Twenty-Three

It had been ten days since they'd turned everything over to the Broward County Sheriff's Department. They'd been interviewed at length, then told "Thanks, now go away."

They hadn't protested. Not even Sara made a quip. She'd smiled at Sheriff Flynn and said she knew he'd take care of everything. On the way to the truck, she'd said, "How can he screw it up when we did all the work for him?"

Kate had wondered how they'd get along, living in the same house, but with no unifying task to bond them, no murder to investigate. Now they had their separate jobs to go to. Actually, Aunt Sara was supposedly retired but Jack had laughed at that idea. "As long as she has paper and pen, she will occupy herself." Since Aunt Sara spent most of her time in her little writing room, that appeared to be true.

Kate was glad to find out that her fears of living together in harmony were ill-founded. She and Jack shared an interest in local real estate. He brought home floor plans of the houses he'd bought and wanted to hear their opinions.

"I guess Mrs. Stewart won't be buying the houses," he'd said solemnly. They'd looked at one another and laughed hard.

It was easy for them to settle into a routine. Jack was the grill expert; Kate cooked in the kitchen. Sara was the organizer. Her years of plotting made her an expert on seeing what needed to be done and in what order.

The Medlar-Wyatt family formed an easy, comfortable existence—with Jack in control of the remote. Kate threatened him but he only laughed.

As for Alastair, he'd been released on bail almost immediately, but Sheriff Flynn called to tell them not to worry. They were building a case of proof. "He won't get away with this," the sheriff said, then hung up.

There was a small setback caused by the newspaper reporter—and Jack's former bedmate—Elliot Hughes. She'd been given her own column, where she vowed to "reveal injustice" wherever she found it. She had been granted an interview with Alastair in the few hours he was in jail before his powerful Miami lawyer got him out.

Ms. Hughes said the lawyer made it clear that there was no evidence against his client and that Alastair Stewart had a "rock-solid alibi."

"The whole charge is ridiculous," he was quoted as saying, then Ms. Hughes went on to give her interpretation of the facts.

Alastair Stewart, from the highest of the high families in elegant little Lachlan, and Cheryl Morris, bottom of the lowest, were childhood sweethearts. But sadly, every moment they shared, every kiss, was in secret because their parents didn't approve.

When Cheryl disappeared with no goodbye, Alastair had to cry alone.

Recently, Cheryl and her mother were found dead by notorious local bad boy Jack Wyatt—who was known to be a very, very close friend of the deceased. Jack says he bought the Morris house to remodel it. He swears that he knew nothing of the skeletons buried in the tree roots.

But what happened was so long ago that maybe no one will ever know the truth. All I can do is keep my loyal readers apprised of the development of this tragic story.

You can be sure that I won't let up until I am thoroughly satisfied.

When Sara finished reading the article aloud, she glared at Jack.

"I guess I should have called her," he said.

"You think?" Kate and Sara said together, then laughed and high-fived each other.

When Kate went back to work, she dreaded Melissa's endless curiosity and her silly questions about Jack. But they didn't come. She suspected that Tayla had threatened her job if she didn't back off.

Within hours, Kate was showing houses. Thanks to Jack's notes, she was able to honestly tell people the pros and cons of each place. Already, she had two possible sales. They just wanted to see the houses again. And again.

So now Kate was walking toward a house that had just come on the market this morning. "We already have a potential buyer," Tayla had said. "A Mrs. Richardson from Charleston. She said that with global warming, that town has become too cold for her and she wants to move south."

Kate had blinked at that senseless statement a couple of times and Tayla wiggled her eyebrows.

"I met her," Melissa said. "Cute little woman. Gray hair and blue eyes—and dripping gold jewelry. Tell her all about our pretty town and how your boyfriend can remodel the house any way she wants it done."

Kate knew she was prying about Jack. "Gil is not my boyfriend."

Tayla gave a little guffaw of laughter at the way Kate had deflected Melissa's gibe.

