Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie (4 page)

Chapter 4

D
ear
D
iary:

We moved ag
ain. this place is ok.
it
doesn't smell as bad as the last one. mommy sa
id the new job she g
o
t
pays more and that we can
go
shopping at Value Village for some school clothes in a couple of weeks. Then she t
ook off the moon neklice she al
ways wears and put it on me. she
t
old me to ha
ng
on to i
t and t
o not let her sell i
t
no matter what, because it was the only thin
g of any value she had, axcept
for me, of course. She smiled when she said i
t
, so i
t
must be true.

Evangeline—ag
e
9

I
nside the barn, Max got down on his knees and ran the beam of his pocket flashlight around the perimeter of the gaping hole in the floor. Without taking
his eyes from it, he said, “Does anybody e
lse come out here besides you?
”

Evie paused before answering, looking down at the yawning chasm like it was going to expand and engulf her once and for all. Licking he
r lips, she said slowly, “When I’
m in town, teaching, vacation, whatever, Edmund feed them, take care of them. Me and him, only.”

“Did you know there was a cavern underneath the barn floor?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Tapping the flashlight rhythmically against his thigh, he said, “The frame under the boards is made of two-by-fours, probably pine. The one-by-five planks have been na
iled over it to form the floor.
” He swept some of the straw away. “See here? The nails have been removed and the planks set back in place across the foundation struts.”

Evie frowned at the wood, then at him, confusion and shock plain to see in the depths of her blue eyes. She swallowed.

“The wood is healthy, Evie,” he continued. “No sign of rot. There are marks from a claw hammer where the nails have been pried up and removed. Before Tuesday afternoon when you fell, when was the last time you walked across this floor?”

“Don’t remember.” She paused a moment, licking her lips, pressing her fingertips to her jaw.

He hated to do this now, knowing she was in pain, but he had to find out what had happened.

“Hardly ever go to the back,” she said. “No need.”

“Why did you do it on Tuesday?”

“Oat bucket.” She gestured to the tin bucket hanging on a peg a few feet away. Shaking her head, she said, “Didn’t put it there.”

It wasn’t rocket science. “So someone placed it way over there to get you to walk across the floor, and fall through.” Shining the light down into the chasm, he said, “Yesterday, while you were sleeping, I went down there. It’s just a big rock cavern. The bottom is sandy in places and was covered with a few inches of seawater, so it must seep in from somewhere, maybe only during really high tides or storm surges.”

In silence, she frowned, studied the bucket, the floor, and the ragged planking surrounding the hole through which she’d fallen. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the barn and into the sunshine.

He let her go. Snapping the flashlight off, he sat on the floor, resting his elbow on his knee, and watched her. Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to appreciate her quiet strength and intelligence. It was attractive. She was attractive.

She stood in the sun, her back to him, her arms crossed, thinking. She had an alluring, feminine shape, soft lines, cambered hips. With her dark red hair, gentle blue eyes, a dash of freckles across her nose, she probably captured the heart of every little boy in her class on the first day of school.

But at the moment, his eyes were focused on the way her blue jeans cupped her butt. Her perfect butt. Crass, disgusting, lusty male that he was, he’d
have been dead not to notice how sexy the woman looked from behind.

He picked up a piece of straw and twirled it in his fingers. She had no criminal record, not so much as a parking ticket. No complaints on file from parents or students or the school board, and no history of substance abuse. She had a small circle of friends, most of whom were teachers and most of whom were out of town for the summer, but she had no
boyfriends.

The field, as the saying went, was clear. And he had the ball. Play or pass? She turned a little and he caught her profile, the line of her nose, the fullness of her upper lip.

Play.

He twirled the straw in his fingers again, then let it fall to the floor. If she’d had a motive for killing Thomas Heyworth, neither the Port Henry PD nor the Seattle PD had been able to find it. While she couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect, she wasn’t exactly high on the list. In fact, in the weeks since Heyworth’s death, she’d apparently been hounding
Detective McKennitt to hurry up and find the old guy’s killer.

All in all, Evangeline Randall
seemed
to be exactly what she
appeared
to be: a nice young schoolteacher who had lov
ed her mentor, had a thing for
llamas, and seemed to scramble hi
s brain whenever she was near.

He gave himself a mental jab. As nice as she seemed, she absolutely wasn’t his type, so why did
his skin feel too tight for his body, his throat constrict, and his palms itch whenever she was around? When he’d pulled her out of that cavern, she looked like a broken toy that had been tossed in the recycle bin, but today, well, she sure cleaned up good. Better than good.

Crossing her arms over her stomach, she turned back to him.

“That hole,” she said, giving a slight nod in the direction of the floor. “To hurt me?”

Without taking his eyes from hers, he nodded. “It’s possible.”

Her frown deepened and she turned away from him again, leaving Max to consider exactly what the point was of laying a trap for Evie.

Thomas Heyworth, the rich and famous mystery writer, had been shot to death in his own library, most likely with his own gun. And now an attempt had been made to harm his ward.

Was there a connection? And if so, what in the hell was it?

E
vie closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to slow her hammering heart. Thomas was dead, and now somebody had set a tra
p for her. To hurt her? To…

No, not kill her. Surely not to kill her.

She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, then let it
out slowly. The thought of some
body wanting to kill her was ludicrous. That couldn’t be it. Ther
e had to be some rational expla
nation. Maybe some kids had sneaked onto the island and thought it would be funny to put a hole in
the barn floor. Or maybe they were just vandals. Or maybe
…
Or maybe what? What possible explanation could there be?

Resting her forehead in her palm, she worked to control her fragile emotions.

