Carolina Heat (39 page)

Ashby took a long swig of his drink. “About the same time, she had the kid. The minute Nathaniel was born, his grandmother went over there to meet him. As soon as she arrived, she filled Rosemary in on the latest local gossip; namely, Horace got thrown from his horse the week before and almost died. When Rosemary heard the news, she had a change of heart. Took her three-day-old son and rushed back to the States. Ran straight to Horace’s bedside, and they’ve been together ever since.”

“Kind of romantic,” Mark admitted. “If you ignore what an adulterous jackass Horace was.”

Ashby wrapped up the story. “Since they were divorced when Nate was born, his dad had to adopt him to make them a fully legal family again. But he really is their son.”

“In other words, no real motivation there.”

“Yup.”

Mark yanked his hands through his hair in frustration. “Okay, so we scratch the adoption off the list. He still might have a skeleton buried deeper in his family tree. Problem is, we don’t know the angle.”

“If Annabelle confronts him, she’ll be going in blind.” Ashby straightened up and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Doesn’t feel like this is the right time or place for her to make that move.”

“I agree. We’ve got to tell her ASAP.”

“No rush. I’ve been keeping an eye out for him. Bellamy still hasn’t shown up. And he’s scheduled to give a speech at the start of dinner. Jillian’s probably tearing her hair out right about now. I better go see what I can do.”

“And I need to find Annabelle. How long can it take to fix makeup?” Mark checked his watch and winced. “They’ve been gone almost twenty minutes.” He quickly scanned the room, but couldn’t spot the familiar red curls. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“Try the back stairs,” Ashby suggested. “She probably used those to avoid the crowd. Go all the way down the hall and you’ll run smack into them.”

“Good idea. And if you don’t see us in five minutes, sound the alarm.”

“Count on it. Meet you up there.” Ashby loped away to join the crowd on the stairs.

Mark moved off in the opposite direction. Maybe it was paranoia, or maybe his Spidey sense was kicking in. Either way, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled a warning, and he picked up his pace. After the strange escalation of events in the past few days, he wasn’t about to take any chances.
Never should’ve let her out of my sight
, he thought ruefully. But who knew a quick trip to the bathroom could be dangerous?

The waiters indicated it was time to move to the ballroom for dinner the moment Jillian’s feet hit the stairs. It was obvious they’d been waiting for her signal. Annabelle methodically worked her way through the growing crush of people. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream as she headed for the front door. Years in the New York subway system had taught her to throw an elbow with the best of them, but her agility was severely hampered by her costume. She was slowly pushed off her path, and ended up pressed against a set of French doors, peeking through lace curtains to discover they led to a small courtyard on the side of the mansion. Perfect.

She slipped sideways through the doors, trying not to attract any attention. The noise, the hundreds of people packed tightly together, the loud music and most of all the tension of the night pounded in her head with the persistence of a jackhammer. The twist discovered in her conversation with Jillian was completely unexpected. The ramifications were beyond horrible for her new friend. Annabelle swallowed hard against the guilt that swelled like bile in her throat. She needed a moment alone to clear her head.

But the moment she stepped onto the porch, the oppressive heat pressed down on her. Instead of feeling refreshed, the heavy, sweet scent of magnolias rolled a wave of nausea through her. Spotting a fountain, she hurried across the spotlessly groomed lawn. She dipped her hands in the cool water up to her wrists and instantly felt better. After a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure she was alone, she trailed her damp fingers along the back of her neck and down her throat. The dripping wetness was a welcome relief.

Staring at the burbling water, she revised the plan. Check with Ashby about the adoption rumor, then a five minute stop in the ballroom. She had to be certain Jillian’s program was running smoothly. There was no way she’d be responsible for disrupting the ball. It was the culmination of months of planning, and could be a huge boost to Jillian’s career. She wouldn’t take chances with that.

“You interfering little hussy!”

Annabelle whirled around. Madelaine Beaufort was barely visible in the deep shadows of the porch. A shaft of moonlight did, however, make the dull black gun in her hand easy to spot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Where is she?” Mark whispered in Jillian’s ear.

Jillian’s smile never wavered. “Now is not the time. Can’t you see Bellamy’s in the middle of his speech? He made it here with all of two minutes to spare. I was deep into panic mode, stuck in front of a live microphone with no featured speaker to introduce, when he appeared in the doorway. I could kill him. He’s definitely not getting my vote.”

Thunderous applause filled the room. Jillian took the opportunity to slide off the raised dais. Once out of the spotlight, she turned on Mark. Her tone was low but furious. “I can’t believe you walked up onto the platform in the middle of everything! Do you have no sense of propriety? Or plain common sense?”

“Where is Annabelle?” he asked again.

“I thought she was with you.”

He gritted his teeth. “No, the last time I saw her you dragged her off to fix her face.”

“But that was ages ago.”

He stared at her until it became obvious the urgency in his tone had finally registered.

“Oh, no. Mark, I left her on the main staircase. She was on her way to find you.”

“Never made it,” he snapped. His hands fisted at his sides, every muscle in his body tense.

Ashby joined the pair, and casually linked arms with Mark and Jillian. “If looks could kill, half the room would be dead by now,” he commented. “You two need to dial it back, or take it into the hallway. People are starting to stare.”

Mark jerked his head at the closest door, and Ashby and Jillian fell into step behind him. They brushed past a waiter and found themselves crammed into a tiny holding room.

“We can’t stay here. The dumbwaiter’s in here, and a dozen waiters are about to unload salads from it.” Jillian led them into the back hallway. Mark guessed it had been built for servant’s use. The walls were unornamented, and there were no windows. “We only have a few minutes.”