Kate had picked up her paper-filled tote bag—Prada, borrowed from Aunt Sara—and easily found the house. It was a two-thousand-square-foot, three-bed, two-and-a-half-bath that needed updating. She paused in front of the house for a moment. The shrubs were scraggly and sparse. There were bare areas in the grass. She'd have to sell it with the name of a good landscaper.

When she saw that the front door was ajar, she frowned. It had a Realtor's lockbox on it and she was supposed to open it with a code.

Cautiously, she pushed open the door. Ever since she'd found Dan Bruebaker hanging, she'd developed a fear of what was behind slightly open doors. "Hello?"

Around the corner came a tall woman with hair too black to be natural, sun-darkened skin, and, as Melissa had said, dripping gold jewelry. But she wasn't little, cute or gray.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Barbara Richardson."

Even in those few words, her Southern accent was heavy.

"I bet you were expecting my sister-in-law, Charlotte. We married brothers, and since their passing, she and I tend to do things together."

Kate shook the woman's hand. It was a very firm grip. "I'm Kate Medlar. Did someone let you in?"

"A young man. Tall, brown hair. Not to be unkind, but his nose is a bit too big for his face."

Kate relaxed her shoulders. "Larry. He works in my office. I wonder why he didn't say something."

"Honey," Mrs. Richardson drawled, "if you want me to explain men, I haven't lived long enough." She slipped her arm through Kate's. "I brought some of my rose-petal tea from home and I want you to try it."

The woman was overly friendly in a way that Kate didn't like. "I don't think—"

"I won't hear a no."

Kate walked with her into the kitchen. Set up on the counter was a flowered teapot, two cups and saucers, a milk pitcher and a sugar pot. "How pretty."

"We do have some lovely traditions in our hometown." She poured the cups full of tea. "Milk? Sugar?"

"No, thank you. This is fine." Kate sipped. The tea was delicious. Fragrant and hot.

Mrs. Richardson started to drink, then put down her cup and picked up her Louis Vuitton bag. "Oh, dear. I've misplaced my sugar tablets. I must have left them in my car. I'll just be a moment. Go ahead and enjoy your tea."

Kate finished the cup, then poured herself another one. It really was extraordinarily good. Just as she heard a door open, she felt a bit dizzy. The house was unfurnished but there was a deep windowsill. She sat down on it, her hand to her forehead.

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Richardson said. "You look awful. But I know that look. You're expecting a baby, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. I just..." The room seemed to be going around and around.

"You can't fool me. I know the signs. We better get you to your doctor. Who is your obstetrician?"

"I'm not—" Kate began but couldn't finish. When she tried to get up, Mrs. Richardson put her arm around Kate's shoulders and helped her stand.

For all that she looked older, Kate thought she certainly felt strong. She leaned on the woman as they walked toward the kitchen door. "Don't have a doctor."

"That is too bad. I'll just take you to mine. My car is in the garage."

"Larry shouldn't...done that." Kate's words were slurred. Even to herself she sounded drunk.

Mrs. Richardson's black Mercedes was in the warm, dark garage and Kate gratefully slumped onto the tan leather seats. Instantly, she closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, Mrs. Richardson had opened the car door and was pulling Kate out. Her head was swirling and all she wanted to do was stretch out somewhere and go to sleep. The grass looked so good that she made a movement as though she meant to lie down on it.

"Oh, no, you don't," Mrs. Richardson said.

As dizzy as she was, Kate heard the difference in her voice. "Accent," she mumbled.

"Comes and goes," Mrs. Richardson said. She led Kate to some stairs up to a cabin with a wide porch.

"I don't think..." Kate began and took a step back.

"Come on," the woman said and her accent seemed to have returned. "The doctor is inside. He'll make you feel much better."

Kate had a glimpse of what looked to be thick tropical forest all around the house. "Have a client...like...buy this," she muttered as they went inside. There was a couch and through a doorway she could see a bed. Ah, to lie down. To sleep!

But Mrs. Richardson led Kate to a stout wooden chair and practically pushed her down into it.

"Just sit there and I'll go get the doctor."

Kate's knees were so weak that she could do nothing but sit, and the moment she did, her eyes closed.