Amethyst watched her son and his wife get in the car and drive away. When they were gone, she turned the key in the iron security gate, removed it, and dropped it into her pocket.
Con had insisted upon installing this security system—electronic sensors on all the windows, and wrought-iron grillwork on all the doors. The security gates were like storm doors, with screens and removable glass for ventilation, but covered by heavy decorative iron in a vine pattern. They had double deadbolt locks with keyholes on both sides. Once they were locked and the keys removed, no one could get in. No one.
Not even her only son.
Less than one minute into Conrad’s frantic attempt to convince her that selling her house and moving to Shady Brook was a brilliant idea, Amethyst had seen right through his pitch. He had never been able to deceive her—he ought to know that after sixty-six years. But apparently he still thought he could pull the wool over his own mother’s eyes. Or perhaps he just thought she was so old and senile that she wouldn’t know the difference.
At any rate, she had suspected something was wrong even before he started talking; and the more he talked, the more she read between the lines. Something had happened, something even that simpering Mimsy didn’t know about. He was in financial trouble—big trouble, if he would go to this much effort to get his hands on Noble House.
This wasn’t about her welfare, but about his.
It was too bad he couldn’t just be honest with her, tell her what his problems were. She might have been able to help him. She still had a little nest egg from life insurance payments, money she had squirreled away and never touched. It had been gathering interest for years, and although she didn’t know the exact amount, it might have been enough to get Conrad out of whatever hole he had dug for himself.
But give up Noble House? Let him sell off her life, her history, to the highest bidder—just to salvage his own reputation? She didn’t think so. She’d go down fighting, if she had to.
Amethyst made the rounds, locked the rest of the doors, and stowed away all the keys. Then she went to the hall closet, pulled out a step-stool, and shakily hoisted herself up so she could see onto the top shelf.
“Grandam?” Little Am’s voice came from below her. “What are you doing?”
“Just getting something I need, child.”
“Do you want me to get it?”
“No, I’m fine. Just help me down.”
A hand reached up to steady her—a pale, young hand with fingernails painted black. A ghoulish hand. Amethyst grabbed on and stumbled back down the two steps. When she had her footing on solid ground again, she let out a trembling breath. Maybe she was too old to be doing everything for herself. But giving up Noble House and moving into an old-age home was out of the question.
“Grandam! What is that?”
Little Am’s eyes sparked with excitement and a bit of fear. It was the most animation Amethyst had seen out of the child all day, and she peered at her namesake. The girl had striking eyes—dark brown, with long lashes—and strong, square-shaped features. If she would just get some of that shaggy hair out of her eyes and take off that garish eyeliner, she would be a lovely girl. She definitely favored the Noble clan, with her wide brow and stubborn jaw. And for the moment, that vacant, disinterested expression had vanished, and her face had come to life.
“I said, what is that?”
Amethyst chuckled. “It’s a gun, of course. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I know it’s a gun,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a shotgun. Full-choke, double-barreled 12-gauge.”
“Very good, Miss Marple,” Amethyst said as she nodded. “How do you know that?”
“Who’s Miss Marple?” Little Am countered. “And I know it because my friend Lenny has one. His daddy goes hunting with it. Lenny got into real trouble bringing it to school one day.”
“Not the best choice for show and tell,” Amethyst agreed.
“Hey, it wasn’t loaded.” She shrugged. “Besides, we’re too old for show and tell.”
“That was a joke.”
“Oh.” Am cocked her head. “Whatcha gonna do with it?”
“Don’t schools teach grammar anymore?” Amethyst groaned. “What I’m going to do with it, young lady, is make sure your grandfather doesn’t sell my house out from under me.”
“You gonna shoot him?” The girl’s eyes went wide with admiration.
“I’m not going to shoot anybody. Call it . . . leverage.”
“Oh, I get it. When he comes back with the real estate agent, you’re gonna tell him to hightail his butt out of here and never set foot in your house again.”
“I was wrong,” Amethyst muttered. “You do watch TV. Far too much of it, obviously. And didn’t Mimsy ever teach you that it’s not polite to use the word butt?”
Little Am ignored the question. “Hey, I saw a movie like this once. Some old geezer handcuffed himself to a bulldozer and wouldn’t let this developer guy level his house. And then some little robot aliens came to help, and they restored the old house all in one night, and so they left it as a . . . I don’t know, some kind of historical monument.”
