Chapter 13 The Grand Preview and Curious Suspects #2
"Beneficiaries? Don't patronize me, Maggie. Gregory thinks he’s getting everything through that bogus Raleigh trust, and that miserable old bat Martha Gable has been skulking around claiming Eleanor promised her the deed to the gatehouse.
" Vanessa took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"Let me tell you something about this family: every single person who ever set foot in Blackwood Manor was hiding a knife behind their back.
Julian Croft thought he was the smartest man in the room, and look where it got him.
Bludgeoned in a carriage house like a stray dog. "
"You seem very certain about Julian's mistakes," I observed quietly.
Vanessa's jaw clenched. She snapped her sunglasses back into place, masking her eyes. "I’m certain about human greed, darling. It’s the only reliable currency left."
She turned on her heel and strode toward the terrace doors, the heels of her shoes clicking furiously, leaving a lingering trail of expensive perfume and raw nerves in her wake.
Through the tall French doors, I watched her pace the terrace beneath the wisteria pergola, flicking her lighter with shaking fingers.
She was terrified of something—or someone.
"Maggie! Heads up in the library!"
Birdie's sharp stage-whisper reached me from the foyer archway, her chin jerking toward the glass-paned library doors.
I slipped across the hallway, ducking past quilt enthusiasts debating an eight-pointed Star of Bethlehem quilt, and pushed into the library.
The room was cool, smelling intensely of old leather, paper, and centuries-old cedar paneling.
Towering walnut bookcases rose twelve feet to a coffered ceiling, accessible by an authentic rolling brass ladder.
Standing near the third alcove, half-obscured by shadow, was Sterling "Sly" Gable.
Sly owned Mountain Heritage Curios on the bypass—a cluttered shop known throughout the county as a clearinghouse for items of ambiguous provenance.
At that moment, Sly was not admiring the leather-bound editions of Walter Scott.
He was on his tiptoes, his neck craned, his long fingers rapidly tipping the top edges of the volumes on the upper shelf, feeling behind them with practiced, feverish agility.
"Looking for a first edition, Sly?" I asked loudly from the doorway.
Sly jumped as if struck by lightning. A heavy, cloth-bound volume slipped from his fingers, hitting the Persian rug with a dull thump.
"Maggie!" Sly gasped, spinning around and instantly plastering a greasy smile across his face. He stooped hurriedly, scooping up the book. "Good heavens, you startled me. Just... admiring the bindings. Fine tooled morocco. Extraordinary library Miss Eleanor kept."
"The books are cataloged as Lots One-Twelve through One-Forty, Sly," I said, walking down the center aisle. "And the catalog clearly states that all volumes are sold as intact sets by shelf, not individually picked. What were you reaching for behind the state histories?"
Sly’s eyes darted toward the hallway before settling back on my collarbone. "Nothing, Maggie! A man can't admire shelf depth without being accused of a crime? I was looking at the construction. The joinery of the shelving. You know how passionate I am about antebellum carpentry."
"Luke Sterling is passionate about antebellum carpentry," I retorted, stopping three feet away.
"You sell reproductions out of a pole barn.
If I catch you feeling behind books, running your hands under cushions, or unscrewing switch plates in this house again, I will have Sheriff Lawson escort you to the county line. "
Sly’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly, defensive sneer that bore a chilling resemblance to his mother's sour countenance.
"You think you’re so high and mighty, don't you, Maggie Callahan?
" Sly hissed, leaning in so close I could smell stale coffee and peppermint.
"Swanning around Eleanor's house with your clipboard.
You don't know half of what went on in this valley.
That old woman was a thief. She robbed this town blind, and she robbed my family most of all.
Just wait. When the truth comes out, your precious little boutique sale won't be worth a plug nickel. "
"If you have a legal claim against the estate, take it to probate court," I said coolly. "Until then, get back in the public viewing area, or I’ll call Luke over to assist your exit."
Sly glanced toward the foyer, where Luke's broad-shouldered frame was visible near the front doors.
The unspoken threat of Luke's physical presence worked wonders.
Sly sneered, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and brushed past me into the corridor, his shoulders hunched like a vulture in a rainstorm.
I stood in the quiet library for a moment, my pulse thudding. Sly had been searching for the ledger. He knew Eleanor had hidden papers in this house, and he was desperate enough to rifle through the high shelves in broad daylight.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out through the library's side French doors onto the wrap-around veranda.
The morning sun felt warm against my face, a welcome relief from the tension simmering inside the stone walls. Down below on the lawn, clusters of people sat on wooden benches, drinking cider from paper cups and comparing notes on the estate catalog.
At the top of the porch steps, Buster was currently being fawned over by two middle-aged sisters who were feeding him bits of homemade pumpkin bread from a napkin. Buster’s eyes were half-closed in pure bliss, his tail thumping rhythmically against the stone balustrade.
Then, suddenly, the tail stopped.
Buster’s ears perked forward with rigid sharpness. His posture stiffened from lazy indulgence into taut, muscular alertness. A low, vibrating sound—not a playful bark, but a deep, guttural growl that rose from the bottom of his chest—rumpled the air.
"Buster?" I said, taking a step toward him. In the three years I had owned him, I had heard Buster growl only when confronted by genuine danger.
The two women with the pumpkin bread pulled their hands back, startled.