A Will And A Way Page 6

  “I’d only vote for Biff if you find a few rocks missing.” Michael rocked back on his heels. “He’d never be able to resist picking up a few glitters that could be liquidated into nice clean cash.”

  “True enough.” Uncle Carlson—no, it seemed a bit crude for his style. Ginger would’ve been too fascinated with the sparkles to have done any more than fondle. Pulling a hand through her hair, she tried to picture one of her bland, civilized relations wielding a pair of nippers. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters a great deal which one of them did it. They’ve put me two weeks behind on my commission.” Again she picked up pieces of thin gold. “It’ll never be quite the same,” she murmured. “Nothing is when it’s done over.”

  “Sometimes it’s better.”

  With a shake of her head, she walked over to a heater. If he gave her any more sympathy now, she wouldn’t be able to trust herself. “One way or the other I’ve got to get started. Tell Sweeney I won’t make it in for lunch.”

  “I’ll help you clean this up.”

  “No.” She turned back when he started to frown. “No, really, Michael, I appreciate it. I need to be busy. And alone.”

  He didn’t like it, but understood. “All right. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Michael…” He paused at the doorway and looked back. Amid the confusion she looked strong and vivid. He nearly closed the door and went back to her. “Maybe Uncle Jolley was right.”

  “About what?”

  “You may have one or two redeeming qualities.”

  He smiled at her then, quick and dashing. “Uncle Jolley was always right, cousin. That’s why he’s still pulling the strings.”

  Pandora waited until the door shut again. Pulling the strings he was, she mused. “But you’re not playing matchmaker with my life,” she mumbled. “I’m staying free, single and unattached. Just get that through your head.”

  She wasn’t superstitious, but Pandora almost thought she heard her uncle’s high, cackling laugh. She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

  Chapter Four

  Because after a long, tedious inventory Pandora discovered nothing missing, she vetoed Michael’s notion of calling in the police. If something had been stolen, she’d have seen the call as a logical step. As it was, she decided the police would poke and prod around and lecture on the lack of locks. If the vandal had been one of the family—and she had to agree with Michael’s conclusion there—a noisy, official investigation would give the break-in too much importance and undoubtedly too much publicity.

  Yes, the press would have a field day. Pandora had already imagined the headlines. “Family vs. family in the battle of eccentric’s will.” There was, under her independent and straightforward nature, a prim part of her that felt family business was private business.

  If one or more of the members of the family were keeping an eye on Jolley’s Folley and the goings-on there, Pandora wanted them to think that she’d brushed off the vandalism as petty and foolish. As a matter of pride, she didn’t want anyone to believe she’d been dealt a stunning blow. As a matter of practicality, she didn’t want anyone to know that she had her eyes open. She was determined to find out who had broken into her shop and how they’d managed to pick such a perfect time for it.

  Michael hadn’t insisted on calling the police because his thoughts had run along the same lines as Pandora’s. He’d managed, through a lot of maneuvering and silence, to keep his career totally separate from his family. In his business, he was known as Michael Donahue, award-winning writer, not Michael Donahue, relative of Jolley McVie, multimillionaire. He wanted to keep it that way.

  Stubbornly, each had refused to tell the other of their reasons or their plans for some personal detective work. It wasn’t so much a matter of trust, but more the fact that neither of them felt the other could do the job competently. So instead, they kept the conversation light through one of Sweeney’s four-star meals and let the vandalism rest. More important, they carefully avoided any reference that might trigger some remark about what had happened on a more personal level in Pandora’s workshop.

  After two glasses of wine and a generous portion of chicken fricassee, Pandora felt more optimistic. It would have been much worse if any of her stock or tools had been taken. That would have meant a trip into Manhattan and days, perhaps weeks of delay. As it was, the worst crime that she could see was the fact that she’d been spied on. Surely that was the only explanation for the break-in coinciding so perfectly with her trip to town. And that would be her first order of business.

