The Amethyst Heart Page 2

  Con paused at the heavy iron-grilled doorway and rang the bell. This was Mother’s one compromise to her passion for maintaining the historical accuracy of Noble House—the installation of a security system and iron grillwork on all the doors. Anyone who had ever been on the pilgrimage tour, after all, knew what kind of treasures the house held. Everything from Limoges china and Waterford crystal to an autographed portrait of Abraham Lincoln—an odd anomaly in a Mississippi antebellum, to be sure, but extremely rare and valuable. The carved, mahogany canopy bed in the Avery room upstairs had been appraised—twenty years ago—at $45,000.

  Mother always said she was “house poor.” She didn’t have a lot of cash in the bank—just enough from pensions and social security to get by from month to month. But the house itself had been valued at well over half a million, and that didn’t count the antiques. The truth was, the old woman was sitting on a gold mine.

  Sooner or later, it would all come to him, of course. But he couldn’t wait for later. Time was running out. Con could feel his life slipping away, as if he were trapped in the bottom of an hourglass while the sand sifted down around him and grew deeper with every passing minute.

  Today. It had to be done today, or there might not be a tomorrow.

  2

  The Celebration

  Amethyst lifted the silver knife and looked around the long dining room table. “Who wants cake? I made it myself—three layers, coconut.”

  “I guess I’ll take some,” Con muttered, twisting his napkin in his lap.

  “Just a little slice for me,” Mimsy said with a titter.

  “Yeah, okay.” Little Am didn’t look up, but slouched further down in her chair and stared pointedly at her watch.

  Well, Amethyst thought, this has turned out to be some celebration. For the past hour and a half Conrad had barely spoken, and when he did it was with a forced cheerfulness. Mimsy frowned at her husband and tried to get him to talk, and Little Am spent the entire time slinking from one chair to the next, flipping through magazines and making her displeasure evident with exasperated sighs.

  It was more like a wake than a party, and Amethyst had the uncomfortable feeling that she was the corpse.

  Finally Conrad cleared his throat and pushed his cake aside. “Mother, we have to talk about something.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “All right.”

  “You’re ninety-three, Mother. I think it’s time for you to consider moving out of this drafty old house. You can’t continue living here by yourself, struggling to keep warm in the winter, cooking for yourself. I—that is, we, all of us—are worried about you. Why, you could fall and break a hip, and nobody would know it for a week. You could—”

  “I could keel over with a coronary tomorrow,” Amethyst interrupted, “but I don’t have any immediate plans to do so.”

  “And what do you need with such a huge house, anyway?” he persisted. “It’s just so much to keep up.”

  “It’s my home, Conrad.” Amethyst felt a tightening in her throat and a hot flush of anger surging up from her belly. “I was born here, and I will die here.”

  “Look, Mother.” His face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “There’s a nice new development of retirement condos in the south end of Memphis, just minutes from our house. It’s really beautifully done, with lots of lawn and a little pond with a gazebo. You’d be closer to us, and we could keep an eye on you—”

  “Keep an eye on me?” Her temper flared, and she fought to regain control. “I’m old, Conrad; I am not a child, and I am not senile. I don’t need supervision, and I don’t need to be stuck away in a home for the aged and infirm. I’m perfectly capable of ’keeping an eye’ on myself.”

  His tone mellowed, but his eyes turned to ice. “What if something happened to you?”

  “Believe it or not, plenty of people here in Cambridge know I’m still alive and care about me. If something happened, someone would call you.”

  Her eyes drifted to Mimsy, who was perched on the edge of her chair, staring at her husband as if he had lost his mind. Clearly she had not been party to what her husband had been planning.

  “We’re simply thinking of your best interests,” he protested. “We’re the only family you have, you know. Little Am is growing up—don’t you want to spend more time with your only great-granddaughter?”

  Am heaved another sigh and rolled her eyes. Right now, the last thing Amethyst wanted was to spend another moment in the presence of this changeling, but she didn’t say so. Something was up with Conrad, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it. She waved a hand in his direction. “Go on.”

  Evidently he took this as a sign that he was winning the argument, and he brightened. “The place is called Shady Brook, and it offers everything you could want. Nice apartments, trained medical personnel on the premises, three meals a day, plenty of company—”

  “So I could sit around playing checkers and watching soap operas with the other inmates,” she murmured. “How lovely.”

  He missed the sarcasm completely. “It really is nice, Mother. You’d have people your own age to spend time with—”

  “The only place I’d find people my age is in the cemetery,” she quipped. “I’ve outlived everybody.”

  “All the more reason you should spend your golden years in a place where you don’t have to lift a finger. Everything you need would be provided.”

  “I’m way past golden, Conrad. I’m on my way to platinum.” Amethyst caught Little Am’s eye and winked, and the girl, clearly surprised, gave an admiring nod and suppressed a laugh. Maybe there was hope for this child after all. Maybe there was a spark buried under all that black leather.

  Amethyst leaned back in her chair. One hand went to the brooch at her throat, and her fingers traced the outline of the heart. “And just how do you propose that I would pay for this life of luxury, do tell?”

  Conrad ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that.”

