Deadly Reunion (35 page)

Felicity glared at her stepson. “Would you please stop calling me that?”

Smiling, Lucas rolled over and propped himself against the headboard. “So, which one of you did it?”

“Us?” Felicity sputtered. “If it was anyone it was you.”

Lucas grinned. “Why would I kill him?”

Felicity gestured toward the hallway. “For your fiancée.” Placing her hands on her hips, she walked past the broken door barely hanging on its hinges. “Parker,” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Get in here!” She glanced over her shoulder and back at Lucas. “For your inheritance, Lucas. We all know how much you need the money.” She walked the rest of the way into the hallway, her high-heel shoes clicking against the marble floor. “Parker, come in here right now!”

“Oh, I wondered when that was going to be brought up.” Lucas picked up the crystal glass sitting on his father’s nightstand. Bringing it up to his lips, he said, “I’m not the only one who expects to inherit.”

Making a guttural sound, Felicity stormed back into the room. Hopping over her husband’s body, she yanked the glass out of Lucas’ hand and threw it across the room.

Lucas looked at her in shock. “What is wrong with you?”

Felicity, chest heaving under her tight pink lace dress, took a couple of deep breaths. “You . . . ,” she said breathing hard. “You shouldn’t go around accusing people. It’s not nice.”

“Oh, well,” Lucas said with mock concern, “I wouldn’t want to be accused of not being nice.”

“You bellowed, Ma’am,” Parker said from the bedroom door. Scowling, he adjusted the sling around his arm.

Felicity carefully navigated her way around the body and hurried over to the young man at the door. “Where have you been?”

Parker having just noticed Victor Kirby lying on the floor looked at Felicity and shook his head. “Again?”

Felicity grabbed his uninjured arm and spun him around before dragging him into the hallway away from the others.

Lucas, still propped against the headboard, glanced at Wellington who was staring at the inhaler lying next to the body. “So, what’s your theory?”

Using the nightstand for support, Wellington stood gingerly. He briefly rubbed his knee before clasping his hands behind his back. “I think it’s a bit too early—”

Lucas snorted. “Nonsense. You must have a theory.”

Wellington paused and took a deep breath. He raised his chin slightly. “Your father was not a healthy man.”

Lucas chuckled. “Evil is like that. It tends to rot the guts. But it also has an oddly preserving effect, too. I thought for sure he would have lived another twenty years.”

Robert knelt next to his father’s body. “Lucas, I wish you would shut up. No one killed him.” He reached down and picked up the inhaler off the floor. He examined it tentatively. “It must have been empty.”

Lucas pulled open the nightstand drawer and tossed three other inhalers onto the bed. “Were all of these empty, too?” He glanced at the broken crystal glass on the floor and the stain saturating the carpet and grinned. “Oh well, you’re probably right, Robbie. Father was an awfully sick old man. I wouldn’t worry; you’re friends with all the right people. I’m sure you can make this go away.”

“Shut up, Lucas,” Robert said. “Unlike you, I always got along with Father.”

“Oh, do you want to compare motives?” Lucas asked cheerfully.

“No, there’s no point,” Robert answered. “After all, you don’t have a motive anymore. If you had killed him this morning, then you might have had one, but now . . . ,” he said, letting the sentence trail off.

Lucas’ smile grew strained. “What do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t you wonder what Father’s lawyer was doing here this morning?” Robert asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the bedroom wall. He sadly shook his head. “No, of course you didn’t. You were too busy dealing with your fiancée. Ex-fiancée,” he amended quickly.

Suddenly wary, the grin on Lucas’ face fell. “What are you talking about, Robbie?”

“Why don’t I show you?” Robert tossed the inhaler he had picked up onto the bed with the others before turning toward the bedroom door. “You’re welcome to come, Mr. Wellington. This concerns you, too,” he threw over his shoulder.

Steve was surprised to see a flash of worry, or perhaps it was concern, pass over Wellington’s face. With a shake of his head, the older detective’s expression hardened. He spared a glance at Lucas before turning and following Robert Kirby out of the room.

Still standing against the wall, Steve watched as Lucas picked up the inhalers. “You shouldn’t mess with those. This could be a crime scene.”

Ignoring him, Lucas dropped the inhalers into the nightstand drawer before shoving his hands into his pockets and strolling to the door. “I doubt it will be an issue. After all, the
real
detective didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”

Steve bowed his head. He briefly considered following the others out of the room, but shame kept him rooted to the spot. He glanced toward the window and shivered. Snow was piling up on the windowsill. What a horrible night, he thought morosely. And the day had started out so well. Just a quick drive up to the Kirby’s, give Victor his report and then back down the mountain with enough time to go out and ring in the new year with some lovely lady.

He rubbed his hand across his eyes, replaying the day’s events across his mind. If only he hadn’t let Victor Kirby intimidate him. He brought his hand down and leaned his head against the back of the wall, blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes. If only he hadn’t been trying to show off in front of the trainee.

Irritated with himself, he shook his head. He was too good of a detective. He knew that with every fiber of his being, but it didn’t matter now. Wellington would have nothing to do with him. And once Wellington dismissed him, no other detective agency would touch him. All he could hope for was to raise enough money to open his own office and begin again. Steve felt a bit of his innate self-confidence return as he fantasized about building his own agency from the ground up.

Just as he reached the point where Wellington was begging him to come back, a sound to his right brought his attention back to the present.

He watched as Victor’s nephew, Jack, reentered the room and creep up to the body cautiously as if he expected Victor to suddenly awaken and catch him. He gazed down at his uncle in a curious wonder. A little giggle escaped his lips. “I told you, Uncle Victor. I told you this would happen.” Suddenly noticing Steve standing in the corner, he rushed up and gripped Steve’s arm. “Arrest me.”