  “I wonder,” Pandora began, probing lightly, “if the Saundersons are in residence for the winter.”

  “The neighbors with the pond.” Michael had thought of the Saunderson place himself. There were certain points on that property where, with a good set of binoculars, someone could watch the Folley easily. “They spend a lot of time in Europe, don’t they?”

  “Hmm.” Pandora toyed with her chicken. “He’s in hotels, you know. They tend to pop off here or there for weeks at a time.”

  “Do they ever rent the place out?”

  “Oh, not that I know of. I’m under the impression that they leave a skeleton staff there even when they fly off. Now that I think of it, they were home a few months ago.” The memory made her smile. “Uncle Jolley and I went fishing and Saunderson nearly caught us. If we hadn’t scrambled back to the cabin—” She broke off as the thought formed.

  “Cabin.” Michael picked up where she’d left off. “That old two-room wreck Jolley was going to use as a hunting lodge during his eat-off-the-land stage? I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Pandora shrugged as though it meant nothing while her mind raced ahead. “He ended up eating more beans than game. In any case, we caught a bundle of trout, ate like pigs and sent the rest along to Saunderson. He never sent a thank-you note.”

  “Poor manners.”

  “Well, I’ve heard his grandmother was a barmaid in Chelsea. More wine?”

  “No, thanks.” He thought it best to keep a clear head if he was going to carry out the plans that were just beginning to form. “Help yourself.”

  Pandora set the bottle down and sent him a sweet smile. “No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired really.”

  “You’re entitled.” It would clear his path beautifully if he could ship her off to bed early. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Both of them were too involved with their own moves to notice how excruciatingly polite the conversation had become. “I’ll just skip coffee tonight and go have a bath.” She feigned a little yawn. “What about you? Planning to work late?”

  “No—no, I think I’ll get a fresh start in the morning.”

  “Well then.” Pandora rose, still smiling. She’d give it an hour, she calculated, then she’d be out and gone. “I’m going up. Good night, Michael.”

  “Good night.” Once the light in her room was off, he decided, he’d be on his way.

  Pandora sat in her darkened room for exactly fifteen minutes and just listened. All she had to do was get outside without being spotted. The rest would be easy. Opening her door a crack, she held her breath, waited and listened a little longer. Not a sound. It was now or never, she decided and bundled into her coat. Into the deep pockets, she shoved a flashlight, two books of matches and a small can of hair spray. As good as mace, Pandora figured, if you ran into something unfriendly. She crept out into the hall and started slowly down the stairs, her back to the wall.

  An adventure, she thought, feeling the familiar pulse of excitement and anxiety. She hadn’t had one since Uncle Jolley died. As she let herself out one of the side doors, she thought how much he’d have enjoyed this one. The moon was only a sliver, but the sky was full of stars. The few clouds that spread over them were hardly more than transparent wisps. And the air—she took a deep breath—was cool and crisp as an apple. With a quick glance over her shoulder at Michael’s window, she started toward the woods.


  The starlight couldn’t help her there. Though the trees were bare, the branches were thick enough to block out big chunks of sky. She dug out her flashlight and, turning it side to side, found the edges of the path. She didn’t hurry. If she rushed, the adventure would be over too soon. She walked slowly, listened and imagined.

  There were sounds—the breeze blew through pine needles and scattered the dry leaves. Now and again there was a skuddle in the woods to the right or left. A fox, a raccoon, a bear not quite settled down to hibernate? Pandora liked not being quite certain. If you walked through the woods alone, in the dark, and didn’t have some sense of wonder, it was hardly worth the trip.

  She liked the smells—pine, earth, the hint of frost that would settle on the ground before morning. She liked the sense of being alone, and more, of having something up ahead that warranted her attention.

  The path forked, and she swung to the left. The cabin wasn’t much farther. She stopped once, certain she’d heard something move up ahead that was too big to be considered a fox. For a moment she had a few uncomfortable thoughts about bears and bobcats. It was one thing to speculate and another to have to deal with them. Then there was nothing. Shaking her head, Pandora went on.

