Dying to Be Murdererd Read online

  “I don’t expect you to prevent my death, dear girl,” Mrs. Ashton added softly, patting Jennifer’s hand. “I’m hiring you simply to record the evidence of it. I’m not afraid to die. I almost hate to admit it, but I’m actually looking forward to it. But how dishonorable to be murdered and not have anyone know!”

  “If I were to come stay here, and please understand that I’m not saying I will, this seems like way too much money.”

  Mrs. Ashton grinned at her, making no effort at all to disguise how foolish she thought Jennifer was. “I support the arts all the time. Why shouldn’t you get the money directly instead of through some silly foundation that’s only going to use most of it to pay the phone and the electric bills? Consider whatever you deem appropriate as payment and the rest as a grant. For your writing.”

  That made sense, but she still needed proof she wasn’t about to take the woman’s money for nothing. “Show me something, anything,” Jennifer pleaded, “that would indicate you’re in danger.”

  The woman looked stricken, almost betrayed. “You don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not that,” Jennifer said, swallowing the “exactly” that tried to follow. “I just want to know if you have any evidence, something to work from.”

  “I have notes that I keep hidden. There was another one, just this morning. I think I put it in my pocket.” Mrs. Ashton felt deep first in one pocket of her skirt and then in the other. “It was here, I swear.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Then you do believe me.” Fortunately she didn’t wait for Jennifer to confirm or deny the statement. “Now hurry along. And don’t be late for supper Monday. I think I’ll have Arthur roast a chicken.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.” Jennifer realized her consent even as the words escaped her mouth.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” The woman winked.

  “And I can’t make it for supper. My writing group.”

  “Of course. Betty told me you meet every Monday at seven. Very well then. Come in the afternoon and I’ll have Arthur fix you a snack before you leave.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Ashton put a finger to her lips, shushed her, and fell back into her chair, pretending to be asleep.

  “But who?” Jennifer insisted, tugging at the woman’s sleeve. “You didn’t tell me who you think—” She stopped abruptly in mid sentence. Melba was standing at the door.

  Chapter 4

  “Mary Ashton,” Jennifer repeated. “Mary Bedford Ashton. You must have heard of her.” She was leaning so far over that she was practically lying on Sam’s desk, smack dab between him and his computer monitor, in his cubicle at The Macon Telegraph. She whipped her head in his direction when she realized no more letters were appearing on the screen after “Ash.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I’m in your way, aren’t I?”

  “Just a little.”

  He settled back in his office chair. The top button on his dress shirt was open, his tie pulled loose, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his dark hair brushed one eyebrow. He was looking good for so early on a Monday morning.

  He rested his hand on the small of her back, where her knit top brushed the top of her slacks, and watched her intently with those piercing, dark blue eyes of his. She had to be careful of those eyes. He could make her forget why she was there. And he could read right into her thoughts.

  “You’re actually considering staying at this woman’s house?” he asked.

  He had a talent for cutting to the chase, which she appreciated—when it wasn’t directed at her.

  She turned the rest of the way around, leaned back against his desk, and looked him straight in the eye. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do it for a thousand dollars a week.”

  “Of course I would, but she didn’t ask me, and I’ve never seen you do anything just for money, not even work.”

  That made her blush, not that she was ashamed, but because he knew her so well. And because she didn’t want to tell him, at least not yet, that Mary Ashton feared for her life.

  “She said her credibility had been compromised. I want to know how.”

  “Okay.” Sam leaned over his keyboard, as Jennifer scooted out of the way, pulling up the side chair and confining her enthusiasm to a respectful distance. He finished typing in the woman’s name and made a search of the Telegraph archives.

  “Looks like we’ve got something from about eight months ago. MARY BEDFORD ASHTON DECLARED COMPETENT.” He clicked on the headline.

  “A competency hearing? Brought by who?”

  “Whom.”

