CATHERINE’S HEAD WAS throbbing in time with the babble of voices that had followed the announcement by her aunt’s attorney. The will had, indeed, disappeared.
Bradley Adams, the lawyer, sat behind the massive mahogany desk in the room Aunt Henny had called her workroom. It had certainly never been a formal parlor. The desk surface still held stacks of books, papers, magazines, a basket of yarn and knitting needles, and a half-finished piece of needlework. Across the room, the latest flat-panel television was flanked by a dartboard and an easel, and the walls held everything from faded prints to garish posters. Aunt Henny might have been eighty-two and in poor health from diabetes, but she’d never lost her interest in everything and everyone.
Catherine cleared her throat. “Surely you have a copy of my great-aunt’s will.”
Adams’s shock of white hair, bushy white brows and drooping moustache hid his expression to some extent. “Your aunt was a very strong-willed woman. She wished to have the only copy. I’ve looked in all the obvious places, but I haven’t found it.”
The rambling old beach house had a dozen or more rooms, attics, walk-in closets with hidden panels and a widow’s walk that gave a view of the ocean. It had been Nathan’s father’s house, she remembered, brought by him into the marriage and renamed Morley’s End in honor of Aunt Henny. Now his son claimed to be the handyman. She looked for Nathan and found him across the room, leaning against the fireplace with his arms crossed over his chest. Their gazes locked. Clashed, and again she felt that odd sensation of warmth, as if they were connected.
“Still, you must know what was in it.” Flora Judson leaned on the desk, hands planted. “You can tell us. We’re all family.”
Not exactly, Catherine thought. Flora was the niece of Henny’s first husband, a stout, motherly woman who’d been a nurse and had done her best to take care of Aunt Henny, she said, during her final illness. Unfortunately, Flora’s motherly instincts seemed wasted on her only child, Bobby Jon, a surly, tattooed teenager.
“Mr. Adams can’t tell us. It wouldn’t be ethical.” The third member of the trio spoke up with an apologetic smile. Clayton Henderson was Bobby Jon’s cousin, but probably neither of them took any pleasure in that. Clayton’s lightweight suit was immaculate in spite of the humidity of the May afternoon, and the stylish cut of his blond hair and his finely groomed hands made him look as if he’d just stepped from an expensive salon. “I may just be an accountant, not an attorney like Cousin Catherine, but I know that.”
So she was Cousin Catherine now. Everyone seemed to be eager to get along with her, probably because as executor of the estate, they assumed she wielded some power. Everyone except Nathan, she amended. He wasn’t any more conciliatory now than he had been at ten. And as for that outrageous claim of his—
Still, he’d been right about one thing. The will was missing, and whatever hope she’d had of winding things up quickly had vanished along with it.
“It not only wouldn’t be ethical,” Adams said. “It would be fruitless. According to witnesses I’ve spoken with, the will Henrietta made in my office wasn’t her last. She made and signed another will just a month ago. If we find it, it is the valid will.”
Flora turned an alarming shade of purple, but before she could speak, Bobby Jon slouched toward the door. “I’m outta here, Ma. I’ll wait in the car.”
Adams stood. “I believe it’s time we all left. Catherine must be tired from her trip, and until she finds the will—one of the wills—we can do nothing.”
His words only increased her headache, but at least the others began moving toward the door. She needed a bit of peace and quiet to consider what she had to do. Call her father, that much was obvious, and tell him her absence would be extended.
Flora paused next to her, looking as if she’d hug her but only patting her arm. “I left some food in the refrigerator, and if you need anything, you call me.” She tilted her head closer to Catherine’s. “You want to be careful, with that Nathan staying so close in the caretaker’s cottage. Maybe I should stay here with you.”
“No. Thank you,” she added. That was the last thing she wanted. “I’ll be fine.”
Flora shook her head, graying locks bobbing. “Just lock your doors.” She darted a glance at Nathan. “That boy can’t be trusted. Your aunt knew that—they fought somethin’ fierce. And she made him stay out in the cottage, not in the house.”
Saying she could take care of herself wouldn’t allay Flora’s fears, but Catherine wasn’t afraid of Nathan. He was annoying, not dangerous.
Finally they were all out. All except Nathan, that is. He left his guarded position by the fireplace and approached her. “I saw dear Flora getting in her two cents’ worth. I trust she warned you against me. Would you like me to put an extra chain on the door?”
“That won’t be necessary.” She hesitated and then made up her mind. “Look, I know you’ve never liked me, and there’s no reason to start now. But I’d like you to level with me. Why did you say you think there’s something wrong about Aunt Henny’s death?”
He frowned, dark brows drawing down over those very blue eyes. His stubble of beard was dark against his tanned skin. “This.” He gestured. “All this mix-up with the wills. I know it doesn’t look like it, but Henny was very organized about business. She wouldn’t have left things in a mess for you to clear up.”
“She may have thought she had time to get things in order.” Sorrow tightened her throat. She would like to have said goodbye. She would like to have done a lot of things differently. “Maybe she didn’t realize how sick she was.”
“Maybe.” But his tone said he doubted it. “Listen—” He touched her wrist, and then released it as if it were hot. “Lock your doors tonight. Put the chain on.”
It was the same advice Flora had given, but she’d been talking about him. Nathan slouched toward the door, the limp a little more pronounced.
“What did you and Aunt Henny quarrel about?” she asked impulsively.
“None of your business.” His smile took the sting out. “And you were wrong about one thing, Cathy.”
She blinked at the effect of that smile. “What?”
“When you said I never liked you. I did. I still do.” He went out, closing the door.