  What would she do if she got to the cabin, and it wasn’t dusty and deserted? What would she do if she actually found one of her dear, devoted relatives had set up housekeeping? Uncle Carlson reading the Wall Street Journal by the fire? Aunt Patience fussing around the rocky wooden table with a dust cloth? The thought was almost laughable. Almost, until Pandora remembered her workshop.

  Drawing her brows together, she walked forward. If someone was there, they were going to answer to her. In moments, the shadow of the cabin loomed up before her. It looked as it was supposed to look, desolate, deserted, eerie. She kept her flashlight low as she crept toward the porch, then nearly let out a scream when her own weight caused the narrow wooden stair to creak. She held a hand to her heart until it no longer felt as though it would break her ribs. Then slowly, quietly, stealthily, she reached for the doorknob and twisted it.

  The door moaned itself open. Wincing at the sound, Pandora counted off ten seconds before she took the next step. With a quick sweep of her light, she stepped in.

  When the arm came around her neck, she dropped the flashlight with a clatter. It rolled over the floor, sending an erratic beam over the log walls and brick fireplace. Even as she drew the breath to scream, she reached in her pocket for the hair spray. After she was whirled around, she found herself face-to-face with Michael. His fist was poised inches from her face, her can inches from his. Both of them stood just as they were.

  “Dammit!” Michael dropped his arm. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” she tossed back. “And what do you mean by grabbing me that way? You may’ve broken my flashlight.”

  “I almost broke your nose.”

  Pandora shook back her hair and walked over to retrieve her light. She didn’t want him to see her hands tremble. “Well, I certainly think you should find out who someone is before you throw a headlock on them.”

  “You followed me.”

  She sent him a cool, amused look. It helped to be able to do so when her stomach was still quaking. “Don’t flatter yourself. I simply wanted to see if something was going on out here, and I didn’t want you to interfere.”

  “Interfere.” He shone his own light directly in her face so that she had to throw up a hand in defense. “And what the hell were you going to do if something was going on? Overpower them?”

  She thought of how easily he’d taken her by surprise. It only made her lift her chin higher. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Sure.” He glanced down at the can she still held. “What have you got there?”

  Having forgotten it, Pandora looked down herself, then had to stifle a chuckle. Oh, how Uncle Jolley would’ve appreciated the absurdity. “Hair spray,” she said very precisely. “Right between the eyes.”

  He swore, then laughed. He couldn’t have written a scene so implausible. “I guess I should be glad you didn’t get a shot off at me.”

  “I look before I pounce.” Pandora dropped the can back into her pocket. “Well, since we’re here, we might as well look around.”

  “I was doing just that when I heard your catlike approach.” She wrinkled her nose at him, but he ignored her. “It looks like someone’s been making themselves at home.” To prove his point, Michael shone his light at the fireplace. Half-burnt logs still smoldered.

  “Well, well.” With her own light, Pandora began to walk around the cabin. The last time she’d been there, the chair with the broken rung had been by the window. Jolley had sat there himself, keeping a lookout for Saunderson while she’d opened a tin of sardines to ward off starvation. Now the chair was pulled up near the fire. “A vagrant, perhaps.”

  Watching her, Michael nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “But not likely. Suppose they’ll be back?”

  “Hard to say.” The casual glance showed nothing out of place. The cabin was neat and tidy. Too tidy. The floor and table surfaces should have had a film of dust. Everything had been wiped clean. “It could be they’ve done all the damage they intend to do.”

  Disgruntled, Pandora plopped down on the bunk and dropped her chin in her hands. “I’d hoped to catch them.”

  “And what? Zap them with environmentally safe hair spray?”

  She glared up at him. “I suppose you had a better plan.”

  “I think I might’ve made them a bit more uncomfortable.”

