Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

  MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIE

  Marianne Stillings

  I'm dead. Damn.

  I was hoping to see how the Mariners wind up this season. Since I was too busy making my millions writing mysteries to have any blood heirs, I've decided to set up a treasure hunt, with the prize being my entire estate.

  I've chosen six lucky participants to play, including Evie Randall, who is like a daughter to me, and Max Galloway, my stepson. Max is bull-headed and, for a police detective, he's not too smart about women. And sweet Evie… She's so busy taking care of everyone else, a man will have to literally sweep her off her feet before she'll notice him. That's why I want them to work together to earn my moolah. Maybe a hard-headed, good-looking guy and an innocent gal will hit it off and find love. Weirder things have happened.

  And if it turns out that my death was by less-than-natural causes, Evie and Max might want to join forces to help find my murderer. Of course, that would mean seriously risking their own necks. But what the hell, life is a crap shoot, right? Have fun, kiddies.

  —The Last Will and Testament of Thomas Evanston Heyworth

  Chapter 1

  Port Henry, Washington

  July

  I’m dead. Damn. I was hoping to see how the Mariners wind up this season. If they just bad a better goddamned bullpen…

  Oh, hell. Since I’m dead, we might as well get on with it.

  As I, Thomas Evanston Heyworth, write this codicil to my will, I am a month shy of turning seventy-one. This day and age, that’s not so old, but the doc just informed me of a kink that may speed the end game up a bit. Therefore, I think I’d like to depart this world the same way I lived in it—by confusing and frustrating the hell out of everybody. You still with me?

  I don’t leave any heirs, but I do leave one helluva lot of moolah. Besides a big chunk of change in the bank and some sound investments, there’s Heyworth Island, Mayhem Manor, its antique furnishings, the boats… Oh, how I have loved being rich!

  I suppose I could divvy it all up and make bequeaths and bequests and all that crap, but that’s no fun. Hell, I’m a famous mystery writer! If I have to die, why not go out with a little pizzazz?

  So without further ado, here’s the deal. I’ve set up a treasure hunt. Yes, you read it right… a treasure hunt.

  The winner will be awarded my entire estate (audible gasp!). Some fun, huh? I checked it out. It’s legal—unusual, but legal—so shut your trap.

  Felix Barlow, the peckerhead shyster who calls himself my lawyer, will administer the treasure hunt, but once it begins, you’ll be on your own.

  Yesiree, a treasure hunt with a fortune at stake. Damn, I wish I could be there! Have fun, kiddies…

  Evie Randall blinked at the peckerhead shyster in question as he continued reading from Thomas’s will, apparently unfazed by his late client’s assessment regarding the phallic nature of his skull.

  She blinked again. And again, trying to get her mental arms around the concept. A treasure hunt for all the marbles. Wow. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to focus on the attorney, uncertain whether she should laugh or cry.

  If she laughed, it would be because this whole treasure hunt idea was ludicrous… and so like the Thomas Heyworth she had known and loved. Knowing Thomas, he’d like it if she laughed.

  But if she cried, it would be because she missed him… much as a daughter would miss a doting father. It had been the notoriously “heartless” Thomas Heyworth, after all, who rescued her from the chaos of her childhood. He’d given her a safe home, gentle guidance, purpose. He’d changed the course of her life, and she felt she owed it to him to hound the police until his murderer was found. But the police had no leads, no clues, nothing.

  Catching the attorney between subordinate clauses, Evie said, “Excuse me, Mr. Barlow?” She presented him with her most gracious smile, and waited.

  Felix Barlow, surviving partner in the law firm of Barlow and Steele, looked up, obviously vexed at the interruption. Only his bespectacled black eyes were visible above the top of the page. When he didn’t say anything, Evie widened her smile and forged ahead.

  “Would now be a good time to ask a question? Because I have one.” She cleared her throat. “A question. For clarification. Please.”

