The powerful matriarchs of New York’s most influential families were lounging a few feet from the massive willow tree, watching the young people enjoying themselves. Strategically situated beneath a lofty elm at the edge of the massive yard, they traded information, certain of not being overheard— unless someone chased a wayward ball into the murky depths of the weeping willow curtain, behind them. Those busybodies were gossiping about her and her sisters, Jo and Tevi.
“Donna Hayes—” The polished voice had dropped an octave.
Mallet in hand, Lydia pressed a finger to her lips to quiet Preston Gould’s carefree approach. The sun highlighted streaks of gold in his chestnut hair, then darkened as he moved further into the depths of the willow’s tentacles. Lydia’s ridiculous coworkers at the Sentinel where she and Preston worked, would fall all over themselves to be in her position. She crept closer to the hushed voices, silently congratulating herself on the choice to wear dark colors.
Hidden through the curtain, a man’s voice said, “Hayes. That social climbing family. You could never believe anything you heard from her, right up ‘til the day she departed.”
Lydia stood motionless. After all this time, what more could be said about her family? Preston moved behind her in unwavering support, hints of his cedarwood aftershave, reminding her of childhood romps in the trees on Montgomery Island.
“Of course, there were signs.” The talebearer continued. “Claudia Montgomery’s constant lamenting about her daughter’s grief.” A sniff filled the air. “Claudia warned her not to marry that handsome upstart. Sailed off and died, he did, leaving her to raise those three young girls alone.” An exaggerated sigh. Hums of mutual agreement rose from the group. “At least Claudia did her duty before she passed, and tied Eleanor nice and tight to young Wallace Hayes. Now that Victor Montgomery has disowned his son, those girls will inherit the entire Montgomery fortune.”
The dark leafy shroud closed in. The sweet aroma of wisteria and roses only moments before, now tainted the air. Strands of hair lifted by Preston’s breath tickled her neck. Lydia swiped at the distraction and tried to ignore the prickles along her spine.
A third voice. “Still, committing Eleanor to a mental institution for all these years? Even Claudia would have had something to say about that.”
Lydia started at the stark words. Mental Institution?
“Steady.” His soft whisper and warm breath reminded her to breathe.
“After her death there was talk of drugs and suicide.” A grunt of satisfaction. “Although, I don’t suppose it really matters. The whole family moved back to that island and nothing ever came of it.”
Was Eleanor Hayes still alive? Under the shadow of the stringy canopy Lydia considered the possibility of a life which included her mother. She steadied her left hand, wrapped tightly around the shaking mallet. Her feet glued to the grass carpet.
“That Lydia is the spitting image of her mother. Young Eleanor took the social world by storm. Pity,” the second voice interjected.
Pity? Pity? Lydia fisted her free hand. Tightened her jaw. Fastened her eyes in the direction of the condemning voices. The nerve of those vicious gossip mongers talking about her mother that way! Eleanor had been a victim, not some pathetic rebel. As her fury grew, all the gossip worthy tidbits Lydia had garnered over the last few years about the skeletons in these old biddies’ closets, formed like arrows, sharpened for battle.
One very large hand seized her knotted fingers. Another covered her mouth, simultaneously backing her out of the protective foliage, without drawing unwanted attention.
His hands dropped from her mouth and she hissed. “Bully.” Lydia tried separating herself from his hold.
The embrace held firm. His voice inches from her ear penetrated the rising steam. “Lydia don’t be foolish. They were moving on to a different subject, anyway.”
Lydia could feel the warm puff of air at her nape. “How do you know?” Had breathing always been this hard around him?
Preston shook her gently. “Don’t think I’m completely ignorant. As you well know, I’ve also been the object of their malicious chatter. Hell, I’ve participated in a conversation or two, myself.”
A few steps returned them to the bright sunlight, causing Preston’s hair to once more shine like a gladiator’s helmet. He spun her body around and pinned her with his steady gaze. “Doesn’t matter who the narrator is. The pattern is always the same.” He held up a finger. “One, select an individual. Two, fish around for the most outrageous thing you've ever heard about them.” He added another finger. “Three, lower your voice forcing everyone to lean in. Four, drop the bomb.” Up went two more fingers. “Five, sweep up with a closing statement.” His open palm swept down like a broom.
Lydia’s eyes tracked the movement. As the Social Expert at the New York Sentinel, some of her best work had come from listening to errant tales. This had been different. Lydia shivered.
“Do you think it could be true?” Curse the hope in her voice.
His hand paused in midair, swept to her face and lifted her chin. “What? You mean your mother in a mental institution?”
She nodded.