  “Black eyes and broken noses.” She made an impatient sound. “Really, Michael, you should try to get your mind out of your fists.”

  “I suppose you just wanted to talk reasonably with whichever member of our cozy family played search and destroy with your workshop.”

  She started to snap, caught herself, then smiled. It was the slow, wicked smile Michael could never help admiring. “No,” she admitted. “Reason wasn’t high on my list. Still, it appears we’ve both missed our chance for brute force. Well, you write the detective stories—so to speak—shouldn’t we look for clues?”

  His lips curved in something close to a sneer. “I didn’t think to bring my magnifying glass.”

  “You can almost be amusing when you put your mind to it.” Rising, Pandora began to shine her light here and there. “They might’ve dropped something.”

  “A name tag?”

  “Something,” she muttered, and dropped to her knees to look under the bunk. “Aha!” Hunkering down, she grabbed at something.

  “What is it?” Michael was beside her before she’d straightened up.

  “A shoe.” Feeling foolish and sentimental, she held it in both hands. “It’s nothing. It was Uncle Jolley’s.”

  Because she looked lost, and more vulnerable than he’d expected, Michael offered the only comfort he knew. “I miss him, too.”

  She sat a moment, the worn sneaker in her lap. “You know, sometimes it’s as though I can almost feel him. As though he’s around the next corner, in the next room, waiting to pop up and laugh at the incredible joke he’s played.”

  With a quick laugh, Michael rubbed a hand over her back. “I know what you mean.”

  Pandora looked at him, steady, measuring. “Maybe you do,” she murmured. Briskly she set the sneaker on the bunk and rose. “I’ll have a look in the cupboards.”

  “Let me know if you find any cookies.” He met the look she tossed over her shoulder with a shrug. “In the early stages of nonsmoking, you need a lot of oral satisfaction.”

  “You ought to try chewing gum.” Pandora opened a cupboard and shone her light over jars and cans. There was peanut butter, chunky, and caviar, Russian. Two of Jolley’s favorite snacks. She passed over taco sauce and jumbo fruit cocktail, remembering that her ninety-three-year-old uncle had had the appetite of a teenager. Then reaching in, she plucked out a can and held it up. “Aha!”

  “Again?�
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  “Tuna fish,” Pandora announced waving the can at Michael. “It’s a can of tuna.”

  “Right you are. Any mayo to go with it?”

  “Don’t be dense, Michael. Uncle Jolley hated tuna.”

  Michael started to say something sarcastic, then stopped. “He did, didn’t he?” he said slowly. “And he never kept anything around he didn’t like.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Congratulations, Sherlock. Now which of the suspects has an affection for canned fish?”

  “You’re just jealous because I found a clue and you didn’t.”

  “It’s only a clue,” Michael pointed out, a little annoyed at being outdone by an amateur. “if you can do something with it.”

  He’d never give her credit, she thought, for anything, not her craft, her intelligence and never her womanhood. There was an edge to her voice when she spoke again. “If you’re so pessimistic, why did you come out here?”

  “I was hoping to find someone.” Restless, Michael moved his light from wall to wall. “As it is all we’ve done is prove someone was here and gone.”

  Pandora dropped the can of tuna in disgust. “A waste of time.”

  “You shouldn’t’ve followed me out.”

  “I didn’t follow you out.” She shone her light back at him. He looked too male, too dangerous in the shadows. She wished, only briefly, that she had the spectacular build and stunning style that would bring him whimpering to his knees. Their breath came in clouds and merged together. “For all I know, you followed me.”

  “Oh, I see. That’s why I was here first.”

  “Beside the point. If you’d planned to come out here tonight, why didn’t you tell me?”

  He came closer. But if he came too close to her, he discovered, he began to feel something, something like an itch along the skin. Try to scratch it, he reminded himself, and she’d rub you raw in seconds. “For the same reason you didn’t tell me. I don’t trust you, cousin. You don’t trust me.”