  The attorney adjusted his reading glasses, lowered the page, and gifted her with a courteous smile. “All questions will be answered in due time, Ms. Randall. If you’ll be patient.”

  Evie nodded politely. “Of course.”

  He narrowed his gaze on the papers, mumbling words until he found his place, then began reading aloud where he’d left off. Evie tried to quell her mounting frustration by letting her gaze wander around the lawyer’s office. Converted Victorian, Oriental carpets, carved stone fireplace. In front of the bay window overlooking Port Henry, Barlow’s mahogany desk stretched before him, its surface area rivaling the square footage of several small nations.

  She arched a brow. Compensating, she figured. Big ego, tiny dictum.

  Felix Barlow appeared mid-sixties, tall, lean, and owned a face which could best be described as pinched. His nose was the exception. It was flat, giving him the look of a little boy who had been beaten up by schoolyard bullies one too many times. In his younger days he must have had thick blond hair, but now the scant strands that topped his dome had been combed over like the remaining strings of a broken harp.

  She’d never cared much for Barlow, not that there was anything overtly bothersome about him. It was simply that the firm’s senior partner, Charles Steele, had been an affable, avuncular type, and Thomas’s friend and attorney for decades. At Steele’s untimely death four years ago, Barlow had assumed the Heyworth account, and though he was always friendly and professional, she had never warmed to him the way she had to his partner.

  Barlow finished reading and placed the papers in a neat stack in front of him. “You had a question, Ms. Randall.”

  “Yes,” Evie said, leaning forward a bit in her chair. “I’m just curious about something. I guess I figured that, being Thomas’s ward, he’d leave me something. Money, maybe, or some property. It’s not that I want or need anything, you see. But he was so rich, and I was with him for so long. I—I guess I just naturally figured that…”

  She let her voice trail off, unsure what to say, how to put words to her disappointment. She didn’t want to come off as some money-grubbing mercenary, and she knew if she continued to ask Barlow questions along these lines, he’d think she cared less for Thomas and more for his bank account. But, oh, how untrue that was.

  She had loved Thomas Heyworth with all her heart, and would do anything, give anything, to see those flinty brown eyes once more. Hear that rough voice ranting about some trivial thing. Hug that wiry body until he chuckled and patted her head as if she were some fragile pet. Thomas was the second person in Evie’s life to die suddenly, and neither time had she had the chance to say good-bye. It weighed heavily.

  “Well,” she said finally, since there really was nothing else to say. “I supposed Thomas had his reasons. I, uh, I guess I can assume, then, that I am to be included in the treasure hunt, or else I wouldn’t be here now, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “How many people will be participating?”

  “Six.” Barlow proceeded to shuffle through a different sheaf of papers and finally found the page he was looking for. Giving it the once-over, he said, “Ah, yes, here we are. Besides yourself, there is the butler, Edmunds, and Mr. Heyworth’s secretary, Lorna Whitney. As for the remaining three, per the decedent’s wishes, I’ve already taken the liberty of issuing each of them invitations. Two have accepted. M
adame Ernestina Grovda, the renowned Russian psychic, and Dabney James, the famed, yet reclusive, poet.”

  “I see.” She didn’t, but life was like that sometimes. Thomas wanted a psychic and a poet to take a crack at his money? She shook her head as though that would suddenly make everything fall into place. It didn’t.

  “I’m a little confused. I don’t recall him ever mentioning either of those people.”

  Barlow gave a disinterested shrug. “Though he did not confide his motives to me, I assume he invited individuals he believed would have fun participating in such a game. As to the relationship he had with each of them, I believe he was romantically involved with Madame Grovda some years ago. I do know that Mr. James is the grandson of a newspaperman with whom Mr. Heyworth shared a longtime friendship. Perhaps it was out of deference to his late friend that he included the grandson.”

  With a little laugh, she said, “So, we have me, a schoolteacher, as well as a butler, a secretary, a psychic, and a poet. What’s left, a taxidermist? An interpretive dancer? The plumber?”

