A Willing Murder Read online

  New York Times bestselling romance author Jude Deveraux makes her debut in the world of mystery with a story of old secrets, deadly grudges and an improbable group of friends who are determined to uncover the truth regardless of the consequences...

  Sara Medlar is a household name in romance, with millions of books sold. But lately, retirement has been boring her and she’s found herself back in her hometown of Lachlan, Florida, remodeling the grand old mansion she’d admired as a child. It’s much too big for her alone, but she’d die before letting anyone in town know that.

  Then Sara’s niece Kate is offered a job in Lachlan—a start in what could be a very successful career in real estate. She accepts immediately, but with so little saved up, she’ll have to approach her estranged yet incredibly famous aunt for a place to stay while she gets herself settled. But when she arrives at Sara’s home, she finds she’s not the only long-term houseguest. Jackson Wyatt already has his own room, and though it’s impossible to deny his good looks and charm—he’s clearly got her aunt wrapped around his finger—she’s also never met anyone who irritates her quite like Jack does.

  However, when two skeletons are accidentally uncovered in the quiet town, this unlikely trio is suddenly thrust together by a common goal: to solve a mystery everyone else seems eager to keep under wraps. United by a sense of justice and the desire to right old wrongs, Sara, Kate and Jack will have to dig into Lachlan’s murky past to unravel the small town’s dark secrets and work to bring the awful truth to light.

  Praise for the novels of Jude Deveraux

  “With three stories told two ways, this third book in Deveraux’s Summerhouse series (The Girl from Summer Hill, 2016, etc.) is emotional, imaginative, and gloriously silly.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on As You Wish

  “Deveraux’s charming novel has likable characters and life-affirming second chances galore.”

  —Publishers Weekly on As You Wish

  “Jude Deveraux’s writing is enchanting and exquisite.”

  —BookPage

  “Deveraux’s touch is gold.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A steamy and delightfully outlandish retelling of a literary classic.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on The Girl from Summer Hill

  “[A]n irresistibly delicious tale of love, passion, and the unknown.”

  —Booklist on The Girl from Summer Hill

  “[A] sexy, lighthearted romp.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Ever After

  “Thoroughly enjoyable.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Ever After

  Some secrets are better left buried...

  When he was done what he came to do, he patted the dirt down, then stood up. To make sure it was done right, he went around the tree again and again, stamping harder and harder, crushing what was buried beneath the soil.

  As he walked away, he smiled at the peaceful houses around him. His small town was such a nice place. In fact, maybe ridding it of undesirables had been a favor to the neighborhood. A lesson had been learned, and nothing like that would ever happen again...

  Jude Deveraux is the author of forty-three New York Times bestsellers, including Sweet Liar, the Nantucket series and A Knight in Shining Armor. She was honored with an RT Book Reviews Pioneer Award in 2013 for her distinguished career. To date, there are more than sixty million copies of her books in print worldwide.

  judedeveraux.com

  Also by Jude Deveraux and MIRA Books

  As You Wish

  Look for the next novel in the Medlar Mystery series,

  A Justified Murder,

  available soon from MIRA Books.

  For more from Jude Deveraux, visit her website at judedeveraux.com

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  PROLOGUE

  LACHLAN, FLORIDA

  5 SEPTEMBER, 1997

  He was wearing the clothes he’d found in the back of the old truck. Filthy, with pieces of grass clinging to them, they smelled bad and scratched his skin. The baggy pants had fresh oil on them and stuck to him in places.

  He didn’t think anyone would notice the rusty old truck, but he was cautious by nature. He stopped in front of the house for just minutes as he unloaded the tree. It was in a five-gallon pot and heavy. Dirt slid up his arms, adding a new layer of grime to the shirt.

  He left the tree on the lawn, then parked a block away in a vacant lot.

  It was full night, but still, he hurried back as fast as his disguise allowed. He bent over and shuffled in the heavy-soled work shoes. They were too small and hurt his feet.

  As he picked up the tree, he paused at the gate, listening. Night sounds: a TV in the distance, a child crying. All ordinary and nothing to worry about. When he was sure no one was near, he went around the side to the hole in the back. It hadn’t been dug by him, but had been used to roast a pig and never filled in. There was still grease in places.

  Immediately, he saw that the dirt had been disturbed. His heart leaped into his throat and pounded hard. His mind raced forward to what would be done if someone found out what had happened. It would be the end of his life, of his family’s life.

  “Happened,” he said aloud. Yes, it had just happened. Not anyone’s fault. It was something that couldn’t be helped.

  When he’d calmed himself enough to look closer, he saw that the dirt had moved from beneath. Not from an outside disturbance, but from inside. Underneath.

  He refused to think what that meant. A vague question—which one?—ran through his mind, but he didn’t try to find out.

  The hole had been deep and they were small. Only a thin layer of dirt was over them, so there was still plenty of depth left for planting.

