She’d drunk from her glass and stared at him as he swallowed the sulfite-laden chardonnay in one long swallow.
“Your coming here doesn’t change anything,” he’d assured her, slurring his words a bit. “I’m still going to file the suit and . . . and . . .” He’d shaken his head as if dazed, then poured himself another drink and refilled Kelly’s glass with the wine she’d brought.
She’d begun to have second thoughts as he swallowed more of the wine that could kill him.
Suddenly, she realized she’d made a horrendous mistake. She wasn’t a killer. No way. So she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Panic had seized her.
“Don’t drink any more,” she’d ordered. “Josh, look, I made a mistake. A really bad one.”
“You’ve made lots of ’em Cait.” He’d leaned heavily against his desk and she’d noticed beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead.
“I mean it, the wine isn’t what you think,” she’d admitted, looking him straight in the eye. “You’ll need epinephrin.”
“What?”
“Now, Josh.”
He’d nearly dropped his glass as he swept up the bottle and read the label. “But I drink this all the time . . .”
“That’s not what’s in the bottle. Look, there’s no time to explain. But the wine you drank has sulfites—”
“Shit! You poisoned me? You . . . you goddamned bitch! Caitlyn . . . or . . . Jesus Christ who the hell are you? Get out! Now!” He’d taken one wobbly step toward her before reeling quickly and, nearly stumbling, heading into the bathroom where, she knew, he kept his anti-allergy kit. Through the open doorway, in the reflection of the mirror over his sink, she’d seen him give himself a life-saving dose.
Her legs had felt weak. What had she been thinking, she’d wondered. Dear God, had she really been going to kill Caitlyn’s ex-husband? She wasn’t a murderess and she was feeling dizzy . . . woozy. Was she as nuts as her sister, she’d asked herself, her vision blurring a bit.
Now, as she slunk through the shadows at Oak Hill, she couldn’t remember much more of the night Josh had died. She’d felt odd, her mind clouded, her legs like rubber as she’d tried to leave. From the corner of her eyes, she’d seen Josh return to the den and half-fall into his desk chair, but before she could call out to him, before she realized what was happening, she’d stumbled and . . . hit her head as she’d swooned to the floor of the den . . . and then she had blacked out, remembering nothing more. Later she’d learned that Josh was dead.
Obviously killed by someone who was picking off the Montgomery family members.
Whoever was behind all this had enviable sense of irony, but was as deadly as sin. That person had tried once to kill the twins in the boating accident, then recently, had attempted to frame Caitlyn for her husband’s murder.
Silently, her heart a drum, Kelly crept around the hole of a huge oak tree, the branches rattling slightly. Smelling the heavy scent of the river and dry grass, seeing the Spanish moss swaying eerily in the wind, light filmy wraiths shivering as they clung to the gnarled branches, she gritted her teeth against a dark fear that burrowed through her. She sensed she wasn’t alone. That the killer was nearby. Armed with the pistol, her cell phone and a tiny flashlight she’d retrieved from the Lexus’s glove box, she felt every hair on the back of her arms prickle in dread.
Tough.
She couldn’t back down and crumble into wimpy Caitlyn now. No more. She wouldn’t allow her weak-minded twin to fall victim any longer. Never again. It ended here. Tonight. No matter what. A gust of wind passed by, ruffling her hair, seeming to laugh at her bravado.
Lucille had said it all. “There’s ghosts here on this plantation, don’t ya know? You hear ‘em too, now, don’t cha? They talk to me and they talk to you.”
In Kelly’s opinion that was crazy talk, but now, listening to the whisper of the breeze, watching the moss dance and shimmy, she wasn’t so sure. Her fingers tightened around the pistol. She wasn’t going to cower in the car like a cornered mouse when who-knew-what was waiting, ready to pounce on her—oh, excuse me, on Caitlyn—at the drop of the hat. Charles’s gun would take care of that.
The cell phone rang and she cursed herself for bringing it with her from the car. Whoever was out here waiting for her would hear it as well. She ducked behind the old pump house and quickly hit the talk button but didn’t answer. The airwaves crackled, and no one said a word. Any noise would bring her hunter fast upon her. She raised a finger to disconnect and turn the damn thing off when the first faint sounds of a toddler’s voice cried softly. Pathetic mewling whimpers . . . “Mommy? Where are you?”
Kelly gasped. Her heart twisted.
So this was the game. Using the memory of Jamie and Caitlyn’s guilt as bait.
Kelly flattened against the weathered boards of the pump house, the peeling paint scratching the back of her neck. “I’m here, honey, and I’m coming to get you,” she whispered.
“It’s dark and I’m scared.”
Kelly’s gaze swept the lawn, the outbuildings, the old garage, the fruit cellar . . . the stables and old slave quarters. “I bet you’re scared, honey. Just tell me where you are . . . Mommy will come,” she said, trying to make her voice quiver, hoping that she could fool whoever was on the other end of the line into believing that she was as ragged and frayed as damned Caitlyn. She put a hitch in her voice; faked a sob. “Jamie? Honey, can you tell me where you are?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s . . . dark . . . icky . . . there’s . . . there’s . . . dirt and glass and it smells bad . . .” She began to sob and for a second Kelly almost bought into the lame, frightened-toddler charade. Almost. But not quite. “Mommy, please come,” the frail little voice said, all quavery and lisping and desperate. Oh, for the love of God!
“I am,” she whispered. “Mommy has to hang up now.”
“No! Please . . . I . . . I . . . love you, Mommy, and I’m so scared . . .” Click.