  She would have made a face at him, but he didn’t look at her. She watched as he quickly scanned the screen. “Her sister-in-law, Eileen McEvoy. I’ll print you out a copy, but I don’t think you’re going to get much out of it. Looks like her attorney was successful in having the records sealed.”

  “At least it’s something.”

  He moved the mouse and clicked again. “I’ve got something else, an obituary. Look here. Her husband, Shelby Eliot Ashton, died almost a year ago at the age of 81.”

  She followed Sam’s gaze as it traveled down through the article. “He was quite a prominent man at one time, at least locally. He founded a number of charities. He also served as an adjunct professor of American history at Wesleyan College.”

  “So how’d he make his money?” she asked.

  “By being born to it. And from investments, I’m sure. Says here his granddaddy was Willis Ashton. He added to the family’s considerable fortune by getting involved with the paper industry around the turn of the last century. Must be nice to be rich,” Sam mused.

  “He isn’t anymore,” she reminded him. “Death is a great equalizer.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’ll print the obit out for you, too. For anything further back, we’ll have to hit the microfiche. You say she lives in the historic district, in one of those old mansions?” Sam asked.

  “Right, not far from the Hay House and not all that far from your apartment.”

  “Some of those houses have secret rooms. They were used during the Civil War to hide valuables.”

  “And people. How, Mr. Culpepper, do you know all this?”

  “I took the tour, you know, the one where you get on the little bus and the lady drives you around and tells you about the history of the area. Most informative. You ought to do it sometime.”

  She shook her head. “Those tours are for outsiders like you. I was born and reared in Macon.”

  “Right. Which makes you an expert. Want to catch some lunch later?” he asked, bending a little too close for office decorum. Lots of people were in the news room.

  She blushed when she felt his breath on her neck and pulled back. They were already the subject of way too much gossip around the Telegraph offices. Word was there was a pool of bets on when or if they would get engaged, with dates ranging anywhere from next week to well into the next decade. When someone figured out their relationship, she wished they’d let her in on it.

  “Wish I could, but I’ve got a lunch date with Leigh Ann.”

  She needed to get out of there. Mondays were always hectic at a newspaper, and she’d interrupted Sam right in the middle of a story. She didn’t want to get him in trouble with his boss.

  “Later tonight then?” he suggested.

  “Nope. I’ve got writing group, remember? And I’m still wrestling with whether or not I should call Mrs. Ashton and tell her I’ve changed my mind.”

  “If this woman isn’t competent...” He stopped short of warning her. He knew better.

  “I know, I know,” she assured him. “I promise I won’t make any rash decisions.”

  “Now that would be a first,” he mumbled, but she heard it all the same. That comment wasn’t fair, and he knew it, but he just couldn’t help himself. Whenever he got a little too close to perfect, he had to remind her he wasn’t.

 
; “I’ll call you,” she told him. “I’ll pick up the copies from the printer on my way out.” She pulled her purse off the chair, slung it over her shoulder, and paused at the doorway. “Thanks. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your morning.”

  “No problem. I’ll put it on your tab.”

  She’d really rather he didn’t. She’d never be able to pay him back all she owed him as it was.

  Chapter 5

  “So are you going to do it?” Leigh Ann asked from across the table at Ryan’s Steak House. She was holding a fork stabbed through what would be a huge bite of greens. Salad was piled high on her plate, complete with cheese, croutons, sunflower seeds, cherry tomatoes, and who-knew-what under an embarrassing amount of ranch dressing. “Wow! I’d love to have the chance to stay on the Ashton estate. It’s so, so, so—”

  “Gothic?” Jennifer supplied. It had looked stately, the epitome of Southern heritage, right up until she had climbed those broad stone steps, stood next to those tall white columns, and set foot past the heavy, ornate doors. Then a chill had settled over her. For all its glorious marble flooring and gold leaf accenting the ceiling, she might as well have been in a house in Derry, Maine.

  “Of course it’s not Gothic. It’s grand. It’s majestic. It’s—”

  “Creepy,” Jennifer finished. She swallowed a sip of sweetened iced tea and pushed at her own salad with her fork.