Between the heartbreak of Thomas’s death, the stress of his funeral,
the frustration of a police in
vestigation going nowhere, then the awkward visit to Barlow’s office, which culminated in the surprise of an impending contest for Thomas’s estate, the trauma of falling through a hole in the floor to near death and then coping with the injuries to her body
…
And then there was the confusion and asperity
she felt over Max Galloway…

Damn, was she going insane, or did it just feel that way? Insanity might not be such a bad idea. At least they’d lock her away in a safe place where she didn’t have to worry about anything except what color socks she preferred, and whether to use straw or bamboo strips in basket-weaving class.

Letting her tired mind drift, she remembered back to when she’d first come to Heyworth Island.

She’d been barely eleven, a little girl. Alone in the world with no family or friends, she’d needed a home and an outlet for her love. Thomas had provided both.

Over time, she’d discovered what a complex man he was. Kind and generous, selfish and cruel. How he treated a person depended on his mood at the time, what he wanted, and how he felt about them.

Her heart felt bruised inside her chest as she remembered the first time she’d seen him. She’d
looked up from her chair next to her mother’s coffin to see him standing in the doorway of the dingy funeral home, gazing at her.

Fifteen years ago Thomas Heyworth had been lanky and a bit worn around the edges, but he hadn’t seemed frightening, not like Maggie’s boyfriends. He’d seemed fatherly, right from the very first moment. Approaching her, he’d hunkered down to her level.

“You Maggie O’Dell’s girl?”

She’d nodded.

“What do they call you?
”

“Evie,” she replied. “Evangeline May Randall, sir.”

He blinked, hard, the way people do when they’re caught off guard, and even at eleven she’d known that to be true. “Randall, eh?” He seemed to search her face for a moment, then gave an absent sort of nod.

His brown eyes were kindly as he’d smiled at her. “My name’s Thomas Heyworth. I’m a famous writer. Not a very good one, if you want the truth, but a famous one. You ever heard of me?”

She’d shaken her head.

“You got any family anywhere, Evangeline May Randall?”

“They’re looking,” she whispered.

He nodded again. “Do you know what a ward is, Evie?”

“It’s a place in a hospital where they keep sick people.”

“Yes, that’s one definition. But a ward the way I
mean it is when a grown-up takes care of a kid, like me taking care of you. I’ve arranged for that to happen. Would you like that?”

Her little body had stiffened, and she eyed him with suspicion. “I don’t know you. Why do you want to ward me?”

He’d chuckled, then grown serious. “I knew your mother, Evie. Not very well, a
pparently, but I as
sume she’ll rest easier knowing you are being well cared for. Uh, you see, last year, I lost my wife.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned forward. “Did you need me to help you look for her?”

For a moment he’d gone silent, licking his lips and swallowing. Finally, he said gently, “Not that kind of lost. Lost, like you’ve lost your mother.”

She’d felt her cheeks flush. “Oh. I see. I knew what that meant, but I forgot. You probably think I’m dumb, and now you won’t want to ward me.”

He’d lowered his head for a moment, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were rimmed with red. “I don’t think you’re dumb at all. And I think offering to help me find my lost wife tells me everything I need to know about you, Evangeline May Randall. And more.” Tapping her on the knee with the back of his finger, he said, “I haven’t got anyone now, and neither do you. So, what do you think, kiddo? Shall we be alone together?”

Since Maggie O’Dell’s child care system had been somewhat haphazard, Evie wasn’t sure if her mother would care one way or the other about her future, but she didn’t want to tell this nice stranger that. Instead, she’d looked at him, trying in her child’s mind to make some sense of his remarks.

“Sort of like, would you be my father?”

He’d blinked that hard blink again and said, “No. But I can make sure you have a roof over your head, food, clothing, and safety. Above all, a litt
le girl needs to feel safe. Am I
right?”

Since Evie had never felt particularly safe, she wondered just what that might feel like.

He’d reached his hand out to her, and she hesitated only a second before taking it. Many times over the years, she’d replayed that first meeting in her head, looking for clues, coming up with nothing.

While he may not have admitted to being her father, she had certainly thought of him as one. Her innocent heart had opened to him, accepted him, and made him her own.

He’d brought her to the island, to Mayhem Manor, where she
met Edmunds. Wonderful, gentle-
hearted E
dmunds. Between the two middle-
aged men, she’d never felt safer in her life. While they were each emotionally distant in their own way, they’d done their best. She’d never gone hungry, always had decent clothing, excellent health care, and a good education.

If she didn’t get as many hugs and kisses as most little girls needed, well, that was okay. She couldn’t complain. She loved Thomas with the love a daughter feels for a beloved father, even though, as she grew older, she came to realize he was not a very kind man to most other people, and in fact could be an obnoxious son of a bitch.

But not to her. Not ever to her.

She walked over to the window, brushed the curtain aside and placed her open hand on the glass. It
felt cold, brittle, just like her insides. Past her fingertips, she could see the west end of the island, and beyond the treetops, the sea, sparkling like a meadow of hand-hewn jade.

Typical of the Northwest, the morning’s sun had disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds, and now rain splattered against the pane. Droplets formed, slid down and away, out of sight. Her world became a blur, the hard edges softened, gentled by the cleansing rain.

She let her forehead rest against the back of her hand on the glass. Somebody had killed Thomas, on his own island, at his own house, in his own library. She had been the one to find his lifeless body.
Thomas, I miss you
…

Trying to shake off her melancholy, she checked the time on the clock on her bedside table. The guests would all be gathered tonight, and Thomas’s ridiculous treasure hunt would begin. Worse, to win the game and keep her island, her world, intact, she would have to work closely with Max Galloway—a man who both fascinated and terrified her.

How would it go for them? Could they possibly win? What kinds of surprises did Thomas have in store?