Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stella stepped through the tall oak doors into Dr. Hazzard’s study, her body still swirling from her treatment. No matter how firm the lawyer’s convincing, Stella would not sign her fortune away to a quack. Yes, Henry had been right about that too. Dr. Hazzard embodied the very definition of the word charlatan. Were the stories of Mrs. Barnett and Edward Anderson true, or were they simply lies contrived to bolster a patient’s confidence in the damaging methods of a fraud?
She met Dr. Hazzard’s cool gaze and offered a nod of acknowledgment. It wouldn’t do to upset her now. A guise of ignorance might be her best option under the circumstances.
“Miss Burke, this is my attorney, Mr. John Arthur.” The doctor motioned to a bald bespectacled man behind the desk. “He’s here to discuss your final wishes.”
Stella eased into the offered wingback chair. “I’m not sure I’m ready to speak of such things.” She folded her hands in her lap in her best attempt to appear demure.
Mr. Arthur adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “These matters are never easy.” He studied her from head to toe with no reaction.
How many walking skeletons had this man seen in this very room and yet done nothing to put an end to the madness? Was he in collusion with Dr. Hazzard? Maybe he received a portion of the inheritance when her patients died. Stella’s stomach roiled, and this time hunger was not the culprit.
“I will be well again.” Stella forced a smile. “Surely these arrangements are premature.”
“Just hear the man out.” Dr. Hazzard’s steely timbre proved her patient facade was wearing thin. She took the chair beside Stella.
As Mr. Arthur leaned back in his seat, he stroked his mustache. “I’ve got the paperwork compiled. It will be as quick and painless as signing your name. You needn’t think about it again for many years to come.”
“May I read the document first and consider it? Uncle Weston usually advises me on such matters. I would wish to write him for advice before signing anything.” She smoothed her baggy skirt, cringing at the feel of her knobby knees beneath her palms.
“Really, Miss Burke,” Dr. Hazzard said. “The sooner you arrange your affairs, the better. One never knows when something terrible will happen.”
Stella tried to swallow, but the dryness in her throat hindered her. Her heart trembled instead of beating. Though the doctor’s tone was tender, the words strongly hinted at a threat. “I’ll be as quick as I can in reviewing the paperwork. You have my word on that. I’ll read it this evening after my walk, and if all is well, I will sign tomorrow.”
“But what if something should happen to you tonight? All your possessions would go to the state by default.” Dr. Hazzard leaned forward. Vexation tinted her words.
“Why should anything happen tonight? Aside from the fact I could eat my own arm were there flesh on it, I feel quite well. I’m in no danger before morning. Besides, I haven’t a cent to my name for another two weeks. There’s no rush to sign any documents. Uncle Weston controls all the capital until my birthday.” Unless a wild animal attacked her in the woods as she escaped. Stella hardened her jaw. No amount of cajoling would persuade her to change her mind. And if Dr. Hazzard understood the true state of things, it may afford her time to make her escape.
Dr. Hazzard sighed between clenched teeth. “Very well. This can wait until morning.” She motioned to Mr. Arthur, and he handed Stella the documents.
Stella rose, thanked the attorney, and left the room. She’d take the paperwork with her tonight. Prove that Dr. Hazzard planned to absorb her fortune upon Stella’s death. She would not remain at Wilderness Heights long enough to determine whether Linda Hazzard planned for her death to be natural or assisted.
No. Come nightfall, Stella would make her escape.
And Tilda must accompany her. But was she strong enough to survive the trek into Olalla? Stella hiked toward her friend’s cabin. Though the afternoon sky boasted patches of blue, storm clouds gathered in the west. It had rained nearly every day since her arrival. Stella quickened her pace. California’s sunny skies and sandy beaches would seem all the sweeter after her absence.
She rapped on Tilda’s door.
“Come in.” Why did her voice sound so weak?
Stella pressed open the door and stepped inside. Tilda sat beside the table in her nightgown, her stringy black hair loose around her shoulders. Were her cheeks more sunken than the last time? Stella’s chest tightened. If Tilda didn’t get out of this place soon, she’d suffer the same fate as Sue Chandler.
