Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [76]
“You may be her son, but that doesn’t automatically give you a place in this family.” Eleanor had plenty of backbone when put to the challenge. Maybe she’d do better at the ransom drop than I anticipated. “If Monica wanted you to be part of her life, she would have told me about you.”
“I’m not a fool, Aunt Eleanor. I have standing. Legal standing. If put to the test, I’ll wring every last ounce due me out of you and Mommy dearest.”
“It always comes down to money.” Eleanor’s fists clenched at her side. “Always money. You don’t care about anything else.”
“It’s the altar where you worship. Monica left me behind so she wouldn’t have to care for me. She never even sent a birthday card—all to protect her fortune from my father, a man who would have starved rather than take a dime.”
“Too bad you don’t take after him.”
I thought Eleanor had taken it too far. Barclay stepped back as if he’d been slapped. The earlier blow Eleanor intended to deliver came in the form of words so cutting, even I gasped.
“Tell Monica I’m at the Eola. She can call on me if she desires. Otherwise, my lawyer will be in touch. I advise the two of you to meet me head on rather than drag this into court. I have all the time in the world, and I’ll likely get a judge’s order allowing me to reside here at Briarcliff while we battle it out. Think of it, Auntie. Dinner at eight in the formal dining room, just the three of us.”
Barclay stalked out of the foyer and down the front steps. A moment later his black sedan tore down the driveway.
* * *
Sweetie Pie was up for an outing, so I took the dogs down the path to Jerome’s cottage. Tinkie and Eleanor had to call Oscar about the ransom money. I was just as happy to be out looking for clues.
The day was beautiful—hot and sunny, as if the night had never happened. Walking toward the cottage, I remembered the sense of someone watching in the thick fog. In the bright sunshine, with a breeze off the river and birds singing and calling, it seemed improbable. Even Sweetie acted as if her injury had been part of a nightmare.
I came to a place in the dirt path where it was obvious a scuffle had occurred. John Hightower’s camera had flown into the underbrush somewhere near here. I had to find it. The camera would tell me a lot about what Hightower was up to at Briarcliff.
Chablis bounced in and out of the underbrush, yapping, and I had to smile at her joy and enthusiasm. She was so puppy-like at times, but I’d seen the lioness emerge when necessary. She was, indeed, Tinkie’s child.
The dustmop gave a bark of excitement, and I stepped off the path to see what she’d found. I wasn’t surprised when she pawed at a camera lying under a huckleberry bush. Tinkie was the photography buff, but I could manage the basic functions. I picked it up and checked to see if there was obvious damage sustained when it was thrown into the bushes. It seemed fine, so I turned it on and went to the view function.
Hundreds of photos were cached on the memory stick. In dozens of grainy images, a horse and rider moved blurrily through the fog. Hightower had camped out in the front shrubbery near where Jerome had reported an intruder the previous night.
Hightower had a bird’s-eye view of the horse and rider—had the weather cooperated, his pictures might have identified the rider.
One frame captured the horse rearing over my head. An Andalusian. A magnificent animal known for its athleticism, good temperament, courage, and handsomeness. The rider’s features were lost in shadows, but he was graceful and accomplished.
The photo reminded me of the danger I’d been in as I stood beneath the front hooves, the horse pawing the air. It was a stupendous photo that would scare the socks off Graf if he ever saw it. Which meant he never would.
I clicked to the final image and nearly dropped the camera. For a moment I thought the glare of the hot summer sun had fogged the screen or that a trick of light was playing