They say you should never kick a wasp’s nest. Sam knew that, from the time she was a little girl. From the moment she watched the Jag roar to a halt in front of the house, she knew that the kick had been sent and that the nest was blazing with fury.
Bart Killington flung the door open, jumped out and slammed it shut behind him.
“You bitch!” he screamed.
Sam kept the lawnmower between them. “Excuse me?”
“You started this. You sent my life straight to hell!” Thunder crashed, punctuating his statement.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He’d found out. He’d figured out the Mrs. Knightly charade. Knew about her finding the poisonous plants.
“You are connected to that deputy in some way. He thought he’d haul me up here in handcuffs, didn’t he? Thought he’d found his suspect. Well, listen, bitch. It’s not me! I came up here of my own free will, to try to help. But all he wants is to find somebody to blame. To take away my inheritance and make me suffer.”
“Bart, calm down.”
She might as well have invited him to rant on. He continued to scream, louder. She glanced around, hoping that one of the absent neighbors might come by and stop to check it out. Even if one of them were home the other houses were too far away and the rolling thunder was almost constant now.
A bolt of lightning struck an open field across the road, less than a quarter mile away. Every hair on her body stood on end. She jumped away from the metal lawnmower, standing near the walkway to the front porch. If she could just get inside and lock the door . . .
Bart stood in the open, daring the lightning, oblivious to the rain that now came down in sheets and pasted his dark hair to his scalp. His eyes were wild.
Another crash—this time somewhere behind the house.
Sam ran for the front door. Realized too late that it was still locked.
By the time she pulled the key from her pocket Bart was right beside her. The roof over the small porch provided no protection and Sam felt the rain soak her cotton work shirt. She dashed back to the cover of the carport, keeping an eye on Bart as he followed her.
“Bart, calm down.” She reached out to touch his arm. He recoiled as if she’d punched him and backed two steps away from her.
“I’m not giving up the money from the paintings,” he said. His voice took on a plaintive note. “My uncle left them to me. I came here and stayed with him, took care of him when he was sick.”
Sick from being poisoned. Sam watched his face carefully as he spoke. Was he actually so deluded as to think that he was doing his uncle a service as he slowly poisoned him to death?
Movement on the road grabbed Sam’s attention. A dark vehicle slithered sideways on the wet, muddy road then corrected and picked up speed. Losing traction again, it came at the driveway almost sideways and slid to a stop behind Bart’s Jaguar. Carolyn Hildebrandt leaped out.
Her eyes were intense and ropes of dark hair blew across her face. She grabbed at the strands, pushing them aside, but the wind and blowing rain pasted the hair against her cheeks again.
“Bart!” she shouted.
He turned, finally noticing.
“Bart! What are you doing?” Carolyn advanced on them.
Bart glanced back at Sam. “I didn’t hurt him. I swear I didn’t.”
Sam almost believed him, could see what Beau meant about Bart’s convincing manner.
“Bart, you fool! I knew I couldn’t trust you not to talk to the cops,” Carolyn shouted. “I knew I’d have to stop you!” She raised a pistol.
Sam froze.
Her mind went into overdrive. What did she have for defense? A lawnmower? She desperately tried to come up with a plan but her thoughts ricocheted about, refusing to focus.
“Okay, I wanted the paintings,” Bart babbled. “I wanted the money. I knew they were valuable and my uncle was doing nothing with them but letting them hang in this pitiful little dump. I tried to sneak one out of the house and sell it, but he noticed it was gone.”
“Bart . . .” Carolyn stood at the edge of the driveway, the pistol pointing right at them. “Shut up.”
“She told me we could make a lot of money,” he whined.
Sam muttered under her breath. “Maybe you better quit talking, Bart.” She couldn’t take her eyes off Carolyn.
“Bart, I’m warning you.” Carolyn walked a little closer.
“Sweetheart, don’t do anything,” Bart said. “Let’s just leave. Go back to my place.”
Movement on the road caught Sam’s attention for a second.
“You dumb fool,” Carolyn hissed. “I can’t believe how stupid you are.”
Bart’s eyes hardened. “Wait a minute—you didn’t think I was so stupid when I led you right to a valuable collection of Cantone’s work. You didn’t think I was stupid when I let you start selling them. Carolyn—we love each other.”
Sam held her breath. The vehicle approaching on the road was Beau’s cruiser. She willed herself not to look that direction as he coasted up to the driveway, blocking Carolyn’s vehicle.
“You’re more idiotic than you’ll ever know,” Carolyn said. “You actually thought I loved you? You didn’t have a clue that the only reason I stayed with you in this . . . this shack was because I saw that you’d never take what was yours. You would wait years for your uncle to die. And even then you didn’t know that he’d leave his work to you. I had to make up that will and forge his signature. You would have never taken any real action. You’re the kind who sits around and hopes life will turn out the way he wants it to. I—I’m the one who makes things happen.”
The green fingerprints, Sam realized. Carolyn’s.
Beau was out of his vehicle now and Sam saw him slowly approach. She was the only one who could see him, and it took a force of will not to stare, not to let her relief show on her face.
Sam’s attention went back to Carolyn. The art dealer’s expression was pure rage. The woman clearly had gone over the edge and Sam suddenly realized that she had no intention of letting Bart or Sam out of here alive. Again, she raised the pistol, her finger firmly on the trigger. The only minuscule bit of hesitation seemed to come from the decision about which of them to shoot first. Her eyes darted from one to the other.
Make an impossible target, Sam told herself. She spun toward Bart and shoved him to the left, while she dove for the ground in the opposite direction. She hit, rolled, and came up at the edge of the carport as the shot reverberated.
Bart lay huddled in a ball against the wall of the house but Sam couldn’t see any blood. Carolyn’s shot had gone wild, the bullet smacking into one of the carport’s wooden supports.
The woman had a wild look in her eyes as she spun toward Bart, taking aim once more.
“Freeze!” Beau shouted. His own pistol was out now, his two-handed grip looking very firm.
Carolyn fired again. Sam heard the ricochet and chips of concrete sprayed near Bart. Then Carolyn turned on Beau.
His shot went unhesitatingly, right into her shoulder. She dropped her own gun and slumped to the ground. He kicked her gun aside and kept his aimed at her.
“Stay right there,” he said. He keyed his shoulder mike and called for backup and an ambulance.
Sam felt relief rush through her body. She met Beau’s gaze and sent him a tentative smile. He winked. It was going to be okay.
Chapter 29