“How nice to see you.” Her friend offered a feeble smile.
Stella crouched beside her, grasping her bony hand. “You’re unwell. I must get you away from this place.”
Tilda slipped her hand from Stella’s with a shake of her head. “If I’m unwell, it’s all my own doing.”
“How can you say that? You’re wasting away here. A stiff breeze would blow you clear to the coast.” As Stella rose, lightning pricked the perimeter of her eyesight. No, no, no. Not now.
“I shouldn’t have eaten that bread.” Tilda scrubbed her hands over her cheeks. “Such a setback. Why can’t I be strong like you?”
“I’m not strong.” Stella swallowed past the tingling in her throat. “I used to think I was, but I need help. I’m afraid, Tilda. Afraid of what will happen to me if I stay and terrified of what Dr. Hazzard will do to me if I try to leave.”
“Leave? You must feel much better if you’re prepared to go home.”
Stella shook her head. “I feel worse now than when I arrived. I only suffered migraines at home. Now starvation has been added to my list of troubles.”
“Fasting and starvation are two different things.” Tilda’s voice firmed. She’d bought into Dr. Hazzard’s rhetoric, but surely the truth would hold a more persuasive power.
“They’re not different in the way Linda Hazzard uses them.” Stella knelt beside her friend. “How many people do you know personally who have found perfect health since you arrived?”
Tilda crossed her arms, her elbows jutting at sharp angles beneath the fabric of her nightdress. “There’s Mrs. Barnett and Edward Anderson. And I heard about—”
“No.” Stella squeezed her arm. “Dr. Hazzard told us about those patients. With your own eyes, who have you seen who has benefited from fasting and being beaten daily?”
With a slight lift of her chin, Tilda met Stella’s gaze. “I feel better.” Coming from one of the walking skeletons Henry had warned her about, the claim was rich.
“You can’t mean that.” Pain throbbed in Stella’s forehead as the dancing lights swallowed her vision. She rubbed her eyes.
“Another headache?” Tilda’s voice softened as she rested a hand on Stella’s shoulder. “Lie down for a few minutes.”
“Fasting hasn’t helped.” Stella allowed her friend to help her to the bed.
“You haven’t given it enough time.” Tilda covered her with a quilt. “The best things don’t happen in a moment.”
“If I give it much more time, I’ll die here.”
“Nonsense. Why—”
Stella grabbed her hand. “People have died here, Tilda. It isn’t safe. Has Dr. Hazzard asked you to sign legal documents yet?”
Tilda eased her hand back. “Yes. I signed them last week. It’s wise to plan for contingencies.”
If she’d already signed over her belongings to Linda Hazzard, Tilda was more of an asset dead than living. Stella’s headache peaked while crawling numbness spread up her arm and through her left cheek. Unless Tilda left Wilderness Heights, she would die here. With her fortune bequeathed to the so-called doctor, there was no hope of—
“You must come with me.” She reached for Tilda but caught only air.
“With you? Where?” Though Stella couldn’t see her friend past the pain in her eyes, her voice carried from across the room.
“I’m going home.”
“And Dr. Hazzard thinks you’re ready?”
“I haven’t a mind to care what that old battle-ax thinks.” Stella flexed her palm, coaxing life into her deadened fingers.
“You must go without me.” Chair legs scraped the floor. “I’ve no plans to leave until the doctor deems me able.”
Stella covered her eyes with her hand. Dr. Hazzard’s stories had turned Tilda into a mindless puppet. If Tilda wouldn’t come of her own volition, the police would have to drag her off the property. One way or another, Stella would see her friend safely away, though Tilda would probably despise her for it.
Exhaustion tugged at Henry’s eyelids. Determined to keep them open, he worked his jaw. But the gentle, methodic thump, thump of the wheels against the road sent his head drooping toward his chest.