  He hefted the tree out of the plastic pot and put it on top of what was barely covered. He adjusted it so it was on the exact spot that had been disturbed.

  When he realized he didn’t have a shovel, he cursed in annoyance. Maybe there was one in the truck, but that meant he’d have to make another trip in and out. He couldn’t risk it.

  Angry, he got down on his hands and knees and began clawing at the pile of soil. The hole had been there a long time and was littered with beer cans and broken glass. When he cut his hand, he wiped the blood on the old shirt.

  Two times the earth shifted from beneath, but he ignored it. He was satisfied that he was planting a truly beautiful tree. It was a fitting monument to—to them.

  When he was done, he patted the dirt down, then stood up. To make sure it was done right, he went around the tree again and again, stamping harder and harder, crushing what was buried beneath the soil.

  By the time he finished, it was late. He left the backyard of the ramshackle house and walked down the street to the truck.

  For a moment he thought it wasn’t going to start, but it did. He drove it back to the owner’s house, removed the old clot
hes from over his own and threw them in the back.

  As he walked away, he smiled at the peaceful houses. His small town was such a nice place. In fact, maybe ridding it of undesirables had been a favor to the neighborhood. All he was sure of was that he was content to know that a lesson had been learned and nothing like that would ever happen again.

  * * *

  A few months later, the abandoned house was put up for rent. It was said that the last tenant and her daughter had packed up and run away in the night. No one liked the mother much, so they didn’t mind. And besides, everyone in town knew the truth about her. Too bad about her daughter, though.

  While he’d been waiting, he’d made a plan. He did some clever and elaborate dealings to buy the place under a name that had nothing to do with him.

  Anonymously, he put the house under the care of a management company that kept it rented. The money was sent to a charity for battered women. They sent thank-you notes, but he never saw them.

  The rental agreement stipulated that the beautiful royal poinciana tree in the backyard was never to be disturbed. It wasn’t even allowed to be pruned. The tree grew and flourished and was remarked on by many people.

  Gradually, the incident faded so deeply into the man’s long-ago memory that he sometimes wondered if it had actually happened.

  But then, one night as he was watching the local news on TV, he saw a picture of the house and the tree. A pretty young journalist was saying that Wyatt Construction had bought six houses on one street and they were going to completely remodel them. The reporter held the mic toward the owner, Jackson Wyatt, a tall, handsome, dark-haired young man.

  “We’re going to redo the houses from two feet down up to the rooftops,” he said, his head turned in profile to the camera.

  “You aren’t going to take out that big poinciana, are you?” the reporter asked.

  “We are, actually. The truth is, that tree’s never been taken care of and it’s full of termites. The next big storm will knock it down for sure, and it’s going to land on a couple of houses—or maybe people.”

  “That’s sad.” She smiled at Jack.

  “Yeah, it is.” He smiled back.

  The man threw the remote at the screen. How could this have happened? He owned that house! How could it have been sold to someone else?

  It took him hours of digging through papers that had long ago been filed away to find the single sentence that released the house to be sold. He’d done such a good job of keeping himself disconnected from the property that when it had been confiscated, no one knew how to contact him.

  His initial anger was replaced with fear. Logically, he doubted if he could be connected to what would be found when the tree—and what was beneath it—was dug up, but people in small towns had long memories. And they were always snooping. It was better to be cautious than sorry.

  He made himself a fresh pot of coffee and began to think about what he had to do to stop this desecration from happening. He’d stop it no matter what it took—and he’d start with the guy from Wyatt Construction.

  ONE

  LACHLAN, FLORIDA

  SPRING 2017

  Sara was sitting in Jack’s drab, sunless apartment on an old chair someone had given him. She let her shoulders droop and her head sag in an attempt to show every minute of her sixty-plus years of life. It wasn’t helping that she’d been in boxing class at 6:00 a.m. When she moved her arm, she gave an involuntary gasp. She was sore from all those uppercuts her trainer had made her do.

  As she watched Jack stumble about the dreary room on his crutches, she tried not to show how her heart was breaking for him.

  To her, Jack was the grandson she should have had. She and his late grandfather, Callum Wyatt, had been born in the same year and had grown up living next door to each other. They’d always been in love, had always planned to marry, but because of things that Sara worked hard not to remember, that hadn’t happened. Cal had stayed in little Lachlan and run his father’s car repair shop, while Sara had, as Cal used to say, “conquered the world.” It was a gross exaggeration, but it had made Sara laugh, so Cal was content.

  Jack was her compensation for the past. Since he was eighteen, Sara had been a silent partner in his construction business and they’d spent a lot of time together. When Sara retired, she never thought of going anywhere other than where Jack was. And right now, she didn’t feel even a smidgen of guilt about conspiring with his mother and sister to get him to move into her big house with her. Someone needed to take care of Jackson Charles Wyatt because he certainly wasn’t doing it!

