Seven
Hannah Alexander
This book is dedicated to the caretakers of Jolly Mill Park and to the founders long ago in history who built it into a thriving community for those traveling by wagon train.
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.
—Philippians 4:8
Too stunned to move, Lynley Marshall pressed numb fingers against the sliding glass door that led out onto the lower deck of her mom’s house. A lurid red note pasted eye level outside on the glass glared at her with a green, jagged font and accusing words. The Christmas colors had drawn her to the note initially. Now its writer had ruined Christmas for her forever. She didn’t dare open the door to retrieve it until she knew whether or not someone might be out there waiting.
KM: Your precious daughter is a killer and deserves to die. Wire me four million dollars before December 31 or she won’t live to see New Year’s Day. You gave birth to her, you will pay. Be alone and ready for my instructions in six days. Don’t contact authorities unless you wish to lose her sooner.
Lynley sucked in a hard breath. KM? That meant Kirstie Marshall. Mom. This note was to Mom? Rereading the note, she felt the numbness in her fingers spread up her hands. She backed away from the door and into the shadows, where the few patches of morning sun that reached the lower deck couldn’t reveal her to whoever might be watching. Someone wanted to kidnap her?
Nothing moved out in the gray and cedar-green forest past the deck railing that overlooked the secluded village of Jolly Mill. Even the tiniest of tree branches seemed frozen in clear amber. The only movement she sensed was the skin on her arms as it tightened into gooseflesh. She could see no footprints on the decking to suggest that someone had recently been here, but that meant nothing since she’d swept snow from the deck yesterday.
Someone must want retribution. Lynley could guess why. But to get it from Mom?
She paced from the kitchen to the living room, shaking with fear and fury.
Lynley had known from the first notice of the malpractice suit three years ago that the family of a patient who died under her nursing care was after money. It didn’t matter to them that no one could have saved their drugged daughter, or that her overdose was her choice, not Lynley’s, even though she’d been the nurse in charge of triage the night the patient came in. There was no way of knowing that this had been the one time Wendy Freeson had gone too far.
Hospitals had deep pockets, so the family had attempted to squeeze money from her employer through the court system. Since the court had ruled against the plaintiff, could the plaintiff be looking for another way to get to her?
It infuriated Lynley that someone was vindictive and greedy enough to threaten her—and her mother! Via television, radio and the printed word, news had spread throughout the region about her uncle Lawson’s death and Mom’s inheritance.
Lynley’s respiratory rate, along with her heart rate, increased. Her insides trembled. Someone had gone to the trouble to find out where Mom lived—to discover, even, where Mom typically preferred to sit and greet the dawn with a cup of espresso. Today, however, she’d had no time because of an early meeting.
Oh, yes, someone knew about those millions, but they obviously didn’t know enough. So who erroneously believed Mom was now wealthy? Not a Jolly Mill citizen. They all knew better.
The smell of Lynley’s coffee lingered in the kitchen, but it mingled with anxiety to make her stomach queasy. Mom would have gone straight to the garage this morning, and she’d missed this tasteless piece of paper, but what about next time? She had to be warned.
Lynley closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, fighting back a bitter terror. The note writer could be on the upper deck this very minute. The house had double decks leading from the kitchen and dining room, as well as the upper guest room. Both had sliding glass doors and upper windows that allowed anyone a good view into the house from the right angle, though no one could see into the house from the front. She’d always appreciated that openness to the morning light. Until now.
From inside, she could see the bottom of the upper deck. She glanced up between the slats of the wooden floor that had tripped her so many times when she was a child. She could see no movement, only those evenly spaced rows of light, enriched by the morning sun that cast shadows of crisscrossed lines on the lower deck.
She was reaching to unlock the door to slide it open and grab the note when the doorbell rang. She jerked around and stared at the solid oak door thirty feet away. Who could that be? Mom wouldn’t ring the doorbell.
Something brushed against her leg. Lynley shrieked and looked down to find Data, one of Mom’s cats, on his usual affectionate marking journey through the house.
She heard rushing footsteps alongside the house and up the short stairway that led to the bottom deck. She searched the kitchen cabinet for a weapon...any weapon.
The edge of a shadow reflected against the glass door and she scrambled aside, screaming again as she drew a handle haphazardly from the wooden knife block. She turned, holding it in front of her. It was a butcher knife, sharp and heavy. She could have been holding a toothpick and she’d have felt as safe.
But then Police Chief John Russell stepped into view, weapon drawn, face grim. She released a breath and slumped with relief against the counter. He froze when he saw the knife, and then his gaze went to her face, which must have certainly shown her fear.
Without intending to, she glanced once more at the object of that fear, and John followed the line of her sight. He looked to the note, which was taped on the outside of the door. He reached for it, of course unable to read it from his vantage point.
“No. John, oh, no!” She lunged forward, still holding the knife. What if someone was watching? What if the person knew he was the policeman in this town?
He stopped midreach and stared at her through the glass, lowering his hand. “Lynley?” The thick double pane muted his voice. “What’s wrong? I was just bringing some of your favorite blueberry muffins and I heard you cry out. Is someone