He sniffed, rubbed his eyes, then squinted at the gray ribbon stretching toward Washington State and Stella. She would have received his confession letter by now, but she’d still included him in her message to Jane. Either she’d forgiven him or she found herself in so much trouble that her bitterness paled in comparison. Please, God, let it be the former.
What kind of danger was she in? The old Buzzard’s treatments wouldn’t have made his list of relaxing weekend activities, but they didn’t sound like a means of torturing spies into sharing state secrets either. It had to be more than general discomfort, or she wouldn’t have referenced that day at the sand dunes.
Memories of that event still crept into his nightmares. Though the sun had been shining and all appeared well with the world, he’d almost lost Stella. The sand had pulled her down so quickly he’d barely had time to think before grabbing her arm. He’d nearly fallen into the sinking trap himself.
Only by the grace of God had he found sure footing to pull her up. Whatever she suffered, he prayed for a way to help her once again.
The sun hung low in the west, bright as a tangerine, its rays staining the sky in shades of pink. Though he’d made good time, four hundred miles—eleven more hours—still separated him from Stella. A sign that read WELCOME TO MEDFORD streaked past the window. The thought of Stella spending another night at Wilderness Heights with a woman as heartless as Dr. Hazzard weighted his foot on the starter.
Her final letter to the man he’d masqueraded as sprang to mind for the hundredth time since he’d received it. Now that she knew the truth of his deception, was there any chance she’d still work with him? Of course, it would take several years before he saved enough money to make a go of a children’s home. He straightened behind the wheel to fight a twinge in his lower back. Though Stella would soon have the resources to fund the entire operation, he’d never allow it, even if she offered. What sort of man took advantage of a woman and allowed her to foot the bill for his dream when he could raise the money in time?
But if she’d merely mentioned him in the telegram out of necessity, none of these questions would matter a whit. She may be the same selfish woman who’d conned him into that first trip to Olalla then sent for him the moment she needed a ride back to her posh life. He smacked the steering wheel. No, there was so much more to her than that. He’d seen it. When they were young with the rescued kittens. Then again that day with Ethel and the children. Stella wasn’t wholly selfish, and while she’d mentioned her battle with living an unfulfilled life in that last letter, she had also noted that her current situation was the only life she’d ever known.
How could he expect her to behave in a way she’d never seen demonstrated by her father and certainly not by her uncle? And though her mother had died so long ago, the impression she’d left on Stella had made an impact. Mrs. Burke had been a kind and generous woman, and while her years of influence on her daughter were short, she was the reason Stella showed compassion to the needy.
He shook his head. Why give Stella so much thought? She’d rejected him the last time they were together, stopped him before he could declare his feelings for her. And his deception had jeopardized their friendship. Why, he wouldn’t blame her if she waved goodbye forever after he brought the car to a stop at the front door of her estate.
Darkness fell, and he switched on the headlamps. He rolled his neck until it popped. Worry chewed at his brain. What had made her send word to Jane?
Jack’s story of walking skeletons elbowed its way to the front of his thoughts. Surely it was fantasy. But what if Stella had seen them? Perhaps there was something to the boy’s tale, but there must be more to it than decomposed men and women digging free from the graveyard he claimed existed at Wilderness Heights. A shudder tickled Henry’s spine.
Hold tight, Stella. I’m coming for you.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Stella blew out the candle, bathing the cabin in darkness. Still, she sensed the eyes of the child in the painting on her. She pressed her ear to the door and strained to hear footsteps on the other side. If Sam Hazzard caught her—
She couldn’t think about that now. The legal documents she’d stuffed in her bodice dug into her skin, brittle reminders of the danger breathing down her neck. No wonder Dr. Hazzard, no, Buzzard—Henry’s nickname felt more appropriate—had been desperate for her to sign beside the X. Her signature not only would endow the old Buzzard with Stella’s entire fortune should she die, but also granted the charlatan power of attorney. She’d gain full access to Stella’s bank accounts as well as the right to make all legal decisions on Stella’s behalf. Although Stella wouldn’t inherit until her birthday, the power of attorney might supersede Uncle Weston’s legal guardianship. Had the Buzzard done the same with Sue Chandler? Certainly, she’d tried with poor Wendell.
