A Justified Murder Read online

  New York Times bestselling romance author Jude Deveraux continues her breakout Medlar Mystery series with a twisted tale of guilt and revenge...

  The small town of Lachlan, Florida, was rocked last year when two bodies were uncovered in the roots of a fallen tree. Despite their lack of investigative experience, Sara Medlar; her niece, Kate; and Jack Wyatt found themselves at the center of the mystery, working together to reveal the truth behind a decades-old secret in the sleepy town. After a narrow escape, they vowed to never again involve themselves in something so dangerous—until Janet Beeson is murdered.

  When Janet’s body is discovered, everyone is shocked by the violence of the attack. The sweet little old woman has been shot, stabbed and poisoned, but no one can imagine who would want to harm one of the town’s kindest, most helpful residents.

  Sara, Kate and Jack are determined to leave this case to the professionals. But they are soon bombarded by townspeople eager to tell their stories and clear their names with the trio who solved the Morris murders. Even the sheriff is hoping they’ll lend their skills to a crime that seems to have no explanation and no motive. And once the town gets talking, they begin to see that there are more secrets buried in quiet Lachlan than anyone could have imagined...

  Lachlan, Florida

  Kate didn’t faint as she’d done the last time she’d seen a dead body, but she did sway on her feet. Considering what she was looking at, it was a wonder she didn’t hit the floor. There was a bullet hole in the woman’s head, a huge knife in her chest close to her heart, and— Was that something at the side of her mouth green?

  Behind Kate, Jack put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

  In the distance they could hear what sounded like the sirens of an army of squad cars coming toward them.

  Praise for the novels of Jude Deveraux

  “The mystery debut of bestselling romance author Deveraux...starts with an unhappily-ever-after—an unsolved murder. But its heroine, a romance novelist, has a better ending in mind. Fans of Deveraux and the cozy mystery genre will find common ground in this twisted tale of forgotten graves, small-town grudges, and new friends.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on A Willing Murder

  “With three stories told two ways, this third book in Deveraux’s Summerhouse series 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

  JUDE DEVERAUX

  A Justified Murder

  Also by Jude Deveraux and MIRA Books

  Medlar Mysteries

  A WILLING MURDER

  The Summerhouse Series

  AS YOU WISH

  For additional books by

  New York Times bestselling author Jude Deveraux,

  visit her website, www.jude-deveraux.com.

  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.

  Jude-Deveraux.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  One

  LACHLAN, FLORIDA

  DORA FOUND THE BODY—and all she felt was annoyance. Now she’d have to find someone else to clean for to fill out the week. Mrs. Beeson—as she insisted on being called even though there was no evidence that she’d ever had a husband—had been a good employer. She always left a hundred-dollar bill, always said thanks. At Christmas, she left an envelope containing three crisp, new one hundreds and a card that wished her a merry holiday.

  Now here she was, slumped forward in the chair, face on her knees. There was a hole in the back of her head. Blood and...stuff was on the wall behind her. Dora didn’t see a gun but she guessed it was squashed between her belly and thighs.

  Dora knew she ought to call the sheriff. But if she hadn’t cleaned the house yet, would she have a right to take the envelope on the desk that had her name on it?

  She could almost hear her late husband, Herbert, chiding her. “Shouldn’t you feel sorry for her?” he’d say. “Poor thing was so sad that she took her own life. Didn’t she have friends who could help her?”

  “Not that I know of,” Dora said aloud, then caught herself. She tried to keep Herbert’s voice to herself and not let anyone know how often she heard it.

  She went around the body, picked up the envelope, and put it in her pocket. For a moment, she looked out the window at the palm trees and thought of what her beloved Herbert would advise. She knew she needed to work up some sympathy, maybe even some tears, for Mrs. Beeson. It wouldn’t do to call Sheriff Flynn sounding like she couldn’t care less that her employer had just offed herself. With her shoulders braced, Dora made the call.

  Deputy Beatrice answered.

  “Oh, Bea.” Dora was nearly choking on the memory of Herbert’s funeral. “The most awful thing has happened.”

  “Take a breath,” Bea said, “and tell me what it is.”

  “Janet Beeson killed herself.”

  Bea didn’t hesitate. “We’ll be right there and don’t touch anything. Absolutely nothing.”

  “I won’t.” Dora clicked off the phone, and her tears dried immediately. “Damn!” she muttered and put her pay envelope back on the desk. With a resentful glare at Mrs. Beeson’s body, she sat down in the living room to wait for whoever was going to show up.