  I bet you have, Amethyst thought, but she kept silent and waited.

  Conrad avoided his wife’s incredulous stare and focused on his mother. She was beginning to play with the bait, he could see it. Now it was time to set the hook. “I took the liberty of doing a little preliminary checking, and I believe the sale of this house would provide all the financial resources you would need to—ah—make a change.”

  The whole truth was, he had gone far beyond “preliminary checking.” He had, in fact, already contacted a real estate agent and signed a seller’s contract in his mother’s name. The agent had two very good prospects in the wings, just waiting for approval to see Noble House. One of them, a successful corporate lawyer in Memphis, had already begun drawing up plans to turn Noble House into branch offices. He wanted to purchase the property and all the furnishings, and then would select some of the antiques to complement the decor of the office and dispose of the rest.

  “You would sell Noble House.” His mother’s tone was cold, controlled. “You would auction your history to the highest bidder.”

  “Well, yes,” Con stammered. “It’s only a matter of time, Mother. Mimsy and I can’t live here, not if I’m going to maintain my practice. The house would be sold . . . ah, eventually.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake, perhaps a fatal one. He watched as her hands, like talons, gripped the arms of her chair. Then she relaxed and gave him a faint smile—a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

  “And how much will Noble House bring on the current market?” she asked in a whisper.

  Conrad felt his pulse accelerate. If he could arrange to sell the house, with all its furnishings, he stood to clear nearly $900,000 on the deal. But he needed her to think that she would barely get by on what they made from the sale. The rest of it—most of it, in fact—would get him out of hot water. And if he played his cards right, he could make back what he took from the purchase price, and she would never know the difference.

 
; “Now, Mother, the financial part of it is very complicated. You don’t really need to concern yourself over all the details. Suffice it to say that you can live very comfortably on what you’ll make from the sale of the house. I’ll handle everything.”

  “I’m sure you will, Conrad.”

  “It’s a simple transaction,” he rushed on. “We will establish a trust fund with me as executor of the trust. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “I’m sure I won’t, Conrad.”

  He pulled the papers from his jacket pocket and spread them out on the table. “I’ve set it all up. All you have to do is sign, and then—”

  He looked up at her and saw a strange look pass over her face—an expression of—what was it? Understanding? Compassion? No, not that. Pity.

  “Just one thing, Conrad,” she said softly.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “You’ve been so efficient about everything else—I assume you’ve already engaged a real estate agent?”

  Her gaze pierced into his, and for a moment he felt the way he had when, as a boy, he had been caught in a lie. Maybe it was instinct, some kind of maternal ESP, but she had always known when he had been less than truthful. If he evaded her question or tried to bluff her, she would nail him. Some things between a mother and a son never changed, not even in adulthood.

  “Well, yes. A woman from here in Cambridge, actually. But she understands that nothing will be done without your approval.”

  It wasn’t an outright lie, but it wasn’t the complete truth, either. Buried in the sheaf of papers on the table was a power of attorney that gave Conrad the right to make any and all decisions on his mother’s behalf. He’d rather convince her to acquiesce quietly, but if that failed, he was prepared to have her declared incompetent. She was ninety-three, after all, and more than a little eccentric. It was for her own good, to get out of this house and into a more controlled environment. Besides, if his business went into bankruptcy, what would that do to her—to all of them? What other choice did he have?

  Still, invoking the power of attorney shouldn’t be necessary. He almost had her convinced, and once her signature was on the documents and she had agreed to the sale, he would be on his way toward financial solvency again.

  “Conrad?”

  His mother’s voice drew him back to the present, and he looked up.

  “I want to talk to the real estate agent.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Humor me. This is a major life change we’re talking about. And, as you well know, I’m rather attached to this old place. I want to make sure Noble House is in good hands.”

  A surge of hope rose up in Conrad’s heart. She was going to do it!

  “Well, sure, Mother. Just go ahead and sign these trust documents, and on Monday I’ll call her and we’ll set up a time—”

  “Now, Conrad. Before I sign anything, I want to talk to her.”

  “Now? But it’s Saturday afternoon, and—”

  “Real estate people work on the weekend, don’t they? This agent of yours is in Cambridge, isn’t she? Get in the car, drive over there, and bring her back.”

  “I—I guess I could do that, Mother. But why don’t you just sign—”

  “Now, Conrad. Take Mimsy with you. And pick up some vanilla ice cream on the way back, will you? I forgot to get it, and a birthday party is nothing without ice cream.”

  Ice cream. She wanted ice cream. And a face-to-face conversation with the real estate agent. Con sighed. All right. Whatever would get this over and done with in the quickest amount of time.

  He rose and placed his napkin on the table. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Mimsy, come on and go with me. Am—”

  “Little Am can stay here,” his mother said firmly. “She can help me clean up the dishes while you’re gone.”

  The girl sighed and rolled her eyes, then picked up her fork and played with the remains of the birthday cake.

  “Half an hour,” Con repeated, herding Mimsy toward the door. He shut the iron-grilled door behind him and sprinted for the Mercedes, with his wife on his heels, shrieking questions. But this time he found himself less irritated with her shrillness.

