Deadly Inheritance: A Romantic Suspense
Read Deadly Inheritance: A Romantic Suspense Online
Authors: Amy Corwin
Deadly Inheritance
By
Amy Corwin
Nora has always had a single goal: to found a no-kill shelter for abandoned animals. Her dream seems impossible until she discovers she is heir to a fortune. Unfortunately, there’s one catch. Nora must spend two weeks at Autumn Hill, along with the four other heirs, to inherit. An evil reputation plagues the house, and the death of her uncle, found murdered in a locked room within Autumn Hills’ dark walls, only intensifies the house’s menacing atmosphere.
But Nora’s not frightened easily, and she’s smart. Suspecting that the murderer may be one of the heirs, and she hires investigator Gabe O’Brien to accompany her.
Gabe isn’t a bodyguard, but he’s intrigued by Nora’s appeal and agrees. Unfortunately, Nora soon has doubts about him when she nearly dies in a suspicious accident. Surrounded by strangers, Nora’s not sure who to trust, and relying upon the handsome investigator threatens to put her heart in as much danger as her life.
But Nora refuses to give up her dream, no matter the cost. She’s determined to unmask the killer, claim her inheritance, and discover if she can trust Gabe with her life and her love.
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The little red flag on Nora’s mailbox taunted her. She froze a few feet away, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the brisk November morning air. She took a deep breath and rotated her stiff shoulders. She was just exhausted, that was all. The police had stayed until four AM last night after she’d reported hearing an intruder, so it was understandable that she’d be a little jumpy this morning.
There was nothing to worry about. The deputy had found nothing last night except her kitchen door swinging slowly back and forth in the breeze. She could tell by the way he kept hitching up his belt and grumbling under his breath that he thought she was just a lonely, crazy lady who probably called 911 just to check out the men on night duty.
If that had been the case, she’d have been disappointed by the portly and exceptionally grumpy deputy who’d shown up at her house.
But the rattle of her kitchen door had awakened her and seeing it open left her anxious, despite the deputy’s inability to find any trace of a burglar. No broken glass, no scratches around the lock, nothing missing.
She eyed the mailbox. Despite its cheeky little flag, it looked ominous, more like the box contained a warning instead of a piece of mis-delivered mail some neighbor had thoughtfully placed in her mailbox.
Maybe the intruder had left her a little something after the police scared him away.
Don’t be ridiculous.
She was just nervous after too little sleep and worrying about what her lawyer and godfather, Frank Leonard, wanted with her today.
A quick glance around revealed nothing except the familiar trees and shrubs of her semi-rural property. She studied the shadows under the trees. The sun was still low over the swamp behind her house, and the sunshine silvered the gray-brown trunks of the oaks, giving it a mysterious, enchanted glow. No sign of anyone watching her, no subtle shadow that shouldn’t be there, but the cold sensation of someone observing her remained.
She stepped closer, sure she was just being silly. She was jittery because of Frank’s call. While she loved her godfather, she always had the sense that whenever he wanted to see her, something bad was going to happen.
The fact that he was the one her mother had elected to break the news to a ten-years-old Nora that her father had abandoned them might be the reason. After that, irrational though it was, Frank Leonard remained a harbinger of unpleasant news. Now, he wanted to see her again, in his office. His law office. That couldn’t be good.
Just like whatever was in her mailbox couldn’t be good.
She straightened, walked to the mailbox, and slapped the flag down. Her fingers felt sticky. About to rub the substance off on her jeans, she glanced at her hand. Red. Sticky.
Blood
. She was a vet. She knew blood when she saw it. Cold, drying but still sticky blood.
Whoever had raised that little flag had had blood on their fingers. Blood fresh enough to cling to the plastic and her hand.
She whirled around again, her heart thudding. A light breeze rustled through the leaves of the live oaks near the road making a gossipy, whispering sound. Their thick trunks and long, almost horizontal branches laden with Spanish moss could hide anything. Or anyone.
Get a grip. You’re just tired.
Using her left hand, she pulled a packet of towelettes out and used her teeth to open it, all the time trying not to stare at the shadows under the trees. She wiped the flaking stains off her fingers, put the dirty cloth back into its envelop, and shoved it in her purse for later disposal. If someone wanted to scare her, it would take more than a few bloodstains on her mailbox flag.