One glance at the clock informed Stella it was fifteen minutes past one. She peeked out the window toward the main house. Dark. Everyone must be asleep.
Clasping her shawl with one hand, she gripped the knob. The door groaned on its hinges, and the cool night air crept in, sending a shiver across her arms.
As she stepped outside, the darkness swallowed her. How would she ever find her way into town without a lantern? She turned to step back into the house and grab the light, then halted. No. If Sam patrolled the grounds, the flame would alert him to her plans.
Lord, help me find my way out of here.
The tree line stood out in black against the night sky. The scrap of moon provided faint light, but not enough to be of service. And not enough to give away her location to prying eyes. Might as well focus on that small positive instead of the fact she may never see daylight again.
She padded toward the trees. If her sense of direction could be trusted, the little shop where she’d bought the rolls of bread lay just beyond the woods. If only Tilda had agreed to come along. The darkness wouldn’t seem so formidable if loneliness didn’t accompany it. And after all Tilda’s suffering, how could she believe the Buzzard’s treatments held value? And blame herself for their failure due to one break in her fast?
Once Stella gained her freedom, she’d return with the police and have Tilda removed despite her arguments. How could she be so blind to the truth?
A twig snapped beneath her foot. She froze, waiting for Sam to barrel toward her and drag her back to the cabin. He wouldn’t dare kill her. With the documents still unsigned, she was worth more to them alive than dead. But what of Wendell? This was much the same scenario. Sam may not hesitate to silence her as well.
A hush blanketed the landscape, and Stella stepped into the woods. The tree cover provided an additional layer of safety. Mold and pine sap teased her nose as she plodded on. Her legs screamed with each step. How would she ever make it to Olalla?
“Miss Bu-urke.” A singsong voice chilled her to the bone.
Sam Hazzard.
Her heart thwacked against her ribs, and she pressed her back to a tree trunk. No, God, please. No.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. If he heard her ragged breathing, he’d close in on her. A tear slipped down her cheek and over her hand.
“I know you’re out here.” His tone carried a sinister sweetness. “It’s not safe. Let me take you back t
o your cabin.” Footsteps crunched through the underbrush. Were they getting closer?
Vanilla floated on a breeze, turning her stomach. Would she never escape this horrid death trap? How foolish she’d been to ignore Henry’s concern.
Dried pine needles crackled too close for comfort, and her breath stalled in her lungs.
“There’s no use hiding,” Sam continued, his voice nearer with each word.
With her heart fluttering instead of beating, Stella prayed for deliverance. Rustling in the trees some distance away sent Sam’s feet scraping along the forest floor.
Was he turning around?
“Ready or not, here I come.” His footsteps faded, and Stella let a pent-up breath escape slowly.
She strained for any sound that might signal his location, but silence prevailed once more, though the scent of vanilla still fogged the air. Resting her fingers on her bodice, she touched the papers that would bring the police to the old Buzzard’s door. Would anyone believe Stella if she couldn’t prove her accusations? Would they believe her at all? As she recited the words she planned to tell the police, they sounded like the ravings of a lunatic to her own ears, and she’d seen the truth firsthand. If she lost the attorney’s papers, she might as well run away without a glance over her shoulder.
But what of Tilda? She’d die here if Stella didn’t find someone to drag her out of the cabin and away from the horse doctor she believed held the keys to perfect health.
Perfect health. Stella’s stomach knotted. It had sounded too wonderful to be true, and it was. She’d never place herself in such circumstances again. And when she returned home—
A hand clamped around her arm, and a scream ripped from her lips.
“I told you it was no use,” Sam whispered in her ear. “Your treatment isn’t finished, Miss Burke. Wouldn’t want those toxins to kill you.”
Stella’s first instinct told her to fight, but her legs trembled beneath her, barely holding her upright. Fighting would get her nowhere.
The Purple Nightgown Page 20