The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. Hazelwood
out. Her mother’s litany of sell, sell, sell had recurred every week since she’d become the sole owner. Her mother also disapproved of her renting this small home. Control was her mother’s major flaw.
Jennifer understood why Carla had chafed at their mother’s need to dominate. Their father had essentially stayed out of the arguments. Jennifer often wondered how he withstood Eleanor’s carping. Perhaps burying himself in his work as a self-employed architectural consultant was his flagship of survival. However, his relationship with his daughters had suffered because of it.
Looking around her living room, she was comforted by the furniture and artifacts she’d inherited from her grandmother. The cherry wood credenza and matching desk, the grandfather clock that no longer chimed, and the coffee table with marks left from children’s mischief gave her a sense of her past. A bookcase was piled high with old and well-read books. A Rosenthal vase her grandmother had bought in Germany held dried pussy willows, and an old oil painting of her great-grandparents’ home in Wales hung on one wall next to a seascape by a local artist.
Despite moments of loneliness, Jennifer enjoyed her life in her small rental house. It was a far cry from her modern apartment she’d rented in Seattle before Carla’s murder. Everything in her life was either pre-Carla or post-Carla.
Renovations had been made to the old house before she’d moved in a few months post-Carla. The wood floors had been sanded and re-stained, the insulation had been improved, and the windows and doors had been replaced with double-paned glass. However, Jennifer rented it not for the house, but for the large backyard and the proximity to the open hills behind the property. She and Lydia spent hours roaming the thick fir forest with its moss-covered ground and tangled shrub where birds and wildlife thrived. It was the next best thing to the island.
The ringing phone burst through her reverie. She hesitated, wondering if her mother might be calling back, but walked to her desk to answer it. When she heard the voice on the other end, she sank into the swivel chair.
“How are you, Jennifer?” The familiar voice came over the line as if from another world.
“Alex?” She frowned and stared at the wall, seeing nothing. “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s been,” she was going to say, “eons,” but settled for “a long time.”
“I hope you don’t mind my phoning.” There was hesitation in his voice.
“No. It’s wonderful to hear from you. Is anything wrong?”
His voice changed slightly as if she’d offended him. “No. I’m gong to be in Seattle in three weeks, and I was hoping we could get together.”
Get together after two years. And he’s married. “What brings you up this way?”
“Book collecting, naturally.” His chortle made it sound as though he were embarrassed. “I’m meeting Clifford Wedgeworth, a bibliophile. He has some interesting new acquisitions in his collection.”
Wedgeworth, the same man who’d hired her to appraise his newly acquired books? She sat with the phone in her hand, thinking about the eerie coincidence.
“Hello? It must be a poor connection. Are you there?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”
“It’s been too long. I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
She felt her cheeks get hot. “Of course, why not?”
“I’ll be at the Wedgeworths on Saturday afternoon. Could we meet late afternoon, perhaps have an early dinner together? Would you come down to Seattle? Visiting you in Brandon might not be a good idea, or have your parents mellowed toward me?”
“Let’s not get into that, Alex.” Even after all this time, the anger of her parents and most Brandon residents toward Alex was palpable. They remained convinced he was responsible for Carla’s murder.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up the past, but I’d like to see you.”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Nice! Such an insipid word for a meeting with her former fiancé. Should she tell him she’d been invited to the Wedgeworths’ open house? No. He shouldn’t have all the surprises. “I can meet you in Seattle.”
They settled on a time and a restaurant for that Saturday evening.
Before hanging up, Alex said, “Jennifer, I’ve missed you.”
Her breathing fluttered. “I look forward to seeing you.”
After she hung up, she reflected on the conversation, her thoughts overriding the quickening pulse of her heart. She had to admit she still cared for Alex, but love was another matter. Too much had gone wrong between them for that. However, there was no reason they couldn’t meet as friends.
Since Alex had left, Joe had come into her life. If she’d been interested in dating a variety of eligible men, she’d have allowed her friends in Seattle to set her up. They’d kept after her for a year, but when she hadn’t responded to their offers, they gave up on her. She didn’t blame them. Her life had taken a different turn: searching for a book and a killer. Joe understood that. Joe was her anchor. But what if he left Brandon?
With Alex’s phone call, the past stormed in like a blast of cold wind. Her reaction to his voice made her wonder if she’d been lying to herself about her feelings toward him. When she’d heard he’d married, she’d mourned and then forgotten him. Now she wondered if she had. Damn. She didn’t want to complicate her life.
The wood floorboards creaked as she paced and listened to the splatter of rain on the roof.
Chapter 5
Despite the drizzle the following day, Jennifer took Lydia for an early walk in the woods behind the house. Afterward, she showered and had a quick breakfast of a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of black coffee. A damp Lydia jumped into the rear seat of the jeep for the short ride to the store. Jennifer parked and hurried inside to be greeted by the mischievous cats. While Lydia made a halfhearted attempt to chase Crabapple and Maxie, Jennifer wrote a note for Emma Mae.
I fed Lydia an extra ration this morning, so she should be good until I return. I hope to get back before dark. Jennifer taped the note to the fridge, knowing Emma Mae’s first task was to give the cats their breakfast. Lydia settled onto her pad in the office with the cats sitting on the bookcase above her, ready to bedevil Lydia. “Don’t be mean,” Jennifer said to the cats, who ignored her. “Sorry, Lydia. You’ll have to fend them off without my help.” With those parting words, Jennifer rushed out the back door, locking it behind her
Due to slow traffic on the slick roads, the drive to the Wedgeworth’s took longer than she’d expected. To pass the time, she turned on the radio, heard nothing but bad news, and flicked it off in disgust. The weather was depressing enough without adding the world’s problems to her mindset. The rain increased and the distant thunderheads hid the pristine beauty of Mount Rainier. When she turned off the main highway, the road wound deeper into the forest. After following the curvy road for twenty minutes, the estate, tucked into the hills, appeared.
At the private gate, she stopped and pressed the intercom button located in the mouth of a large bronze statue of a lion at the side of the entrance. After a few moments, a deep voice said, “Wedgeworth estate.”
“I’m Jennifer Frost. I’m expected.”
“Park under the porte-cochere and ring the door bell,” the disembodied voice said.
The wrought-iron gate swung open and she drove up the long drive. Nearing the house, she passed a copse of spruce before coming to an expanse of manicured emerald-green lawn. “Home” was not a word Jennifer would have used for the French-style stone mansion with its gables and arched stained-glass windows below the mansard roof.
She’d researched the seventy-year-old Clifford Wedgeworth and learned that his money had come from the logging industry. Although now the wealthy owner