Blood Will Tell

By C. S. Donnell

Amy Cummings grew up in boarding schools and distant colleges. Now she is coming home. Home? Her mother is long dead and her father doesn’t want her around. Nothing has changed—nothing except the appearance of Robert Michaels, the new chauffeur, nephew of her father’s estate manager.
Amy hopes for a new life are torn away when her father discovers her secret. Her plans to marry interfere with his plans and he can’t allow that to happen. Amy is shipped away in the middle of the night to a place that only pretends to be a simple home for unwed mothers. Everyone disappears, from her life. In spite of years of searching, she can find no trace of anyone.
Eighteen years later, Amy receives a letter from the father she thought, or at least hoped, was long dead. providing clues to finding the missing pieces of her past.
Hope of regaining some of what was lost quickly descends to terror as Amy discovers her father’s true motives. Old family secrets are exposed as Amy spirals thorough a treacherous maze. Lives depend on finding answers in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. S. Donnell
• Release date: Oct 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310483073

C. S. Donnell

Carolyn's stories and poems have won many awards with a first in fiction at the 2015 San Francisco Writers Conference, Exhibitor of the Year in 2014 at Literary Arts Division of the San Mateo County Fair, Frontiers in Writing-Panhandle Pro Writers, Southwest Writers, and CWC South Bay Writers. Other passions from the past include painting and playing viola. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Book preview

BEGINNINGS

Prologue

You’ve found her? Where? Ralph Cummings snatched a pen from the desk and scribbled on a notepad. Got it. Stay put till I get there. He slammed the phone down, stuffed the address into his pocket, and punched the intercom. Bring the car around. Immediately! He retrieved his revolver from the desk drawer.

Downstairs, Ralph handed the address to the chauffer. This is urgent, Ralph said. Step on it. He slid into the back seat of the Mercedes. A little less than an hour later they pulled up to an apartment brownstone at the end of a private road.

Wait here, Ralph said to the driver. He waved to the private detective waiting on the steps. Hey, Pete.

Pete nodded and pointed to a second-floor window.

Is she alone? Ralph asked.

As far as I know. Haven’t seen anyone else.

Good. Ralph fingered the gun in his coat pocket. Let’s go!

They entered the building and ran up the stairs to 2B. Ralph stepped behind Pete, who rang the doorbell.

Who is it? A woman’s voice answered.

A messenger from your accountant’s office, Pete replied.

Oh. Just a minute.

The two men heard the sliding of a chain and saw the knob turn. A slender woman with long chestnut hair and hazel eyes opened the door. Yes?

Ralph stepped out from behind Pete.

You! Get out! she screamed and tried to slam the door, but Pete forced it open.

Ralph entered and shouted, You goddammed whore!

The woman whimpered and backed away.

Thought you could get away, did you? You and your lover. Ralph sneered as he looked into her eyes. He paused. Those eyes always reminded him of a doe in the forest, beautiful, radiant.

He inhaled sharply and shook his head. No! He grabbed her arm. You’re not getting away this time, Julianna. You’re mine and you’re coming home with me.

Let go!

You even left your daughter.

Amy? What have you done to her?

Don’t worry, she’s off to boarding school. They’ll take good care of her there. And she’ll be out of my hair, he thought.

Boarding school? No! You can’t. Julianna swung her fist at Ralph. You bastard.

Ralph twisted her arm behind her back and slammed her into the wall. Can and have.

Ohh! Julianna moaned and tried to pull away. You can’t stop me, Ralph.

Oh yes I can, he whispered in her ear. Ralph shouted at Pete. Now!

Pete pulled a syringe out of his pocket.

Julianna screamed.

Ralph pulled out his gun. Don’t make me use this.

Pete stepped forward. It only took seconds for the drug to take effect.

Do you want me to get her things now? Pete asked.

No. just find her apartment key. You can come back later for the rest.

Here. Pete held up a keychain. He tried the keys in the front door. One fit.

Good. Help me. Ralph pulled Julianna’s arm around his shoulder and motioned to Pete to do the same on the other side. They guided her limp body back to the limo.

In the back, Ralph nodded toward the passenger door. They deposited Julianna in the back seat and joined her. The Mercedes returned to the estate.