  * * *

  Sheriff Daryl Flynn was the first to arrive on the scene. After Bea told him what happened, he hadn’t gone tearing away, sirens blaring. It wasn’t a criminal act, but the suicide of a sad old woman. He knew that Janet Beeson lived alone. He didn’t think she’d even had any pets. Maybe the Lachlan website should include that article he’d read about how pets are good for old people and prisoners.

  As he drove, taking his time, he realized he hadn’t been this far out on San Remo Avenue in a while and he saw that the local super-Realtor, Tayla Kirkwood, had been at work here. The houses looked as manicured as the ones inside those fancy gated communities down in Plantation. For himself, sometimes
he missed the days when Lachlan front yards had old cars on concrete blocks. Pretty as the place was, it lacked a sense of personality. It was as though everyone was just alike.

  Janet Beeson’s house was at the edge of the town limits. To his left, down Kirkwood Lane, was Tayla’s ridiculously big, gaudy house.

  On the right were lush palm trees. When he neared the address, there was a tall, solid steel fence that seemed to go on and on. When did that go up? he wondered. A wide metal gate was standing open, but he saw the lockbox nearby. The place looked like the home of some California movie star, not suited for sleepy little Lachlan. Why had no one told him about this?

  He pulled into the drive that was shaded by overhanging trees, with flowering shrubs along the sides. He knew professional landscaping when he saw it. All this had taken time and a whole bunch of money.

  He parked his Broward County Sheriff’s car to the side, got out, and looked around the place. The house was long and low, with a red tile roof, blue-and-white Spanish tiles under the portal, expensive outdoor furniture, and a quietly splashing fountain with iron birds on it. He thought: wealthy widow. South Florida was full of the dears. Work-exhausted Yankee husbands died and left it all to their widows. The women moved south to Florida’s divine climate and tarted up some house, then...

  Then lived in isolation, Sheriff Flynn thought. Sad, unhappy, lonely women.

  Dora met him at the front door. She’d lived in Lachlan all her life and he’d gone to school with her. She was a little out of it since her husband died and tended to still talk to him, but she was a good person.

  “What was it?” he asked. “Pills?”

  Dora didn’t say anything, just turned and led the way to the back of the house.

  As he followed, he saw lots of marble—cool in Florida’s warm climate—and things that glittered. Tables with gold-colored legs, shiny wood, heavy curtains that shimmered. His wife made fun of the style. “Might as well put up wallpaper that says ‘I am rich,’” she said.

  When the sheriff entered the last room, he was almost smiling. But one look at Janet Beeson’s body and he halted. Holy crap! The woman had blown the back of her head out. On the wall was...

  He turned away, not wanting to see what was there. For this, he was going to need backup. He took out his cell to put in a call to the main office, but then the body started to slip to one side.

  Without thinking that he was changing the scene, he made a leap forward and caught poor Janet before she hit the floor. When the body fell back against the chair, what he saw so stunned him that he dropped his phone.

  “Oh. My. God,” Dora said.

  They both stood there, paralyzed.

  Janet Beeson had a gunshot in her head and a large knife sticking out of her chest. Green vomit was on her chin and down the front of her shirt. Poison, maybe?

  Sheriff Flynn recovered first. “Somebody really, really wanted her dead,” he managed to say. It took a while to find his phone, but he hesitated in calling the main office. What would it matter if he took a few minutes to collect himself?

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the body. Janet Beeson, of all people! He couldn’t remember anything significant about her. If her name was ever mentioned, it was always in good terms.

  As his senses came back to him, it was as though he could see the future. He was just the local sheriff, so the big shots at Broward would take over this case. The fact that he’d lived in Lachlan all his life would mean nothing to them. They’d push him out completely. That he’d been instrumental in helping solve the last murder would mean nothing to them. He doubted if they’d even let him have a set of the photos they’d take. How could he investigate—on his own—if he couldn’t study the crime scene? He needed those photos!

  Before he could think about what he was doing, he called Sara Medlar’s private number. She answered on the first ring. “I need you to take pictures of a dead body. Now. 2012 San Remo. It’s—” Sara had already hung up.

  Sheriff Flynn smiled. It was lunchtime so Jack might be home. He’d want to get here fast, so Sara just might arrive with young Jack on his dad’s big Harley. About six minutes later, he heard the roar of the bike and his smile widened. At least he’d get photos! And if he manipulated the Medlar trio right, he might get more.

  Yes, it would be better to call the downtown office after Sara had done her job. He went outside to meet them.

  Two

  KATE MEDLAR WAS showing a cute three-bedroom house that had just come on the market.

  “I really hate the furniture,” the man said.

  “So do I,” his wife said. “We’re more modern than this.”

