Due or Die (26 page)

“That will be all, Simpson,” Edmund said as he shrugged into his coat. “As you can see, Uncle Bill is quite upset about Ms. Norris’s presence. We should all clear out and give him some space. You may take the rest of the day off.”

“Very good, sir,” Harvey said and left for the kitchen.

While Edmund had a low murmured conversation with his uncle, Lindsey pulled on her coat and moved over by the window to scrounge through her purse for her phone. She wondered who she could call for a ride because she felt Edmund should probably stay here with Bill given the circumstances.

She would have called Beth, but like Lindsey, she didn’t have a car. Sully? Awkward. She hit the contacts button and found Nancy’s number. She turned away from the men and pressed the button. She wanted to be tactful after all.

“Well, now here’s another one!” Bill cried out. “What is going on? I
would never shelve Jean-Jacques Rousseau with Oscar Wilde.”

“Rousseau?” Lindsey asked. She dropped her phone in her bag and hurried to Bill’s side, her call forgotten.

“Yes, look at this,” Bill said. He spun around and held it out to her. “It really is an exquisite edition. Look at the embossed fleur-de-lis on the cover.”

Lindsey reached out and took the book. “Bill, why do you have this?”

“I don’t know,” he said and raised his hands as if mystified by the whole thing.

“This was on the inventory list of items that went missing from the Friends’ storage shed,” she said. “I am sure of it. It fits the description exactly.”

“But why would it be here?” Bill asked.

“You didn’t offer to keep it for the Friends?” she asked.

“No,” Bill said with a shake of his head.

“Then how did it get here?” She and Bill glanced at one another, and then they both looked at Edmund.

Bill’s eyebrow went up as he studied his nephew. “Care to explain yourself, Edmund?”

“Surely, you don’t think that I—” Edmund broke off as if shocked at the accusation.

“Yes, I do think it’s you,” Bill said. “Do you think I haven’t noticed your sticky-fingered tendencies? I didn’t want to believe it of my own brother’s son, but the evidence has become overwhelming.”

“What evidence?” Edmund protested.

“My grandfather’s wooden golf clubs,” Bill said. “I know you were planning to sell them.”

“I was not. I
was merely taking them to be repaired.”

“There was nothing wrong with them. How about my grand aunt’s Havilland?”

“China? What would I do with some dusty old yellow rose China?”

“A twelve-piece place setting does not go missing from the attic without help.”

The two men were nose-to-nose now, and both had grown red in the face with veins throbbing in their necks.

“What makes you think all of this is yours?” Edmund exploded. His shout reverberated around the library, making the crystal knickknacks and porcelain statuettes wobble within their glass case.

“I inherited it all, that’s why it is mine,” Bill said. He looked as if he was struggling to keep his voice in a quieter decibel than he would have liked.

Lindsey felt like she was caught in the middle of a family squabble with no hope of escaping. Even if she wanted to leave them to it, she had to find out what the Friends’ books were doing here, and she had to get them back.

Still, she felt as if she was intruding. “Should I wait outside?”

“You inherited it all,” Edmund repeated in a singsong mocking voice. “Why? Because you were the favorite, the Goody Two-shoes, Ivy League–graduating son, while my father was the black sheep, who lived in a commune and was all peace, love and no earthly possessions. So instead of a mansion, I grew up in a hut, eating organic vegetables while my parents smoked pot and sang ‘Kumbaya’ every night with their idiot friends.”

Bill looked at his nephew with sadness in his eyes. “Our
parents were afraid that if they left anything to Eddie, your father, that he would just sell it. That’s why they left it all to me.”

“It should be mine,” Edmund said.

His voice was not the affable one Lindsey had come to know and like, but instead, he sounded petulant and whiny and very, very bitter.

“You are my only heir,” Bill said. “It will all be yours one day.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing: I’m tired of waiting,” Edmund said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bill looked affronted.

Lindsey thought he might want to go for scared instead, because judging by the hair standing up on the back of her neck, Marjorie Bilson wasn’t the only Briar Creek resident who was touched in the head; so was Edmund.

She started inching her way to the door, hoping that Harvey was still in the vicinity and could show her the way out. She got just to the doorway when Edmund lunged for her, grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the room.