  It looked like the pain she was feeling was worth it because Jack was at last losing that expression she’d seen so many times on Cal—head back just a fraction, chin out, lower lip rigid. “You can’t make me do it.” His mother said those were the first words Jack spoke. Full sentence, no piddling around with just one word, but the entire statement said at once. And said fiercely.

  Now here he was, thirty-one years old, six feet two inches of mostly muscle, his leg in a cast and leaning on crutches—and he looked just like that little kid.

  Yes, he was balking at making the move, but Sara had a trick up her sleeve. She’d just told him that her niece was coming to visit. “I can’t help it,” Sara said, “I’m nervous about her being here.”

  “Then tell her not to come.”

  His words were harsh, but she could tell that he was softening. Maybe it was the stairs. His apartment was on the second floor of an old house he’d bought years ago. It was a struggle to carry groceries up the outside stairs while on crutches.

  “You must make rules for her to follow.” Jack was frowning.

  Sara turned away to hide her smile. His tone was just like his grandfather’s. Sara used to tell Cal he should try out to play Moses. Stern, lecturing, ready to give out orders.

  Sara tried to slump more. Look old! she commanded herself. “It’s just that I’ve lived alone for so long that I don’t know how to handle a visitor.” She gave a sad little sigh and looked at Jack for sympathy. She saw his lashes flicker. Inside, he was as soft as his grandfather.

  “She’s my niece, but I haven’t been around her since she was a child,” Sara continued. “She was so sweet and funny then. And very smart. I’ve seen lots of photos of her, but...” She gave another sigh. “I just don’t know how she’s going to be to live with. Will she Tweet and text me rather than actually speaking?” She gave a genuine gasp of horror. “What if she...if she says ‘amazing’ in every sentence? How will I stand it? Will she—?”

  She broke off as Jack hobbled to the couch and heaved himself down. He was a strong young man and shouldn’t have that much trouble with a cast and crutches. But she wasn’t worried about him physically. What Sara was concerned about was Jack’s mental state. The wreck that smashed his leg had killed his half brother. As Jack was taken to the hospital, he kept saying that it was all his fault. He’d been drinking, so he let Evan drive. Jack had fallen asleep so hard that he didn’t wake up until the truck was flipping around and around through the air. He kept saying, “If only I’d stayed awake... If only I’d driven...”

  It was Jack’s deep sense of guilt and his grief that Sara was worried about. She was determined to do whatever was necessary to get him to stay with her in her huge house. She wanted to make sure that he didn’t do...well, do something dumb.

  Jack’s mother had planned it with Sara. “He won’t listen to me,” Heather said.

  Her eyes were red from days of crying. Evan hadn’t been her child but she’d loved him. At the funeral, someone said that Heather had been a better mother to Evan than his own had.

  But Sara hadn’t been able to come up with anything that wouldn’t make Jack dig in his heels and refuse to move. “I’m worried about you” was sure to make him say no.

  Then, last evening, she got an email from her beloved niece, Kate. She s
aid she had a job in Lachlan and asked if she could please stay with Sara until she got a place of her own.

  The thought of her niece coming made Sara so happy that she turned on some old blues music and danced from one room to another. The house was too big, too empty, and besides, retirement sucked. What was she to do with her mind in retirement? She couldn’t think of anything better than having her lively young niece to stay. There was a self-contained apartment on the west side of the house and it opened into a little courtyard with a fountain of a girl dancing in the rain. Kate would probably love it. Maybe she’d like everything so much that she’d stay permanently. Maybe the two of them could do things together. Go places. Maybe—As always, Sara’s mind had taken off like a freight train on jet fuel. An hour later, she’d planned three trips she and her niece could take together.

  Later, when she stepped into her big, glass-surrounded shower, she thought of Ivy—who was Kate’s age—helping to decorate the apartment. Right now there was only a queen-size bed in there, and the living room didn’t have so much as a chair.

  As she shampooed her hair, she thought how Ivy could—Sara halted. Ivy. Jack’s half sister. He shared a father with Evan and a mother with Ivy. And they had all grown up together.

  “Eureka!” Sara shouted as she rinsed her hair. Kate’s visit might be the key to getting Jack to stay with her. He could take the bedroom by the garage. When he’d remodeled the house, he’d made that room quite nice. There was no furniture in it, either, but one trip to a store and...

  By the time Sara got out of the shower, she was hatching a plan. Once she got Jack out of his second-story apartment, she and Heather—and Kate—would make sure he didn’t let his grief overcome him.

  As she looked across Jack’s dull little apartment, Sara said, “I just want to feel safe.” She was slumped so far down in the awful old chair that her neck was practically on the seat cushion. Jack had always been one to help a person in need—as long as it wasn’t him who needed it.