A Bullet to the Heart by Kathy Wheeler (most read books of all time .TXT) 📕

“I don’t want to do it for the money,” Jo said, exasperation hitting her after a full thirty minutes of arguing with Melinda. “I can’t stay in that house hour after hour with nothing to do.” Jo’s arms crossed her waist. “Come on, Mel. Help me out. I’m stuck here. Please?”

“What kind of experience do you have?”

“I was working at the MET.”

Melinda’s brow lifted.

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“Right…” She dragged the word out with all the sarcasm of one of the Marx Brothers.

Jo waited out the long silence that followed, anticipation oozing through her veins, holding her breath. She didn’t want to ruin her one chance.

“Fine.” She threw up her hands. “All right. You win.”

Jo’s exhale whooshed from her so quickly, spots dotted her vision. “Thank you so much,” she breathed.

“You can start on Monday. Be here at eleven.”

“I’ll be here. Come on, Frizzle.” Jo darted out front filled with a new sense of purpose and grabbed her coat off the rack.

“And wear comfortable shoes.” She pointed at Jo’s impractical flats.

“Got it. See you Monday.”

11

W

hatever Jo had previously thought of waiting tables, the word easy would never ever come to mind in the future. Monday’s lunch crowd was rowdy and talkative, and Jo was reticent by nature. She was no nonsense. But it seemed as if everyone in town had come by because they’d heard one of Victor’s heirs was working at the Cobblestone Café and they had to see it for themselves. They all stopped in, everyone from Thelma of Island’s Beauty to Oscar from the Hobby Toy Store.

“More coffee over here,” Melinda called out.

Jo grabbed the pot and hurried over.

“Hey, Miss Josephine.”

“Hello, Sigmund.” Sigmund owned the one service station in town. She filled his cup.

“Wanna go out sometime, Josie.”

“That’s really sweet of you to ask, Sigmund, but…well…”

“That’s enough, Sigmund. Jo’s with me.” Wyn’s voice growled across the dining room, sending shivers skittering up her spine.

Jo’s head snapped up and she met his eyes, that hypnotic voice of his driving her mad. It was everywhere. In the café, on the path outside her home, in a line to grab food, in her dreams. It was deep, husky, and rippled over her like warm, calm tropical waves.

“Damn shame, if’n you ask me,” Sigmund grumbled.

Jo was not blessed with a lightness of soul. She had no sense of humor to speak of and let the words roll over her as she moved from table to table, filling cups, scrambling for water and soda, bringing plates, clearing tables. Sweeping, mopping, wiping down countertops until she thought her feet would fall clean off.

“Heard ol’e Victor got shot after you saw him,” Felix called out across the diner to Theodore.

Theo grunted. “The old fool.”

Felix chuckled.

Jo stormed over to Felix. “You think it’s funny that my uncle was shot?”

“Why, sure.” Felix stuffed his mouth full of his BLT, chewed then swallowed. “The whole town could’a heard their squallerin’ all the way to New York City.”

“They had an argument? About what?” Jo spun, facing Theo.

“He cursed me. Said I messed up Mary’s prescription. Good as accused me of killin’ his wife.” His face flushed a dark red up past his receding hairline. “But I didn’t kill his wife. She’d probably had enough of him and offed herself.”

“Are you saying…” She swallowed hard. “You think Mary killed herself?”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ of the kind.” His mouth clamped into a stubborn line. He rose, dug money out of his pocket, tossed it on the counter and stormed out.

The remaining patrons burst out in roars of laughter, leaving Jo standing there stunned. She’d show them. She’d find Victor’s killer. If only she had an idea of where to start.

Just before dusk, Jo pushed her hair out of her face and went out Cobblestone Café’s front with Frizzle on her heels, to a breeze that had turned frigid. She clutched her cloak at the neck and climbed the hill towards the forest that lead to the bluffs. Frizzle followed her up the slight incline to the edge of town that boasted some of the prettiest scenery on the island then turned off the street on a graveled path lined with evergreen pines and tall firs. Once one reached the cliffs, there were only two directions one could go: to the left that led to the manor; to the right to Serpent’s Point and the lighthouse on the peninsula.

The gloomy weather within the trees lowered the visibility to almost nil, but she and Frizzle knew the route well. Wind stirred the branches overhead as if making soft conversation, but the feeling of isolation made Jo antsy and she shivered inside her wool coat. She could feel similar tension emanating from Frizzle.

A second later, Frizzle let out a low growl.

The hair lifted at her nape. She refused to run. She was not a coward, however, she did pick up her steps. The crunch of leaves crackled behind.

Frizzle stopped.

“No, boy. Come on.” A sense of terror she hadn’t experienced since she was nine years old seized her. The intervening years hadn’t dimmed her alarm of that day when Wallace Hayes had trapped her in Charles Weatherford’s study. But she wasn’t trapped inside now. She broke into a run. If she and Frizzle could make it to the cliffs just ahead, they’d be in the open, but at the edge of the trees she tripped, landing hard on her knees.

Frizzle’s ferocious bark rattled the needles on the pines.

A shot blasted overhead. “Frizzle,” Jo screamed. “Frizzle. No. Not Frizzle,” she whimpered, curled in a ball where she lay. Her hands covered her ears. Tears squeezed through her tightly shut eyes. Not Frizzle. Everything moved in slow motion then.

“Jo! Good God, are you all right?”

Jo could register the voice as male. But she couldn’t see him for her blurred her vision. “Where’s Frizzle. Find him. Find him.”

A man took her by the arms and shook her. “Are you hurt?”

“Jack-Jackson? Where’s my dog?”

“I don’t know. I heard a gunshot.