“I don’t remember much about her death, but I think it was around the same time my mother died.” He paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Maybe Father knows something about it.”
Not terribly reassuring.
Preston goaded, “Why are you asking me, Weatherford? You’re the reporter.”
“Yes, of course. But this seems. I don’t know...possible. Why would everyone tell us she was dead? Why would she be in a mental ward?” Her damp cheek revealed unnamed emotion.
Lydia pinpointed brown flecks in his green eyes, as he focused on her dry lips.
“Whoa, don't get ahead of yourself.” His thumb wiped at the tear she hadn’t even noticed.
“Lydia, you’ve been at this awhile. How many rumors have you heard over the years?”
Hundreds. Lydia stepped back, arms across her midsection, pressing the mallet against her shoulder.
Uncle Victor told them Eleanor was dead. If it’s true, it could change everything. She met his eyes, unable to hide her confusion. “Preston, what should I do?” Her usual confidence shaken, Lydia turned to her best friend and her boss. Over the years he had remained a steadfast ally.
His signature stare indicated he was giving the question serious thought. Lydia shifted to her other foot.
He cocked his head, eyebrows lifted. “I think this situation is too close to home for you. If you want to get to the truth, you need to treat this rumor as though it’s about someone else’s family.” She searched his face. “Lydia, when you hear an unsubstantiated rumor, you have a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.” He hesitated, then added with a grin, “You have to be able to verify at least part of it, in order to publish it as fact.”
What was wrong with her? She couldn’t even crack a smile at the overused cliché.
Preston allowed her the necessary silence. Lydia studied the bucolic scene over his shoulder, pondering his words. Of course! The rumor might have been about any one of the local high society families, currently spread out across the manicured lawn, enjoying ice cream and punch.
What would I do? Investigate. I do it all the time. Glancing over her shoulder at the gossipmongers that had altered her afternoon, and perhaps the rest of her life, Lydia’s body buzzed. She lifted her chin and pressed her shoulders back. Where should I start? What do I have to work with?
Preston groaned. “I suppose we’re done here. You have that bloodhound look now.” He pried her grip from around the wooden handle. “I’ll return that.” He raised his arm and pointed his finger across the vast lawn. “Go ahead. Find out if it’s true.”
Three strides into her run, his parting words tickled her ears. “Let me know if you need my help.”
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my sisters, Terry Andrews and Sanxie Bea Cooper for all the
hours and not taking things personal when it came to critiques, edits, lessons. This has been a long journey, but in many ways brought us closer than we already are. Many thanks to CJ Obray for her excellent edits, and Krysta Scott and Alicia Dean for their critiques and read-throughs. It really does take a village… for all endeavors of life. I love you all.
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Books by
Kathy L Wheeler
Rebel Lords of London
The Earl’s Error
The Marquis’ Misstep
The 7th Son
The Viscount’s Vendetta
Lady Felicity’s Feud with Christmas (Regency Christmas Kisses anthology)
The Weatherford Sisters Mysteries
A Bullet to the Heart – Kathy L Wheeler
Hanging by a Threat – Terry Andrews
Fatal Drip of Wisdom – Sanxie Bea Cooper
A Dagger Cuts Deep – Kathy L Wheeler
Mail Order Bride Series:
The Counterfeit
The Breakaway (IDA finalist)
The Betting Billionaires
Coming soon:
Fool’s Fortune
Fool Hearty
Fool’s Gold
Foolishness
Blooming Series
Quotable (IDA finalist)
Maybe It’s You
Lies That Bind
Martini Club 4 Series
Reckless — The 1920s and Pampered — The 1940s
Other fun novellas
Nose Job – Scrimshaw Doll Tale
The Mapmaker’s Wife – Civil War Novella (IDA Winner Historical Short)
Blood Stained Memories – A World of Gothic novella
Trust In Love – Four Holiday Shorts
Kae Elle Wheeler
Cinderella Series
The Wronged Princess – book i
The Unlikely Heroine – book ii
The Surprising Enchantress – book iii
The Price of Scorn: Cinderella’s Evil Stepmother
The English Lily (Kae Elle Wheeler) – Scrimshaw Doll Tale
About the Author
Kathy L Wheeler graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma with a BA in Management Information Systems and a minor in Vocal Music.
She loves the NFL, the NBA, musical theater, travel, reading, writing and … karaoke.
Kathy recently migrated to the Pacific Northwest with her musically talented husband. They have one grown daughter who has two adorable boys (Kathy can’t quite make herself use “g” words), a sweet dog who lives up to her name of Angel, and one bossy cat, Carly, who is definitely bossy!
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A Bullet to the Heart Page 14