“I can’t arrest you, Jack. I’m not a police officer,” Steve explained patiently. “I’m probably not even a private detective anymore.”

“But I killed him.” Jack pushed his gold-rimmed glasses higher up on his nose. “He was going to have me committed. But it’s not fair. I don’t think I set that fire. Robert knows. You should talk to Robert.”

Steve shook his head sadly.

Jack bit his lip. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Jack.”

“Uncle Victor didn’t believe me, either,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “He said that I had to go away. I didn’t want to go, so I killed him,” he said, thrusting his arms out in front of himself. “Cuff me.”

Steve sighed. It wasn’t that he thought Jack incapable of killing his uncle. Quite the contrary, Jack was just as capable as anyone else in the house. It was just that Jack was the type of man who would happily confess to every crime that had been or would ever be committed, whether he did it or not. Still, you never know, he thought, before asking, “How did you kill your uncle?”

Jack glanced back at the body. “I thought and thought and thought. I concentrated really hard and imagined him dying and now . . . he’s dead.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Steve,” Michaels called from the doorway. “Mr. Wellington’s in the library downstairs. He wants you to listen to this.”

Why
hovering on his lips, Steve glanced up before bringing his gaze down again. Unable to make eye contact, he shuffled past Jack and Michaels and walked downstairs toward the library. “Are the police on their way?”

“I couldn’t get through. Cell phone reception is spotty up here and the phones are out. I was just informing Mr. Wellington of the problem when Robert and Lucas got into it in the library. They’re all in there, hovering over the old man’s will like vultures,” Michaels said excitedly before pausing and looking at Steve in concern. “Are you okay?”

Nodding slightly, Steve pushed open the library door. Felicity stood on the other side. She backed up to let Steve, Michaels and Jack enter the room.

“Felicity, you should hear this. It involves you, too,” Robert said from the giant mahogany desk in the center of the room.

“I don’t care about his money, Robert. You all can have my share,” she said with a casual wave of her hand.

“That’s very nice of you, Felicity,” Robert said in amusement. “Completely unnecessary, but very nice.”

She stiffened her back. Pivoting around, she stared at her stepson. “He cut me out, didn’t he?”

Robert shrugged noncommittally.

Felicity glanced over her shoulder at her ever-present shadow. “That’s hardly surprising, is it?” Parker asked her.

“No, it’s not surprising, but it is awfully rude. After the last year and a half I gave him,” she huffed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I neither need nor want his money. My agent called this morning to tell me my latest book just made the New York Times best-seller list. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will,” Robert said. “Sit down anyway.”

Felicity smiled tightly, but primly sank down on the leather couch next to Parker.

Shutting the door, Wellington turned, and stood next to Steve. “Mr. Kirby, the will hasn’t even been probated, yet.”

“Yeah,” Felicity said quickly. “How do we know that’s his last will?”

“Trust me, it is, but if you have any doubts you can call Father’s lawyer. You remember him, Felicity; you hit on him out in the hallway this morning. I don’t really think he’s your type.”

“Mr. Kirby,” Asa Wellington said with a reproving shake of his head. “Do you really think this is the time—”

“Why not? Everyone’s here.” Robert unfolded the will. “We’ll still go through all the formalities after the funeral. This will just be a little preview of coming attractions.” He cleared his throat and began. “To my old friend, Asa Wellington.”

Wellington glanced up sharply. “I’m in his will?”

“You’re a new addition,” Robert said before continuing. “I leave absolutely nothing and demand my executor to fight any attempt from you to collect payment for your recent services. You and your agency are nothing, but a joke and deserve nothing but scorn.”

Steve shrank down. He didn’t glance up to see Wellington’s expression. He couldn’t.

To Steve’s surprise, Wellington simply chuckled. “I wrote off that bill when I arrived a few hours ago.”

“I’m not done,” Robert said in response. He looked back down at the document and continued reading. “You’re probably waiting for some sort of confession. Well, you’re not going to get it. I’ll go to my grave happy in the knowledge that you’ll never know what happened.”

Lucas attempted to snatch the will from his brother’s hand. “What was he talking about?”

Robert slapped his hand away. “How should I know? Ask Wellington.” Everyone turned toward the detective.

Wellington glanced at Lucas, started to say something, but then quickly shut his mouth.  He cleared his throat. “Your father was obviously fond of riddles.”

Realizing Wellington was not going to elaborate any further, Robert turned back to the document. “To my nephew, Jack Horner, I leave a life estate in my condo in Denver, a trust fund of fifty thousand a year to be administered by my son, Robert Kirby, and five-percent interest in Kirby Industries, on the condition that he will voluntarily undergo a psychiatric evaluation once a year and follow the doctor’s recommendation.”

“I killed him,” Jack said softly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m obviously more powerful than I thought.”

Everyone in the room spared him a brief pitying look before turning back to Robert.

Robert continued to stare at his cousin. A small muscle along his jaw began to throb. Shaking his head softly, he looked down at the document in his hand. “To my daughter-in-law, Tracy—”

“Tracy’s not here,” Lucas said.

Robert glared at his brother. “Thank you. I hadn’t noticed.” He glanced back down. “To Tracy, I leave a life estate in my estate on Mills Brook—”

Felicity gasped. “Well, how do you like that?”

No one responded.

“I also bequeath forty percent interest in Kirby Industries,” Robert read.

Lucas stood up straighter. “Forty percent?” His eyes drew upward as he mentally did the math on his dwindling inheritance. Not liking the number he came up with, he strode forward and faced his brother. “How does she get forty percent?”

“She’s my wife and a member of this family,” Robert said softly. “Why shouldn’t she get forty percent?”

Lucas stepped back and crossed his arms. “And you had nothing to do with that, huh?” He glanced over at his stepmother. “I guess it’s your turn, Felicity.”