She opened the box and glanced inside. A standard white envelope lay inside with a printed label. Naturally, there was no return address, and a smear of reddish black blood took the place of a stamp. She glanced around again before pulling out the envelop and opening it. The single sheet of white paper inside only had one line of print.
“Don’t go. It isn’t worth your life.” The message was short, but not so sweet.
Don’t go? Don’t go where? To Mr. Leonard’s office? To work at her veterinary hospital? Those were the only places she went regularly, other than the grocery store and local Feed-N-Seed.
The sound of a tinkling chime from her cell phone reminded her of the appointment with Frank. She was late, but she doubted he would mind. Nothing seemed to bother him. He always had a twinkle in his eyes and wide smile dimpling his broad face.
Maybe his cheerfulness was why he’d always been elected by her mom to give bad news. That, and the fact that he was a lawyer, which guaranteed that every time he opened his mouth, he’d say something you didn’t want to hear.
She shoved the letter in her purse and climbed into her car. Maybe she’d show him the note and ask his advice, as long as she was there.
It couldn’t hurt. And she knew the fat deputy from last night would just roll his eyes and tell her there was nothing he could do until someone spotted a kettle of vultures circling her dismembered body in the middle of a field.
Not that he’d say that. But he sure would be thinking it.
She sighed as she backed out of her driveway and once more checked the shadows beneath the trees.
Nothing. There was nothing to explain the chill whispering over the nape of her neck. Just nerves and a silly note probably left over from some Halloween trick that hadn’t worked out right.
She focused on the road ahead. Frank was waiting for her.
§
Two days later.
Nora lifted her hand to knock on the smooth black door, glanced at the business card she held, and lowered her hand. She bit her lip, feeling stupid to be standing at a private investigator’s door. Could he really help her like Frank had promised?
Probably not. She’d do better to rely on herself, as usual.
Gabriel O’Brien
, the card read. She didn’t know him, but she suspected it should have added glib, attractive, and completely untrustworthy. His name reeked of it.
Her past, and all the times she’d put her trust in someone else’s smiling promises, haunted her. The vulnerable skin between her shoulder blades itched with unease.
Listen to your instincts
for once
. She’d depended upon the wrong person before. And this time, trusting the wrong person could be fatal. Her purse felt heavy even though the ugly note she’d received probably didn’t weigh an ounce.
She stared at the door. It stared back, unhelpfully blank. It wasn’t like she didn’t have good reasons for her wariness. Her own mother had taught her about trust. Despite her fervent promises that
this time
she’d be there to pick her up after school, she rarely remembered. Nora had finally started carrying bus money, hidden in her shoe so the bullies wouldn’t find it. Then she’d just disappeared on the road to Peru, where her father had bugged out when Nora was ten. And then there was her cocky, handsome uncle and his hand-over-heart promise that he’d help pay for college. He’d also disappeared when Nora was fifteen.
Some lessons were learned the hard way.
So why was she here, about to knock on the front door of a guy whose name recalled dim memories of her dashing-but-irresponsible father? Why did she expect this man to be any more dependable than her dad? Or her mother’s brother, for that matter, who’d been so fond of making promises he promptly forgot?
Why had she listened to her godfather? Just because he was a lawyer?
Not a great reason.
After another longing glance at the unhelpful door, she stepped down off the small, cement porch. Her left foot was midair, on its way to the second step when she heard the creak of the door opening.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The distraction made her lose her balance. Her arms windmilled. She felt herself falling through the chilly air as her fingertips barely brushed the cold metal of the wrought iron railing.
A strong hand grabbed her wrist and held her just long enough for her to step back onto the top stair.
Safe.
She brushed her hair back from her face, breathless and her heart pounding. “Thanks.”
The man, as attractive as the name on the business card had promised, ignored her polite response. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He glanced over her shoulder at the street. A small furrow of what? Worry? Anger?—pinched the bridge of his nose. His gaze lingered on her small car.
Her glance followed his. An uncomfortable feeling of inadequacy surprised her. She straightened. Aesthetics aside, the car still ran. That was the important thing. Mr. O’Brien could think what he wanted.