  “Oh, pshaw. You’re silly. It’s just an old house. What do you think, there’s someone locked up in the attic upstairs?” Her green eyes suddenly grew huge in her petite face. “Oooooo. Did you see anyone who could pass for Mr. Rochester? Don’t you love those dark, brooding heroes? Jane Eyre’s my very favorite heroine ever, even if she only had three dresses, at least to begin with. I never could relate to Wuthering Heights. It’s always irked me that the critics say it’s the better novel. What kind of future is there in being in love with a ghost? I mean really.”

  Ever practical, that Leigh Ann.

  “No Mr. Rochester, no anybody really, not yet at least. Only Melba, the housekeeper.”

  Leigh Ann popped open a pack of captain’s wafers, and crumbs scattered everywhere. She raked them into a little pile and then hid them between the salt and pepper shakers. “They’re always the bad ones, you know.”

  “What are you talking about now?” Following Leigh Ann’s thought process was like hanging onto the back of a downhill skier: tricky at best.

  “The housekeepers. They always want their mistresses dead. Haven’t you read Rebecca?” Leigh Ann rolled her eyes.

  “You’re not helping,” Jennifer told her, more than a little unnerved. “I’d prefer you didn’t talk about anyone wanting anyone dead.”

  “You’re the one who writes mysteries,” Leigh Ann reminded her. “So what does Sam say? You did tell him.”

  “Yes, I told him. He helped me look up Mrs. Ashton.”

  “Raiding the files of the Telegraph? For shame, Jennifer, using Sam like that. If he were mine—”

  “He wouldn’t be yours. He’s not your type.” There had been a time when Jennifer thought all men were Leigh Ann’s type, but she knew better now. The brooding artist—that’s what rang Leigh Ann’s bell.

  “You’re right,” Leigh Ann confessed, “but I wish he was. Can’t help but love that man.” She shook her head and raked more dressing through her salad. “I tell you, Jennifer, you keep stringing him along, and one day, just when you finally realize what a prize you’ve got, some gal will have swooped down and taken him away. They don’t wait forever, you know. Life’s too short. Before you know it, you wake up dead.”

  Okay. Mrs. Ashton missed a real opportunity, not asking Leigh Ann to come stay. They seemed to be working off the same page, at least as far as the imminence of death was concerned.

  “So what did you find in the files?” Leigh Ann asked.

  “Not much. Mrs. Ashton passed whatever competency hurdles the court put her through.”

  “So she knows who the president is and what century she’s living in. But you say her relatives disagree—not about the president or the century, but about her competency.”

  “Right. At least her sister-in-law does. She is a little strange, but living alone in that house would give me the willies, too. Her husband died not quite a year ago.”

  “That poor woman. Of course she seems odd, trying to adjust to a loss like that. I know it can be difficult dealing with people in those situations, but are you going to do it? I’d jump at the chance. Jen, the Ashton estate is on the ghost tour, for heaven’s sakes. You don’t get opportunities like this every day.”

  Leigh Ann dropped her fork with a loud clank back onto her plate. “Oh, oh, oh. Maybe that’s what you were tapping into, their resident ghost. Maybe that’s why the place gave you the willies. Wouldn’t that be something if you saw a real, live ghost?”

  “So it’s haunted, too.” Icing on the cake.

  “Only a little,” Leigh Ann assured her. “The Ashton family were the ones who took in Amy Loggins back in 1864.”

  “The Civil War heroine? I’ve heard about her.”

  “Who hasn’t? When she got word Sherman had made it to Atlanta and might be coming this way, she dressed in her brother’s clothes and sneaked off to infiltrate one of Sherman’s camps, hoping to blow up his ammunition and run off his horses.”

  “Only she got caught.”