“I’m sorry, it looks like another change of plans,” he said.

“You know, it sounds like you two have a lot to work through,” Lindsey said. “So, I’ll just…”

Edmund put the book he’d been holding down. He opened the top drawer of a small vanity table and pulled out a small, but nonetheless lethal-looking handgun.

“I said there’s been a change of plan,” Edmund said. “It does not include you leaving.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Bill asked.

“The meaning is that you die and I inherit,” Edmund said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

That shut Bill up. Lindsey glanced down at her handbag and saw the blue glow from her phone. She hadn’t disconnected it when she’d dropped it. If Nancy had picked up, she might be able to hear them.

“You stole the rare books from the Friends,” she said.

Edmund sighed. “So what?”

“Why? Why would you do that?” Bill asked.

“Duh, for the money,” Edmund said. “I happened to be reading your e-mail and saw the one Warren sent you about their value. Except the stupid oaf said they were in the storage shed, which they weren’t.”

“You broke into the storage shed and then you ransacked the Rushton’s house,” Lindsey said.

“You have a keen sense of the obvious,” Edmund said. Gone was any vestige of charm; instead, he was positively creepy and mean. “Unfortunately, Batty Bilson saw me in the Rushton house. I had to promise to get you to date her, Uncle. She will be devastated at your demise, but it should make things easier for me.”

“You told Marjorie that I would date her? You stole the Friends’ books? And you hid them here, in
my library
?” Bill asked. He sounded more offended by that than the theft.

“Yeah, it turns out Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter’ was not exactly accurate. Hiding things in plain sight is not always the best spot.”

“You killed Markus Rushton,” Lindsey said. She wasn’t sure what made her say it. She had no evidence. She had no reason to think that it was him except that he was holding a gun and it didn’t look unnatural for him to do so.

“Rifle shot through the window,” Edmund confirmed.

“Oh, dear Lord,”
Bill gasped and clutched his chest. “Murder? You committed murder.”

“Apparently, I was not the only one with the idea to steal the rare books and sell them,” Edmund said. “The night you were jettisoned from office, I stole your key and went out to the storage shed. I figured I’d better get the goods before you were out of office and lost your key. Well, whom did I meet out there but Markus Rushton. He’d heard about the rare books from his wife and planned to take them before she was voted into office, so the blame would land squarely on you, Uncle. Quite a conniving fellow, that Rushton. Of course, we couldn’t find them, so we figured we’d have to go back. Neither of us knew at the time that Warren had handed off the books to Mrs. Rushton instead of putting them in storage.”

“But why kill him?” Lindsey asked.

“He knew too much, and I had no intention of sharing my profit,” Edmund said. He stated it as if it should be obvious. “I went back to his house with him to work out a deal for when we got the books, but instead I just cut him out of the equation. With the Friends meeting in full swing, Carrie wasn’t there to hear the gunshot. It was perfect.”

“The day we were shoveling snow in front of the library, after the storm…” Lindsey’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah, I had just come from breaking into the shed; a small explosive device ripped it wide open. Sadly, I found nothing. I was so sure someone must have put the books in there by then, but no. You never even suspected, did you?” He made a silly, mocking face at her, and Lindsey wanted to smack him.

“I can’t believe it,” Bill said. “My own flesh and blood.”

“Yes, but not for long,”
Edmund said. He glanced at his watch. “I have to say it was really accommodating of you two to have your little tiff in front of Simpson. This is going to be great. We’ll drive out to the storage area and make it look like you’ve had a fight over the books, a tragic fight where you both end up dead. Poetic, don’t you think?”

“So, you were the one who locked us in the storage shed?” Lindsey asked. Dread filled her at the thought of being locked in again.

“Oh, heck, no,” Edmund said. “That really was Batty Bilson. She is going to mourn you, Uncle. But I expect she’ll have time to get over you while doing time for killing Markus Rushton.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Bill said.

“Oh, please,” Edmund said. “Spare me the histrionics.”

“He’s right,” Lindsey said. “Too many people know that I had lunch with you today.”

Edmund tipped his head and studied her. “Yes, but I fell ill and Bill offered to take you home. I can’t imagine why you went to the storage shed.”

