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

She pulled away and handed him Uncle Victor’s note.

“It’s a wonderful ending,” he told her.

She nodded unable to speak.

“Come on, my dear, Lydia just returned from the city. Everyone’s waiting.”

Jo took her husband’s hand and let him lead her back to her favorite room in the whole house.

Someone handed her a glass of wine and, suddenly, Lyddie was there, standing in the arch with her editor, Preston Gould, looming behind her. “Can you believe it?” She held up a newspaper and shook it out and read:

Death avenged: Victor Montgomery’s murderer plunges to same fate by Lydia Weatherford.

“I got the front page by-line!”

Tevi whooped, reminiscent of her five-year-old self. “You’re on your way, sister.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Eleanor said.

Amusement and warmth unfurled through Jo as she watched Wyn stroll over to Preston and stuck out his hand. It was clear from the expression on Preston’s face that he didn’t appreciate the proprietary manner with which Wyn regarded the Weatherford girls. Mr. Gould clearly considered Lydia his concern and Wyn had just stepped into the ring. Not as a contender per se, but as one to look out for them with Victor gone. Wyn wasn’t just a small island-town cop. He was family now.

Jo didn’t think there would be a problem in her sisters marrying. She turned from the scene eyeing their cousin—

Jackson on the other hand…

****

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Read on for a preview of Hanging by a Threat.

HANGING

BY A

Threat

A Weatherford Sisters Mystery

Lydia – book 2

Terry Andrews

1

August 1937- Covington Manor in the Hamptons

Whack! Sh sh sh sh.

For the third time in an hour, the green croquet ball headed across the large manicured lawn toward one of several large copses, this one elms and willows.

“Preston, stop doing that! It’s childish to keep sending my ball into the trees, when you’re not even trying to go through the wickets.” Lydia Eleanor Weatherford rolled her eyes. “Have you forgotten; we’re supposed to be setting a good example for these young people?”

He shrugged, not quite hiding his teasing grin. The chuckles emitted from the other players around the field only added to the absurdity of her statement.

Lydia sighed dramatically, as she turned and followed the ball disappearing from sight. Stepping into the shrouded canopy, she paused as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“About those poor Weatherford girls.” Lydia froze at the startling words penetrating the dark circle.

The powerful matriarchs of New York’s most influential families were lounging a few feet from the massive willow tree, watching the young people enjoying themselves. Strategically situated beneath a lofty elm at the edge of the massive yard, they traded information, certain of not being overheard— unless someone chased a wayward ball into the murky depths of the weeping willow curtain, behind them. Those busybodies were gossiping about her and her sisters, Jo and Tevi.

“Donna Hayes—” The polished voice had dropped an octave.

Mallet in hand, Lydia pressed a finger to her lips to quiet Preston Gould’s carefree approach. The sun highlighted streaks of gold in his chestnut hair, then darkened as he moved further into the depths of the willow’s tentacles. Lydia’s ridiculous coworkers at the Sentinel where she and Preston worked, would fall all over themselves to be in her position. She crept closer to the hushed voices, silently congratulating herself on the choice to wear dark colors.

Hidden through the curtain, a man’s voice said, “Hayes. That social climbing family. You could never believe anything you heard from her, right up ‘til the day she departed.”

Lydia stood motionless. After all this time, what more could be said about her family? Preston moved behind her in unwavering support, hints of his cedarwood aftershave, reminding her of childhood romps in the trees on Montgomery Island.

“Of course, there were signs.” The talebearer continued. “Claudia Montgomery’s constant lamenting about her daughter’s grief.” A sniff filled the air. “Claudia warned her not to marry that handsome upstart. Sailed off and died, he did, leaving her to raise those three young girls alone.” An exaggerated sigh. Hums of mutual agreement rose from the group. “At least Claudia did her duty before she passed, and tied Eleanor nice and tight to young Wallace Hayes. Now that Victor Montgomery has disowned his son, those girls will inherit the entire Montgomery fortune.”

The dark leafy shroud closed in. The sweet aroma of wisteria and roses only moments before, now tainted the air. Strands of hair lifted by Preston’s breath tickled her neck. Lydia swiped at the distraction and tried to ignore the prickles along her spine.

 A third voice. “Still, committing Eleanor to a mental institution for all these years?  Even Claudia would have had something to say about that.”

Lydia started at the stark words. Mental Institution?

“Steady.” His soft whisper and warm breath reminded her to breathe.

“After her death there was talk of drugs and suicide.” A grunt of satisfaction. “Although, I don’t suppose it really matters.  The whole family moved back to that island and nothing ever came of it.”

Was Eleanor Hayes still alive? Under the shadow of the stringy canopy Lydia considered the possibility of a life which included her mother. She steadied her left hand, wrapped tightly around the shaking mallet. Her feet glued to the grass carpet.

“That Lydia is the spitting image of her mother. Young Eleanor took the social world by storm. Pity,” the second voice interjected.

Pity? Pity? Lydia fisted her free hand. Tightened her jaw. Fastened her eyes in the direction of the condemning voices. The nerve of those vicious gossip mongers talking about her mother that way! Eleanor had been a victim, not some pathetic rebel. As her fury grew, all the gossip worthy tidbits Lydia had garnered over the last few years about the skeletons in these old biddies’ closets, formed like arrows, sharpened for battle.

One very large hand seized her knotted fingers. Another covered her mouth, simultaneously backing her