“Annabelle’s not downstairs, and she isn’t in the ballroom.” Mark grabbed Jillian’s forearms and held on tight. “You’re the last person to see her, and you know this place better than anyone. Where could she be?”

Glaring, Ashby lifted Mark’s hands away. “Take it easy. No way she’d leave without telling you. Means she’s here somewhere. We’ll split up and find her.”

“No!” Jillian exclaimed. Her face was white with fear. “We’ve got to stay together.”

Mark didn’t want to increase her panic. But he also didn’t want to waste any time. “Then you stay with Ashby. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Start on the porch. Maybe she needed some air. That’ll give you the chance to look in the courtyard as well. We can check the attic. Maybe she went to look for another picture.”

“Picture of what?”

Jillian took a deep breath and told them what she and Annabelle had discovered.

“Your mother? I mean, I’ve never been a huge fan, but are you sure?” Ashby asked.

Jillian nodded, slowly.

Mark began to pace. “Is she in the ballroom right now?”

“She should be. She’s next up to speak.”

“Go check.” Mark and Ashby waited in silence until Jillian returned. Her eyes were huge, her expression grim.

“Mama’s not in there. We don’t have a moment to lose.”

Ashby held up a hand. “Hold on, don’t you have to go back in and keep things running?”

“I asked Marilee to wrap up when Bellamy finishes, and told the waiters to serve the salads immediately.” She gave Mark a trembling smile. “Annabelle’s life is more important than a silly old party. I’m all yours.”

Mark planted a big, smacking kiss on her cheek. “Let’s go.”

Annabelle froze in place. Nothing quite like having your theories confirmed by somebody pulling a gun on you.

“Mrs. Beaufort. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare sass me,” she hissed.

“I’m sorry. You startled me.”

“You ruined me,” the older woman retorted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Annabelle spoke slowly and with great calm. Number one rule when dealing with a crazy person was to keep them talking. It tended to distract them from actually pulling the trigger.

“All you interfering Yankee scum!” she spat. “All you ever do is stir up trouble.” She stepped out of the shadows and onto the lawn. “Now you tell me who else knows.”

Annabelle’s mind raced. It was obvious that playing dumb wasn’t working, so she decided to try a different tack. “You tell me why you killed Tad Thornton and Vanessa Malone.”

Madelaine threw back her head and laughter trilled from her throat. “You pretend to be so smart, and you haven’t even figured it out? Perhaps you aren’t as big a problem as I feared. Ah well, no going back now.”

Annabelle began to edge around the fountain, in an attempt to get a large hunk of marble between her body and the gun. “I deserve to know. After all, you tried to kill me twice. Least you can do is tell me why.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. It started with the nosy little man from the museum. Do you know, he expressly came here to see that horrid painting? He’d been at a dinner party back home and heard talk about Colonel Lippincott.”

“The man in the portrait?”

“That’s right. Colonel Horatio Lippincott—the only blot on our family tree. He was well regarded in the Confederate Army, and held a position of trust in General Lee’s staff.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “But it was all a lie. The whole time he was a turncoat, a spy for the North.”

Annabelle gasped, her surprise unfeigned. “How on earth did you learn that?”

“Turns out he kept a whole second family up in Massachusetts. Suppose they’d be cousins of a sort. About five months ago his descendants discovered his journal. Under the guise of reaching out to family, they sent me a copy along with a letter of explanation. My reaction was...less than pleasant. I’m afraid I let my temper get the best of me. They consider the whole affair to be a grand joke.”

Despite herself, Annabelle felt a pang of sympathy. It was clear the shameful news had been a shocking blow to Madelaine. “That’s no way to treat family,” she offered cautiously.

“Apparently people in the North are not raised with the same amount of respect we show to families down here. My cousins chose to have another laugh at my expense, and sent me his portrait. Bragged about it, even, to your friend Mr. Thornton. He fancied himself quite the Civil War scholar, and wanted to write a paper on Colonel Lippincott. He went so far as to tell me he planned to publish it. There was simply no way I could let him bring such shame to our family. We’d be drummed out of the D of C. Jillian would never be president, and I could never hold my head up in this town again.”

Annabelle was sickened. “Your pride was worth more than a human life?”

“Why, yes.” Madelaine was very matter of fact in her response.

“And Vanessa?” Careful not to let her petticoats rustle, she inched a few more steps around the side of the fountain. With its considerable bulk as cover, she might be able to chance screaming for help. On the other hand, by now all the guests were probably in the ballroom on the third floor, and wouldn’t even hear the gun if it fired. She surreptitiously glanced around the courtyard in search of anything she could use as a weapon. Sadly, the sprucing up it must’ve received for the ball meant there wasn’t so much as a stray rock on the ground. There was a lacy, wrought iron chair, but it was on the porch; the high ground Madelaine currently controlled.

“She came round asking questions. I couldn’t take the chance she knew the whole story. Of course, I found out she really didn’t know anything, but by then it was too late.”

Despite the heat, Annabelle’s blood ran cold. “What did you do to her?”

“Put rat poison in her iced tea. It took longer than I expected for her to die, but it did give me the opportunity to ascertain to my satisfaction she hadn’t uncovered our secret.”

Fueled by rage, Annabelle threw caution to the wind. “You murdering bitch!” She dove the rest of the way behind the fountain as a shot rang out. A second later, a door slammed, and then she heard a distinctly male groan of pain. She peeked around the spitting marble cherub. Mrs. Beaufort still held the gun. Smoke curled out of its double barrel. At her feet, slumped against the French doors, was Mark. A red puddle was spreading all too quickly from beneath his left leg.