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

cheek in view. “What’s going on? You haven’t been to dinner the last two nights.”

“Wyn, uh, asked me to help him with…”

“Are you blushing?” She couldn’t have been more surprised if he dragged her up to the bluff and threw her off.

“What! No. He just wants help finding out who killed my father.”

Jo plopped back against the seat, floored by the news. “You and Wyn? Working together? That’s as shocking as—”

“As you and me being friends? Yeah, it surprised me too.” He let her out in front of the Cobblestone Café with a cursory, “Take a bunch of breaks.” And took off before she’d hardly had the door shut.

Wyn let himself into his office. He felt curiously empty. Waking every morning was another long night he’d survived had him pacing his tiny house, knowing Jo was on the island.

He’d seen Jackson drop her off at the Cobblestone fifteen minutes ago. This would be only her second day working at the café since she hadn’t come into town the day before due to her twisted ankle. Wyn hadn’t talked to her, but Jackson had kept him informed. In fact, it might be fair to say that Jackson took great pleasure in driving him mad with details.

Envy aside, seeing Jo at the café served two purposes: one, he knew where she was and that meant she was safe; second, he could see her, just…see her.

He leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled, thinking. Not only had Victor been shot, but now Wyn had reason to consider Theo’s words that Mary’s death might not have been one of natural causes as everyone had previously believed.

Jackson strolled in.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Wyn growled, casting him a disgruntled look.

“Knock, knock.”

“Smart ass.” Wyn drummed his fingers on the desk. “So. Your father was threatened before he died.”

“Who threatened him?”

“My father.”

“Your—” Jackson lifted one eyebrow. He dropped into the chair across from the desk, stretched out his legs. “Now, why would your father want my father dead?”

That question wasn’t even worth answering. They’d already had that conversation. Wyn just looked at him.

“Really? You think Wyndel, Sr. wanted my father dead just because he believed Victor might be your biological father?”

“Biological?” Wyn didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “I didn’t realize you knew such a large word.”

“A little touchy, aren’t we?”

Wyn sat forward and drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Apparently, my parents have been fighting over the subject since I was born.”

“Yet they’ve stayed together thirty years?”

“That’s essentially what my mother said.” Wyn tried processing his own thoughts. “There’s something else you should know.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Victor accused Theo of poisoning Mary.”

Jackson’s normally ruddy complexion paled.

Wyn cleared his throat. “Sorry, old man. I didn’t know a way to soften the blow. I’ve contacted the M.E. over on the mainland to see what we need to do.”

“Who the hell would poison my mother?” He rubbed a palm over his face. “More importantly, why would someone want her dead?”

“A very good question.”

A few hours later, at Melinda’s insistence, Jo was out the door.

Who knew waiting tables in a town hardly larger than a medieval village could wear one out so? Jo limped out the door, her feet killing her. She had a feeling her sore ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. The entire day had been a wooden roller-coaster ride worthy of Coney Island. She couldn’t have been more shocked when Jackson had confided Wyn’s request in helping him locate Victor’s murderer. She felt the same inclination, she just had no idea where to start.

Dusk was settling over the town, and unlike in the city, where even the nights were clogged with the noise of cars and sirens, during the summer months on the island, traffic didn’t really exist. Only in mid-July during the town’s famous arts festival. At five-thirty on a November afternoon, in the shorter days as the season hurled toward winter, virtually no cars traveled the streets.

Jo hoped Jackson was still at Wyn’s office and willing to give her a ride to the house. There was no way she’d be able to walk the mile home on her ankle.

Jo had just reached Pebble’s Beauty Shop when Annabelle Smith stepped in front of her, barring her path. “Hello, Josephine.” Her face was stiff as chiseled stone.

“Oh, Mrs. Smith.” Jo smiled. “How are you?”

Annabelle bristled with hostility. “I’ll get right to the point, Miss Weatherford. I don’t appreciate your playing with Wyndel’s affections.”

Jo’s mouth fell open. She’d never confided her feelings for Wyn to anyone. And Annabelle was the second person to confront her with her feelings. Jo snapped her mouth shut and drew on her years in finishing school with the most austere demeanor she could muster. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.”

“And I’m sure you do. He doesn’t need you or your false promises. Look, Miss Weatherford, I’m only telling you to steer clear of my son. It’s for your own good.”

“But—”

Her expression hardened. “Stay away from him, Josephine. He doesn’t need you or your ilk. I don’t care if Victor was your uncle or not. Wyn belongs on this island, here with people of his own kind.”

Ice hot fury flashed through Jo. “Or what, Mrs. Smith?” She was tired. Tired of people telling her how she should feel, like Lydia and her feelings about Eleanor. How she should talk to Eleanor. Victor dictating where she should work. If she should work. Even in death, he’d forced her out of her job at the museum. She’d loved that job. Now, to be accosted by Wyn’s mother?

“You’ll stay away from him, or you’ll pay. Again.”

Shock whispered through Jo. Again? “Are you…threatening me, Mrs. Smith?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get supper on the table.” Annabelle Smith stormed up the street past the Cobblestone, turned on a side street at the top of the hill.

Stunned, Jo gazed after her until she disappeared from Main. After a moment, Jo carefully turned on her sore ankle, facing the