  “I think my grandmother has a cabinet just like that.” His tone held a sneer of derision.

  Kate didn’t grit her teeth. “Everything will be moved out as soon as the house sells.” She tried to sound as though she’d never before heard what they were saying. “Let me show you the rest of the home.”

  She listened as they complained about every feature in the kitchen. They liked dark cabinets, not white. Hated the fridge and the stove. He despised...

  Kate stepped away to let them enjoy their belief in their superior taste. She looked forward to telling them that the kitchen cabinets were Swedish and had cost about fifty grand. What she really wanted to say was that the cabinet in the living room was genuine Hepplewhite. If his grandmother owned one, it should be heavily insured.

  But selling required endless patience—and keeping your mouth shut.

  Kate looked outside. It was autumn and on their last call, her mother had asked if she missed the color change of the leaves in the Chicago suburb where she’d grown up. Kate had said she did, but that wasn’t completely true. A couple of friends she kept in touch with had smirkingly asked how she bore the heat of a South Florida summer. She’d been more honest with them. “In a bikini in my aunt’s private swimming pool.” That had shut them up so well that their emails had become less frequent.

  Just six months ago, Kate had arrived in Lachlan, one of many little towns attached to enormous Fort Lauderdale. Stores, restaurants, services, gyms, and entertainment were all there and easy to reach via wide, clean streets. A very enjoyable place to live.

  She hadn’t arrived feeling that way. She’d been scared half to death at the newness of what she was undertaking. She was going to be staying with her late father’s older sister, a woman she knew nothing about. Sara Medlar was a famous writer, now retired—sort of. She still spent whole days with pen and paper writing no one knew what.

  Jack said that a writer retiring was like a rehabbed drug addict taking a job in a cocaine factory. The goings-on in the world offered too much temptation to be able to resist recording them.

  Jack was Aunt Sara’s friend. Or as she put it, “the grandson I should have had.” At the first of the year he’d been in a car crash that had killed his younger half brother. When Kate met him, Jack was grieving and angry, and his leg was in a cumbersome cast.

  Aunt Sara said that Kate’s refusal to feel sorry for Jack had brought him out of his depression. Whatever it was, the three of them had found that living together in Aunt Sara’s big, beautiful house suited them. Sara had a bedroom suite on one side, Kate had a suite of rooms on the other side, and Jack was in the middle. He had a spacious bedroom with a sitting area by the garage so he could come and go whenever he wanted without anyone knowing.

  They shared cooking, straightening the house, and errands. What they didn’t share was the remote control to the big TV in the family room. Any show too “girly” as Jack called it was to be viewed in private. Sara and Kate made a point of never obeying his rule.

  Back in the spring, they’d been thrown into solving an old mystery that had nearly killed them. But they’d done it together and it had bonded them. The Lachlan sheriff referred to them as though they were just one person. The Three, he called them. Au
nt Sara had written Together in calligraphy, framed it, and hung it over the TV. If she’d meant to make Jack remember that they were a team and therefore willingly share the remote, she had failed.

  After the mystery was solved, Sara and Jack went back to their normal lives and Kate began a new one. Jack bought run-down houses in Lachlan and, with his crew, remodeled them. Kate worked for Kirkwood Realty as an agent. She’d already sold two houses this year and had three strong possibilities lined up. Sara filled her days with... Well, no one was sure what she did, but she was always busy. She loved photography and often showed them staggeringly beautiful pictures she’d taken that day.

  The prospective buyers were still complaining about the house when Kate’s phone buzzed. It was a rare thing indeed: a text from Jack.

  Come now. 2012 San Remo. Near Tayla. Jack wasn’t one to waste words. If he said now that’s what he meant. Kate felt a sense of panic. Was something wrong with Aunt Sara?

  It was bad for business, but Kate pretty much shoved the two lookie-loos out the front door and locked it. She ran to her car, which was parked on the street. When she drove clients around, she used her sedate, boring sedan. But on days like this, when she met them somewhere, she drove Aunt Sara’s fast yellow MINI Cooper. When she floored the accelerator, the little car leaped forward.

  Since Tayla was her boss, Kate had been to her house several times and knew the address. Jack was standing by the gate. All six foot two of him, sweaty T-shirt plastered to his muscular chest, was frowning.

  He motioned for her to park on the far side of the road, and as soon as she was out of the car, she said in fear, “Aunt Sara?”

  “She’s fine. What the hell took you so long?” Turning, he headed toward the house, Kate close behind him.

  She was unperturbed by the legendary Wyatt temper. “Stopped for a couple of beers. This better be good. You made me lose two clients.”