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m kidding. Jesus.” Dylan reached for her lanyard on the counter. The keys scratched across the glass before they jiggled freely in mid-air. “Come on, Lizzie Borden, I’ll cook you dinner.”

  Dinner?

  Dylan’s eyebrows furrowed as she shucked on her jacket. “What? You don’t eat?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Only if it’s not a bother.”

  “Not a bother. I have to feed myself anyway. I have to lock up, hold this,” Dylan said, depositing the EFTPOS machine and money bag into Beth’s hands.

  Beth watched as Dylan locked the door behind her—with a padlock. “There’s no actual lock?”

  Confused, Dylan flicked the tiny padlock with her index finger. “You blind?”

  Beth’s eyes widened. “I locked my bike with something larger when I was eight years old.”

  “Did you grow up in a dodgy neighbourhood?” Dylan asked sympathetically. “Explains the whole uptight thing you’ve got going on.”

  Beth was dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never been robbed?”

  “Robbed?” Dylan laughed. “What are they going to steal from the bloody gift shop? Sarah Blaxland postcards?”

  Dylan snatched the machine and money bag from her hands. Before Beth could say a word, she was off across the turning circle, taking a shortcut through the long grass back to the homestead.

  Locks. Beth would be installing locks.

  “Your forehead really isn’t a good colour,” Dylan noted as she dished sautéed mushrooms from a sizzling saucepan onto Beth’s plate. “It’s been over two hours.”

  “It’s fine,” Beth downplayed, deciding not to share that her head had been throbbing on and off since she’d woken up in the parlour. “It’s just that I caught it right on the edge. It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, I noticed.” Dylan slid the saucepan back onto the stove top. “I didn’t want to say anything at the time, though. Didn’t want to embarrass you, you know…make you feel silly.” She wiggled her eyebrows as she opened the freezer. “Not in front of all of those people.”

  Beth fought a blush. She shifted in her seat. “Okay. I deserve that.”

  Dylan tossed her a small bag of frozen, pre-chopped onions. It had been opened and resealed with an elastic band, but Beth wasn’t about to turn it away.

  “So, you said you came up from Sydney this morning?” Dylan asked.

  Beth nodded. She raised the bag to her swollen forehead. God. She fought back a groan as the icy bag met her tender temple. The sting was dizzying. Thank god Dylan’s back was turned, too busy tending their steaks to catch her mouthing silent curses. She touched the tips of her cold fingers to her hairline. Just brushing the hair back was agonising. She wasn’t going to be able to tie her hair up for days.

  “I’d offer you beer or wine, but you may be concussed,” Dylan said as she turned and tonged a steak onto Beth’s plate. “I don’t need you carking it on me, not in this house, not when both of our names are in the will. Won’t look good for me.”

  Beth chuckled and placed the bag of onions down next to her plate. “How thoughtful of you.”

  She looked down at the meal. It had been a long time since red meat had touched her lips, and she wasn’t so sure how it was going to go down. She wasn’t off meat per se—she just hadn’t been on it. Dating Rachel had had Beth going out in sympathy, choosing the vegan option whenever possible. But Dylan hadn’t offered her any choice, and something told Beth she had already pushed her luck for the day.

  “So, you’re from Sydney,” Dylan said as she took a seat opposite. She reached between them for the tomato sauce. “I like Sydney. Too chaotic for me, though.”

  Beth tilted her head. You seem too chaotic for here. “Have you always lived here? Around the Finger Lakes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ever thought about moving?”

  “Nope.” It seemed that Dylan didn’t have anything more to say on the subject.

  Beth’s knife glided through the tender steak. She brought her fork to her lips. Oh god. Newtown Thai food was great, but this was something else.

  As she chewed, she snuck a brief glance up at Dylan. Long, full eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks. While Dylan had sliced potatoes and Beth had trimmed the woody ends off the asparagus, they had only made small talk about the case, about how the town had changed over the years. Nothing about Elma, nothing personal, nothing that could lead to a serious discussion about their shared inheritance. Beth had been quick to receive the message that Dylan didn’t want to have the conversation.

  So now, when Dylan slicked hard butter onto her potatoes, looked up and said bluntly, “So what are your thoughts? What do you want to do about the house?”, Beth was caught off-guard. She licked her lips, watching as the butter softened, bleeding into the potato.

  Dylan raised an eyebrow at Beth’s silence. “You probably want to sell, right?” The accusatory note in Dylan’s voice suggested it was the exact opposite of what she wanted.

  Beth looked up to the ceiling, then back at Dylan. “I mean, maybe one day. Probably.”

  Dylan scoffed. She dropped her gaze. “Of course.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to be honest with you, okay?” Beth said sincerely. “I didn’t come all the way up here to talk you into selling. Really. I was actually thinking that I could help you out for a while.”

  Dylan shook her head. “No need. I have everything under control.”

  “But nobody else works here. It’s just you.”

  Dylan met Beth’s stare. “So?”

  “So, doesn’t that get tiring?”

  “No. This is my home. I don’t need help. Thank you, that’s very nice of you. But I don’t need help.”

  This was not how Beth had expected this to go. Dylan was not how Beth expected this to go. “What if you want to take a holiday?” she tried.

  “I don’t take holidays.” Beth watched as a slice of steak disappeared between Dylan’s full lips. “Don’t you have a life back in Sydney? A job?”

  “I’m between jobs right now.”

  “Right.”

  Beth paused. Oh. Dylan didn’t get it. “I was actually thinking that I could work here.”

  “Why? You’re an academic. You must be on a pretty good wicket.”

  “What do you mean ‘why’? Because running this place is not just your responsibility—it says so in the will. You shouldn’t have to bear the burden alone, and I would never expect you to.” And I need the money like the Cowardly Lion needed courage…

  “I don’t ‘bear the burden.’ This is my job.” Dylan rested her knife and fork against her pl
ate. “You do realise that I’ve been pocketing ticket sales since Elma died? I’m not exactly hard done by.”

  “And so you should be pocketing ticket sales. You’re the one working for it.”

  “Technically I should be paying you rent for living in the loft. It’s your property, too, and I’m benefiting from it…”

  Beth shook her head. “I don’t care about rent.”

  “Really? You’re not going to throw it in my face later?”

  “Later?”

  “When the day comes that you decide to sell and we halve everything. Split, fifty-fifty, straight down the middle.”

  Beth chewed at her bottom lip. Somebody had really done the dirty on this woman—she was too young to be so cautious, so sceptical. “I’m not a petty person, Dylan,” Beth asserted.

  “But you know about the clause.”

  Beth nodded. “I would like to take on a more active role, yes.”

  Dylan sat bat in her chair. She raised her eyebrows. “You want half the profits.”

  Beth exhaled shakily. “Yes.”

  Blue eyes travelled Beth’s face for a long moment until she dropped her gaze. “I should pay you rent. That’s what my solicitor suggested I should do if you rocked up here wanting to play a part.”

  “I don’t want rent money. Honestly.”

  They ate in silence for a while until Dylan spoke up. “It’s going to be a long drive back to Sydney in the dark.”

  Beth took a sip of her water. “Oh, I’m actually staying across town.”

  “Just for tonight?” Dylan asked.

  “No. I’m renting an apartment.”

  Dylan almost choked on her steak. She sat back in her chair, her face alight with amusement. “Gee whiz, Lizzie Borden!” She reached for her glass of water. “That’s a bit presumptuous.”