“Don’t expect aliens to come to the rescue.” Amethyst chuckled. “But you’re getting the picture.”
“And so you’re gonna keep me here like . . . like a hostage? Cool.”
Amethyst turned to look at the girl, this teenage aberration who bore her name. She wasn’t sure exactly why she had wanted Little Am to stay with her. Company, perhaps. Odd company, but company nevertheless.
A sudden surge of tenderness rose up within her, and she reached out a hand to stroke the girl’s cheek. “You’re no hostage, child. You’re my great-granddaughter. My namesake. Maybe I thought that somehow you might understand.”
Little Am pulled back, just slightly, from the contact. She shoved her fists into her pockets and looked away. “I put the food away and stacked the dishes and stuff in the sink,” she muttered. “Can’t believe you don’t have a dishwasher.”
Amethyst smiled. “I appreciate the help. We’ll wash them later. Let’s go into the den.”
The spark returned to the girl’s eyes. “I can’t wait to see the look on Grandpa Con’s face when he finds out you’ve locked him out and are standing him off with a shotgun.” She shook her head. “This would make a great story. I can just see it on Dateline or 60 Minutes—Amethyst Noble’s Last Stand.”
Amethyst led her great-granddaughter into the den, where two overstuffed chairs sat in front of the fireplace with a large ottoman between them. She sank into one of the chairs and hefted her feet onto the ottoman, then motioned for Am to take the other one. With the shotgun across her knees, she scrutinized the girl’s face.
“You’re interested in journalism?” It was hard for Amethyst to believe this girl was interested in anything except looking like a zombie.
“Oh, yeah. That’s what I want to do—be a reporter on a newspaper. Or maybe a newscaster on TV. Or maybe write novels, someday when I’m really old—like forty, maybe. Like I said, this would make a great story. Human interest, that sort of thing.” She snorted. “Con thinks it’s a waste of time.”
“And what does Con think you should do with your life?”
Am screwed her face into a scowl. “I dunno. Be a wife and mother, probably. He’s such a chauvinist.”
“You don’t like your grandfather very much.”
Am shrugged. “I dunno. It’s like he’s always so stressed out with his practice, and Mimsy, well, she kind of hovers, if you know what I mean. He was drinking real heavy a while back, only he tried to hide it and thought we didn’t know. Uh, oh—”
“It’s all right, Am. I knew, too. I was worried about him.”
“I thought Mimsy was gonna have a nervous breakdown, I swear I did. You know how hyper she is all the time—and she got even worse. It was pretty scary.”
“And now?”
“He’s quit the sauce, but things are still pretty stressed. I don’t know, something about some investments. I overheard him talking on the phone—yelling, really—at somebody he called Mario.”
Amethyst nodded. Her instincts had been accurate. Conrad was in financial trouble, and apparently he had locked onto the idea of selling Noble House as an easy way out.
“And your grandfather doesn’t approve of the idea of your being a journalist?”
“He doesn’t approve of much.” Am grunted. “When he found out I liked writing, he said I’d never be a success at it, and that newspapers are only good to line the birdcage.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I just shut up and quit talking about it. I’ll be a senior in high school next year, Grandam. I know what I want to do. I want to go to the university here in Cambridge; they’ve got a great journalism program. But Con’s determined to send me away somewhere, to some Ivy League college, someplace with status. I don’t care about status, and my grades aren’t good enough, anyway. Besides, I hate the way both he and Mimsy try to run my life and mold me into some kind of model citizen. Maybe they’re trying to make up for what Mimsy calls ’my tragic loss,’ but I wish they’d just give me some breathing room and let me decide for myself what’s best for me.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Yeah, I bet you do.” The girl chuckled.
“Something funny?”
“You are.”
“Me?” Amethyst frowned. “What’s funny about me?”
“Well, look at you. You’re sitting here in a locked house with a hostage and a shotgun, refusing to budge. I figured you were just another weird old lady, you know, frail and senile. But you got guts, Grandam.”
“I suppose that was meant as a compliment.”
“Guts is good,” Am said with a decisive nod. “Most people don’t have the guts to stand up for what they believe, or to be true to themselves in spite of what other people think.”
“So you don’t believe your ancient great-grandmother is crazy for doing this?”
“Crazy? No way.” Am pushed her hair out of her eyes and leaned back against the chair. “This is cool,” she said. “Way, way cool.”