  “Right. They hanged her and left her for dead. Some slaves found her, cut her down, took her back to their cabin, and nursed her back to health. That’s when they discovered she was only a seventeen-year-old girl.” Leigh Ann shook her head, her voice choking ever so slightly. “Can you imagine? They say her fiancé had been killed just the week before.”

  “If I remember correctly, she did recover.”

  “Well, yeah, but her true love was dead. How sad is that? And she was never right in the head after the hanging, which may have been a blessing.”

  Oxygen deprivation. It could do a number on the brain. “So you say the Ashtons took her in?”

  Leigh Ann nodded. “She lived forever. I think she finally died sometime during World War II.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jennifer asked.

  “I read. There’s a wonderful book all about the ghosts that haunt Macon.”

  “And I suppose the author of this book has some kind of proof that these ghosts he talks about are real.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. He probably just reports what other people tell him they’ve seen.”

  “And someone has seen Amy Loggins in the Ashton mansion?”

  “Of course, or it wouldn’t be in the book. They say she wanders the upper floors. I’m sure she’s mourning her lost love, just like she did when she was alive. Oh, Jen, you’ve gotta go.”

  Chapter 6

  Two duffle bags and one cosmetics case later, Jennifer stood in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers on Mrs. Ashton’s front porch. The summer afternoon sun warmed her back, as she held Muffy’s leash tight in her hand. She’d give it a day, one day, she promised herself. Then, if she decided she couldn’t do it, she’d return the money, which she had immediately deposited in the overnight slot at the bank on the way home yesterday afternoon. She’d felt like she had a neon sign on top of her little Volkswagen Beetle flashing: “Lots of Cash. Come and get it.”

  Maybe she could get Sam to recommend a real journalist who did this sort of thing (whatever this sort of thing was). Or she could write a nice thank-you-for-your-interest note, suggest a good psychiatrist, go home, and get on with the book she was writing.

  Muffy was playing wrap-the-rope around Jennifer’s ankles and pawing mercilessly at the bag that contained her food and treats when Melba finally decided to open the door.

  “Yes?” she said, with a stern look down her nose. She glared first at the dog, who let out a soft growl, then the two bags and the case, and finally at Jennifer, who frantically tried to disentangle herself from the leash. Nothing like being tied up to put one at a disadvant
age.

  “Mrs. Ashton asked me to come. I’m to stay—”

  “There must be some misunderstanding,” Melba said, a wry smile twitching at her lips, her eyes ice cold. Her face was puffy with age, and her wiry hair was gray-white. She had to be almost as old as her mistress, yet she looked strong and able. Why was she still working? Didn’t she have a retirement plan?

  Jennifer opened her mouth to reply but was cut short.

  “Oh, you’re here!” a gleeful voice sounded behind the housekeeper. Mrs. Ashton pushed her way forward, her eyes glistening, her arms outstretched. She engulfed Jennifer in a huge hug and whispered in her ear, “Thank God.”

  When Jennifer drew back, she saw what looked like desperation mixed with relief flit across the woman’s features. What color were her eyes? Brown, green, gold? They seemed to change with every blink.

  By the time the woman turned back to Melba, all trace of anxiety was gone. “Prepare Juliet’s room, Melba, and tell Arthur to fix an early supper for one. Jennifer won’t be able to eat dinner with the rest of us tonight. Isn’t it delightful? We have a guest!”

  The straps of the bags had left huge indentations in each of Jennifer’s shoulders by the time she struggled up the grand staircase, following Melba to the third floor. The woman hadn’t even offered to help with the cosmetics case.

  Then Jennifer had to go back downstairs, track down Muffy, who was exploring the brocade drapes in the sitting room, and coax her up every stair. She had no intention of leaving her dog to roam unattended on the ground floor and to slobber on priceless antiques. Or to find herself at the mercy of anyone or anything that might inhabit the house.

  A large, worn, round sofa that looked as though it might have been original to the house sat on the open third floor landing, between the doors of the back two rooms that faced each other across the common area. Two wide stain-glassed windows let in light that mottled one wall and part of the floor with rainbow colors.