A Bullet to the Heart, Kathy Wheeler [inspirational books txt] 📗

few other stragglers had braved the weather after the service at the chapel.

And Jackson. For once he appeared sober and genuinely distraught. It was no secret he and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye. Jo lay the fault at Aunt Mary’s feet who had overindulged Jackson to the point of ruining her own marriage. Despite Jo’s feelings about Jackson, she believed Victor genuinely loved his son, but Mary had weaponized him against his own father.

The only person missing who should have been there was Eleanor, but her ill health would never survive a bout of pneumonia. So, Lydia had escorted her from the chapel back to the house. The traditional send-off at manor house would be the next day after the reading of Victor’s will rather than today. Jo was glad of the reprieve.

Reverend Knox’s sinusy drone went on and on. Putting her fingers in her ears would not go unnoticed, but if he didn’t stop soon, Jo couldn’t promise her screams would not erupt like a teakettle-full of water on an unsupervised fire. She was cold and she was scared. “…kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” The reverend’s words jarred her to the damp seeping in her bones.

Another rash of tears stabbed her, and these she was unable to hold back. A rush of warmth touched her shoulder, ran all the way down her arm and interlocked her fingers. She looked down at the ungloved hand. She recognized the strong masculine hand and her stomach clenched. She raised her gaze, meeting Wyn’s and her heart swelled. Was there a chance?

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, you’ll rise again, in this I trust.” Knox tossed dark soil into the grave, his head bowed.

Moments later the crowd dispersed. Jo pulled her hand from Wyn’s, not meeting his eyes, and walked with her sisters to the waiting limousine. She followed them inside and felt a hand brush her back. She hurried and fell into the seat, scooting into the farthest corner. Jackson tumbled in behind her. The smirk on his face had her wanting to slap it off. He didn’t say anything, just pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and took a long swig.

“You’re going to kill yourself before your time,” Tevi told him.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you. All three of you.” He wore his bitterness like a great enveloping cape.

Jo wouldn’t mind so much. She turned her gaze out the window. “That’s enough,” Jo said, her breath fogging the glass.

Lydia spoke for the first time. “Did you kill Uncle Victor?”

“Why the devil would I kill him? I’d be better off killing the three of you.”

Jo couldn’t believe it, but she felt the tug of a smile pulling at her. It came out of nowhere. “As much as I hate to admit it—” she turned around, facing the louse, “—I think he’s right.”

Wyn pulled his collar up against the wind and rain and watched until the limo disappeared from sight. He’d declined the ride back to town with his parents. Catherine and Garrick also offered, but he’d opted to walk. He had some thinking to do, questions to ponder, questions like who had reason to shoot Victor Montgomery? Had the force of the bullet to his heart knocked him over the cliff? Victor had been a hard ass, for sure. The man had too many enemies to count. Hell, everyone in town had reason to off the old man. Even Wyn’s own father, if Wyn believed his mother.

Then there was Styles showing up. That one bothered Wyn the most. Why now? That was easy—Jo was on the island. Styles could be effortlessly dealt with. Wyn could take him blindfolded, he was disposable.

What about that Kingsley character? And word in town was that Lydia had it out with Wallace Hayes on the ferry. The questions just kept piling up.

Stan worked on the ferry, and any juicy tidbit of information old Stan came by was his to share. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his own life.

Small towns, you had to love ’em… if you didn’t succumb to the urge to blow them up first.

8

Reading of the Will

T

he rich mahogany of Victor’s study was usually one of the warmest rooms in the manor house. Today, however, it rivaled an igloo in Greenland. Jo hadn’t been able to enter the room since learning of Victor’s death. Now, she had no choice. The whole house felt like a tomb, but in this room she felt as if she were being buried alive.

She glanced up, fought for air and stumbled to the nearest chair. Simon Guthrie, the family’s attorney, sat behind the massive desk, bringing the reality of the situation front and center.

Uncle Victor was truly dead. He was never coming home.

Jackson had seated himself at the end of the row. She kept a wary watch on him from the corner of her eye never looking directly at him.

A hand settled on Jo’s shoulder. She glanced up then flinched. “Hello, Mother.”

“Hello, my darling,” she said softly.

Jo crushed any sympathy at her obvious frailty. “Where’s Lydia?” she said coldly, glancing about.

“Here I am.” Lydia then turned to Eleanor’s nurse and nodded at her. Jo didn’t know the nurse’s name, nor even cared. She just watched the nurse assist Eleanor into a chair at the back of the room. Lydia dropped beside Jo. Jo had nothing to say to her middle sister at the moment and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.

The room began to fill, mostly with servants, those from the city’s penthouse and the island. There were a few Jo didn’t recognize that must have accompanied Tevi from the Catskills.

It was all surreal. Victor dead. Eleanor alive.

At the end of the line Wyn strolled in.

Jo drew in a sharp intake.

“What’s he doing here?” Lydia said.

“I have no idea.” Jo whispered, narrowing her eyes on him. “Victor was shot. Maybe he’s here in his official compacity.” The thought