  He could put up with anything for half an hour. In half an hour he would be a very wealthy man.

  3

  The Hostage

  Amethyst watched her son and his wife get in the car and drive away. When they were gone, she turned the key in the iron security gate, removed it, and dropped it into her pocket.

  Con had insisted upon installing this security system—electronic sensors on all the windows, and wrought-iron grillwork on all the doors. The security gates were like storm doors, with screens and removable glass for ventilation, but covered by heavy decorative iron in a vine pattern. They had double deadbolt locks with keyholes on both sides. Once they were locked and the keys removed, no one could get in. No one.

  Not even her only son.

  Less than one minute into Conrad’s frantic attempt to convince her that selling her house and moving to Shady Brook was a brilliant idea, Amethyst had seen right through his pitch. He had never been able to deceive her—he ought to know that after sixty-six years. But apparently he still thought he could pull the wool over his own mother’s eyes. Or perhaps he just thought she was so old and senile that she wouldn’t know the difference.

  At any rate, she had suspected something was wrong even before he started talking; and the more he talked, the more she read between the lines. Something had happened, something even that simpering Mimsy didn’t know about. He was in financial trouble—big trouble, if he would go to this much effort to get his hands on Noble House.

  This wasn’t about her welfare, but about his.

  It was too bad he couldn’t just be honest with her, tell her what his problems were. She might have been able to help him. She still had a little nest egg from life insurance payments, money she had squirreled away and never touched. It had been gathering interest for years, and although she didn’t know the exact amount, it might have been enough to get Conrad out of whatever hole he had dug for himself.

  But give up Noble House? Let him sell off her life, her history, to the highest bidder—just to salvage his own reputation? She didn’t think so. She’d go down fighting, if she had to.

  Amethyst made the rounds, locked the rest of the doors, and stowed away all the keys. Then she went to the hall closet, pulled out a step-stool, and shakily hoisted herself up so she could see onto the top shelf.

  “Grandam?” Little Am’s voice came from below her. “What are you doing?”

  “Just getting something I need, child.”

  “Do you want me to get it?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just help me down.”

  A hand reached up to steady her—a pale, young hand with fingernails painted black. A ghoulish hand. Amethyst grabbed on and stumbled back down the two steps. When she had her footing on solid ground again, she let out a trembling breath. Maybe she was too old to be doing everything for herself. But giving up Noble House and moving into an old-age home was out of the question.

  “Grandam! What is that?”

  Little Am’s eyes sparked with excitement and a bit of fear. It was the most animation Amethyst had seen out of the child all day, and she peered at her namesake. The girl had striking eyes—dark brown, with long lashes—and strong, square-shaped features. If she would just get some of that shaggy hair out of her eyes and take off that garish eyeliner, she would be a lovely girl. She definitely favored the Noble clan, with her wide brow and stubborn jaw. And for the moment, that vacant, disinterested expression had vanished, and her face had come to life.

  “I said, what is that?”

  Amethyst chuckled. “It’s a gun, of course. Don’t you watch TV?”

  “I know it’s a gun,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a shotgun. Full-choke, double-barreled 12-gauge.”

  “Very good, Miss Marple,” Amethyst said as she nodded. “How do you know
that?”

  “Who’s Miss Marple?” Little Am countered. “And I know it because my friend Lenny has one. His daddy goes hunting with it. Lenny got into real trouble bringing it to school one day.”

  “Not the best choice for show and tell,” Amethyst agreed.

  “Hey, it wasn’t loaded.” She shrugged. “Besides, we’re too old for show and tell.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “Oh.” Am cocked her head. “Whatcha gonna do with it?”

  “Don’t schools teach grammar anymore?” Amethyst groaned. “What I’m going to do with it, young lady, is make sure your grandfather doesn’t sell my house out from under me.”

  “You gonna shoot him?” The girl’s eyes went wide with admiration.

  “I’m not going to shoot anybody. Call it . . . leverage.”

  “Oh, I get it. When he comes back with the real estate agent, you’re gonna tell him to hightail his butt out of here and never set foot in your house again.”

  “I was wrong,” Amethyst muttered. “You do watch TV. Far too much of it, obviously. And didn’t Mimsy ever teach you that it’s not polite to use the word butt?”

  Little Am ignored the question. “Hey, I saw a movie like this once. Some old geezer handcuffed himself to a bulldozer and wouldn’t let this developer guy level his house. And then some little robot aliens came to help, and they restored the old house all in one night, and so they left it as a . . . I don’t know, some kind of historical monument.”

  “Don’t expect aliens to come to the rescue.” Amethyst chuckled. “But you’re getting the picture.”

  “And so you’re gonna keep me here like . . . like a hostage? Cool.”

  Amethyst turned to look at the girl, this teenage aberration who bore her name. She wasn’t sure exactly why she had wanted Little Am to stay with her. Company, perhaps. Odd company, but company nevertheless.

  A sudden surge of tenderness rose up within her, and she reached out a hand to stroke the girl’s cheek. “You’re no hostage, child. You’re my great-granddaughter. My namesake. Maybe I thought that somehow you might understand.”