What did it matter if yellow and red cars had both contributed replacement doors to the passenger’s side of the vehicle? Sure, the result was a little colorful, but so what? The opposite side was a perfect, unscathed blue, and that was the side she saw every day.
But of course, he couldn’t see the good side.
That and his abrupt questions increased the resentment in her gesture when she thrust out his business card. “My lawyer, or rather my uncle’s lawyer—well, he was my uncle’s lawyer before he died—my uncle, that is.” She halted. She was rambling. She took a deep breath, acutely aware of his clear blue gaze. The sense of facing an implacable, hostile force hit her.
Where was the charm, the smiling good humor, and the glib patter she’d anticipated from the scanty information presented on his business card? He might have the thick black hair, intense cobalt eyes, and square chin of a handsome Irishman, but he was sadly lacking in charm.
Silence, and an even more intense scrutiny, followed her remark.
She met his gaze directly and started again. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Nora James. Franklin Leonard, the lawyer handling my uncle’s estate, recommended I contact you.” There. Concise and to the point. She thrust the business card forward again.
This time he took it, read it with a scowl, and turned that unpleasant expression upon her. “Where did you get this?” His gaze traveled over her jeans, plain white blouse, and fleece jacket, which mercifully hid the fraying cuffs of her blouse. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, too, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing strong, tanned forearms. But his clothes were crisp and smooth. Fresh. New. Expensive. “I’d remember giving it to you.”
It might have been a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one. Her irritation tightened around her forehead.
“Ah, the mental challenge of memory loss.” She tapped the card he now held and spoke more slowly. “I’m so sorry. If I’d realized you were challenged, I’d have been more precise.” She granted him a tight smile. “You gave that card to Mr. Franklin Leonard. He gave it to me when he suggested I discuss my—well, a certain—situation with you.”
“I only give these,” he held up the card between two fingers, “to people I owe.”
“Ah, I see.” She nodded. “A nontransferable gift. Unfortunately, you’ll have to take that up with Mr. Leonard.”
“He understood well enough.” He turned sideways and thrust open the door. “And since he seems to be calling in his favor, I guess I should hear what you have to say. Come on in.”
Not the friendliest invitation she’d ever received. She flicked a longing glance over her shoulder at her car. Did she need his assistance this badly? She didn’t think so, but Frank had been so insistent that she felt obliged to pursue the matter as promised.
And then there was the letter.
She slid past him and walked into the hallway, her hiking boots padding as silently as cat’s paws across the gray slate floor. She stopped after a few feet and tried not to look too curious as she glanced around.
Grayish-white walls, white crown molding, dark gray slate floor, and not a lot else. No pictures. No furniture.
Well, at least it would be easy to clean. She grudgingly approved since cleaning was always a concern when you were a vet who couldn’t resist the hopeful eyes of strays.
“Go into the office—first door on the left.” He gestured vaguely as he shut the front door.
Trapped
. She suddenly knew how those stray dogs felt when they were dragged, tail between their legs, into her office and saw the door close behind them.
The slate floor ended at the entrance to the office, and well-worn oak planks picked up, stretching out with nary a carpet to break up the mellow, golden expanse. Practical gray metal file cabinets lined one wall, and built-in oak shelves stuffed with books covered the two other walls. Most of the books had long titles lettered in gold and looked like fat, boring legal tomes, interspersed with a few bizarre titles about magic, ghosts, and one of those idiot books about getting to know the world of the paranormal.
Great. A nut.
A large, wooden desk occupied most of the space in front of two huge windows that revealed a small patch of brown grass comprising the front yard, and past that, the street. The cheerful highlight of the otherwise depressing view was her car, parked primly at the curb.
A small computer table was shoved into the corner behind the desk. A sleek computer sat on the middle shelf, with a printer resting on the bottom tier of the multi-layered table.
A manila folder sat open in the center of the wooden desk. Feeling virtuous, Nora stifled the urge to read the exposed papers. She took the initiative and sat in the ladder-backed wooden chair in front of the desk. Given his mood, she was unlikely to receive an invitation to do so, and she had no intention of standing in front of Mr. Gabriel O’Brien’s desk like a sweating adolescent reporting to the principal.