Lindsey felt her heart thump in her chest.

“You know, I do hate to kill you,” he said. “I’m quite fond of you, but you weren’t as much help as I had hoped with finding a buyer for the rare books. So, moving on, shall we?”

Edmund gestured with the gun, and Lindsey and Bill moved forward, down the hall and out of the mansion to the waiting car that would drive them to their deaths.

B
ill drove. Lindsey sat in the passenger seat. What had seemed like such a luxurious car on the ride over now seemed more like an opulent coffin.

She peeked into her handbag. The blue glow of her phone was no more. She had no idea if anyone had heard them or not. When they got to the storage facility, Edmund ordered Lindsey to go and open the gate.

“Don’t try to run off,” he said. “I’m an excellent marksman. Thanks for those lessons when I was a kid, Uncle Bill.”

Lindsey glanced at Bill. He looked like he was about to choke. The bitter winter air hurt her lungs when she took too deep of a breath. The hurt felt good. It reminded her that she was still alive.

She hefted the large metal swing gate and pulled it
open, shuffling her feet as she cupped the end of the gate in her gloved hands. When it was propped open, she went back to the car. The idea of running tempted her, but she knew Edmund meant what he said. He would shoot her, then he would make it look like Bill had done it and then kill Bill. The only chance she and Bill had was to stay together. Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe Edmund would make a slip. Maybe they could overpower him.

When she climbed back into the car, Bill gave her a wry look. “You should have run.”

“I’m not like that,” she said.

“I was wrong about you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, yes, very touching,” Edmund said from the back. “Move it forward, Uncle; I’m on a tight schedule.”

“You know, there is more to me than being the keeper of the family estate,” Bill said to Lindsey. “Did you know I study Kung Fu?”

“I didn’t,” Lindsey said. “That’s actually quite cool.”

“Thank you,” he said. “And I want someone to know that I have been very discouraging of Ms. Bilson. She reminds me of a little sparrow the way she hops around. Not terribly restful.”

Lindsey smiled. “I thought the same thing when I met her.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Edmund said. “Is there a point to this drivel?”

“Yes, in fact. I wanted to warn Lindsey that I am a huge fan of action-adventure films and advise her that she might want to fasten her seat belt.”

Lindsey saw the manic look in Bill’s eye and hurriedly buckled herself in.

“Why would she want to do that?”

“Because of this!” Bill yelled, and he slammed his foot onto the gas.

The Jaguar’s rear wheels scrambled for purchase, hit a patch of fresh dirt that had been laid down and lurched forward, picking up speed just as the car hit one of the speed bumps as hard as a fist through glass.

Edmund, who did not have his seat belt on, smacked his head on the roof and let out a violent string of curses, but when he would have righted himself, Bill let out a maniacal laugh of his own and cut the wheel sharply to the left, sending Edmund into the door, face first.

“Oh, my nose!” Edmund dropped his gun and clutched his face as blood spurted forth. “Why you…”

But anticipating his move, Bill cut the wheel again in the other direction and Edmund was sent careening into the other door.

Lindsey bent over and reached under the seat trying to find the gun. It was just out of her reach.

“Slam on the brakes!” she yelled.

Bill did and the gun slid into Lindsey’s fingers. It was cold and hard and gave her the heebie-jeebies. What if she shot someone by mistake?

Edmund’s head appeared between theirs. “Drop it or I shoot him.”

Lindsey glanced over her shoulder. He had another gun to Bill’s temple. She opened her hand and dropped the gun.

“Get out,” Edmund said. “And don’t try anything.”

Both Lindsey and Bill eased out of their doors. She glanced at him over the roof. “Nice driving.”

He shrugged. “A man has dreams.”

Edmund had wadded up his plaid scarf and was holding it up to his nose. He waggled the gun at them, indicating that they should walk.

If there was anyone in the storage facility, surely Bill’s driving would have brought them forward. The place was as quiet as a cemetery. Lindsey regretted the imagery immediately.

“Walk,” he said. “And keep your hands up, so I can see them.”

Bill and Lindsey walked side by side. The Friends’ new shed was halfway down and around a corner toward the back. As they turned the corner, they were each grabbed and yanked in separate directions.