  “Maxfield Galloway.”

  Evie nearly choked. “Max Galloway? Thomas’s stepson? I don’t believe it.”

  “Be that as it may, Ms. Randall,” Barlow said, not unkindly.

  “Thomas despised Max Galloway, and my understanding is, the feeling was more than mutual. This makes no sense at all, Mr. Barlow.”

  “Have you ever met Detective Galloway?”

  “Detect—He’s a cop?” Shock waves jolted her system. “Look, I know for a fact Thomas loathed the man, and he abhorred cops on general principles. He believed they were all doughnut-munching nincompoops. I can’t imagine he would—”

  “Your lack of imagination aside,” Barlow drawled in a dismissive tone, “Detective Galloway has been invited, but has yet to accept or decline.” Evie made a conscious decision to remain calm, to think this through if she could.

  “Well, okay,” she said softly, more to herself than Barlow. “For whatever reason, Thomas left none of his estate to me, and I guess I’ll just have to accept that. Fine. This is me accepting that.” She took a big breath, let it out, nodded, then forged ahead.

  “If Thomas has chosen to have a treasure hunt to dispense of his fortune, then I guess he can invite whomever he wants. Besides, there’s nothing that says I have to interact with this Galloway person.” Satisfied, she smiled over at the lawyer.

  “Ah, but you do, Ms. Randall.”

  Her brows snapped together. “Why?”

  “The late Mr. Heyworth not only detailed who would participate in his hunt, but how.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Simply put, Ms. Randall,” he said, “For the sake of expediency, the treasure hunters have been paired. The Grovda woman with Edmunds, Mr. James with Mr. Heyworth’s secretary, and you with Detective Galloway.”

  “W-What!”

  “It’s quite practical,” he explained. “Three of the invitees are not local, and you, Ms. Whitney, and Edmunds are familiar with the island and its environs. As you were out of town and unavailable until today, I have already detailed this information to the others, who were all quite agreeable.”

  She nodded absently, trying to absorb this new turn of events. Why would Thomas leave nothing to her, yet ask her to participate in a treasure hunt for that which he might have bequeathed her, and then paired her with a man he detested?

  “Do you have any coffee, Mr. Barlow? Maybe a shot of bourbon would be better. Got any bourbon?”

  “Fresh out.” He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of him.

  Wow. You go to L.A. for a couple of weeks to help with your best friend’s new baby, and you come back to Bizzaro World. How long had Thomas been planning this?

  “What’s the date on the codicil?” she asked.

  Barlow flipped to the back page. “Mr. Heyworth dictated and signed this document just slightly above six months ago.”

  “Were you aware he was ill?”

  “I’m sorry to say, I was not. Mr. Heyworth’s will and this codicil were handled by a firm in Seattle. I became aware of the decedent’s medical history only when these documents were delivered to me several weeks after his death, and via the autopsy findings, of course. Apparently, he wished to keep his cancer, and the plans for his estate, a complete secret from everyone who knew him.”

  As Evie sat trying to absorb all this strange information, Barlow handed her some papers. “It’s all there. Your copy of the will and codicil, information on the treasure hunt, roles and responsibilities, time frame—”

  “Time frame?” she interrupted. “What kind of time frame?”

  “The treasure hunt must be completed within two weeks, which begins when the guests are all assembled. There are seven clues of some kind. It’s my understanding that each one leads to the next.”

  “You don’t know what or where they are?”

  “I do not. As I said, the deceased set this whole thing up in secret.” His voice remained bland, but there was a glint in his eye that told her he was none too pleased with how his client had chosen to dispense of his fortune.

  She furrowed her brow. “This is very vague, Mr. Barlow. What if we can’t find all the clues within the time frame?”

  “In the event there is no winner, Barlow and Steele has instructions to liquidate the estate and distribute the funds to the various charities outlined in the codicil.”

  “So, whichever team finds the last clue first wins Thomas’s estate and splits fifty-fifty. Money, Mayhem Manor, the livestock, Heyworth Island, the works. Or else it all gets sold.” Her heart suddenly felt as though it would crack in two.

  “Yes,” Barlow confirmed. “There are some special dispensations to staff, but that money has already been set aside and does not figure into the terms of the hunt.

  Evie thought of Heyworth Island. It was a world all its own, a dollop of earth floating on the sea, arrayed with wild blackberry vines and sweet grass and isolation, and thick with majestic evergreens, carpets of wildflowers in summer, a wandering stream, a duck pond. She had meandered through the woods as salty breezes played with her pigtails. The sun warmed her back while she’d plucked bouquets of white daisies to clutch in her small fist. The island had been her sanctuary since her mother’s death. It would be difficult to see it put into some stranger’s hands to become a place she could no longer even visit.

  If she wanted to keep that from happening, she’d better well win the damned treasure hunt.

  “Have you heard anything from the police?” she said. “It’s been six weeks since Thomas was killed, and they still don’t have any leads?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I am sorry, Ms. Randall.”

  She huffed in frustration. “That’s just plain ridiculous. I’ve called that Detective McKennitt guy at least a dozen times, and he insists they’re doing everything—”

  “As I believe they are, Ms. Randall,” Barlow interrupted. “Forgive me, but do you have any questions pertinent to Mr. Heyworth’s will or the treasure hunt as I have described it?”

  Mayhem. Murder. Max Galloway. Yes. She had questions, about a kajillion of them.

  But instead of badgering the poor man, she caved in to the inevitable and said, “When do we start?”

  “This Saturday, the ninth,” he said. “Four days hence. The competitors—guests, I should say—will be assembled on the island by then, including Detective Galloway, should he decide to participate.”

  “Why do you think Thomas invited him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you think he’ll come?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “He could get millions of dollars from a man who had hated him,” she reasoned as she rose to her feet. “Why wouldn’t he come?”

  Barlow eyed her, his mouth set in a perfect smile. “Why not, indeed?”

  A few blocks down from the Port Henry ferry, Evie pulled into the private lot reserved for guests and employees of Mayhem
Manor. Locking the silver BMW roadster convertible Thomas had given her for her last birthday, she slung her purse over her shoulder, picked up her suitcase, and headed for the boat that would take her out to Heyworth Island.

  The hot July sun bleached the sky as she waved to the security guy who tended the small parking facility. Boarding the twenty-foot runabout docked in one of the slips, she tossed her things onto the bench behind her and started up the engine.

  Twenty-five minutes ticked by as she guided the boat out of the harbor and across the bay toward the privately owned island.

  For the first ten minutes she thought about how much she missed Thomas and how she wished she had him back again—just so she could read him the riot act about this dumb treasure hunt of his.

  For another five she tried to move past how stunned and, yes, admittedly intrigued she was by the whole idea. What kind of clues had he left, and where?

  A tingle of excitement slipped up her spine, and she had to concede a treasure hunt might be fun—if only Thomas were around to participate.

  Another five minutes she devoted to the fact that he hadn’t said anything about their relationship. For fifteen years she’d suspected they had blood ties, yet he’d said nothing. Had she been fooling herself all that time? Had it all been a lonely child’s wishful thinking? Or had Thomas simply not wanted to acknowledge her publicly? Perhaps she would never know.

  The remainder of the trip was spent considering the illustrious Detective Max Galloway. According to Thomas, his despised stepson was no prize. Galloway had apparently been so against Thomas’s marriage to his mother that he never set foot on Heyworth Island, not even when she lay dying.

  What a creep. Well, maybe His Arrogance would decline to attend and she wouldn’t have to deal with the jerk.

  She putt-putted the runabout past the twin beacons at the entrance to Heyworth Island’s dock, and slipped the runabout into its moorings, tossing a line around a dock cleat. Leaving her dour thoughts behind, she grabbed her things and hurried up to the house to change.