"Pull around to the back, Ralph ordered the chauffeur. Stop by the cellar door."

Pete helped Ralph get the still unconscious Julianna out of the car. He held her while Ralph opened the door to the basement. They descended to the cellar.

Over there. Ralph motioned to a Victorian wardrobe that sat in the shadows against the far wall. He grabbed a flashlight off a shelf and opened the creaky doors. He pointed a beam of light up the twisting staircase.

How far up does it go? Pete craned his neck to look up into the darkness. Looks like forever from here.

All the way to the top of the tower—three-and-a-half stories.

They lugged Julianna to the top of the staircase and followed a faded orange carpet to a door at the end of the dim hall.

Juliana whimpered as they threw her on the bed. I’ll stay here, Ralph said. You go down and get the housekeeper. Bring her up the front stairs. And hurry. Only the housekeeper. Don’t mention this to anyone else. Ralph looked at Pete. Got that?

Pete nodded.

Ralph pointed to the table by the bed. And leave the syringe with me.

Chapter 1

Coming Home?

The black Mercedes limo slipped through the Northern California fog. Amy Cummings grabbed the armrest as the car swerved on the near hairpin curve. She glanced at the tinted glass between the rear and front seats.

Wasn’t Fred driving today? He never drove this fast on a straight road, much less the twisting mountain road that led down to the coast. She concentrated on the partition but behind smoky glass all chauffeurs looked the same.

The pilot of the private jet had been the one to load her luggage. Was this a substitute driver? Was Fred ill? Why the rush? She was in no hurry to get home. Not today. Not ever.

The car continued down the slope and followed a flat coastal road for a while before turning up an even steeper lane that led past houses clinging to precipitous cliffs.

Amy watched out the passenger window as they pulled up to the entry to her father’s estate. Jagged iron points topped the wall and cast wavering shadows in the morning mist as the gates creaked slowly open.

The air in the sedan turned cold in spite of the heated vents. She pulled her cashmere cardigan tighter around her shoulders as the car progressed toward the house. The entryway of heavy stonework and leaded windows, along with a third story of gabled attic rooms set in a two-story conical stone tower, reminded her of a fortified castle.

Amy rubbed her forehead. Home? This place was never a home. Her permanent residence, the Bryn Mawr College acceptance letter had stated. What a laugh. Nowhere else to go was more like it.

The car eased to a stop. Amy grabbed her purse as the passenger door closest to the house opened. She reached out for the chauffeur’s gloved hand of assistance. The smile caught her attention first.

Our chauffeur doesn’t have a bright smile, she thought and took a closer look. The hazy sunlight reflecting off the intermittent fog outlined his body with a silvery aura. Her eyes swiftly raked him from head to foot.

The family chauffeur also didn’t have a slim muscled body, loosely curling brown hair, or sparkling blue eyes that looked at her like he had seen something both pleasing and amusing at the same time.

She jerked her hand from his. Who are you?

Robert Michaels, ma’am. He tipped in a bow.

Amy looked around. Where’s Fred?

I’m afraid he’s ill. I’m his nephew.

Nephew? I wasn’t told about any nephew. She narrowed her eyes as she pictured Fred in her mind—middle-aged, reserved, quiet and unobtrusive—seen but not heard, and certainly without laughing eyes.

She tossed her hair back. Bags in the trunk. Take them around to the side door at once. She turned too quickly and the leather soles of her designer Italian shoes slipped on the stonework. For a moment she felt she might tumble headlong at his feet but regained her balance. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him laughing. Jutting her jaw, she strode through the front door. She hoped the wobble in her step wasn’t noticeable.

Chapter 2

Take Care

Robert Michaels stood by the car and watched his passenger’s unsteady gait. He almost burst out laughing when she attempted a haughty attitude and swiveled so sharply, she almost slipped. But now, with the sunshine reflecting on her luminous mane, she looked like a brushed and shiny thoroughbred, prancing, ready for the races.

He reluctantly forced his attention back to the limo and climbed into the driver’s seat. After removing luggage and packages at the side entrance, he parked at the back of the house and walked down the graveled pathway to the two-story cottage he shared with his Uncle Fred.

Hanging his chauffeur’s jacket and cap on the wooden hooks by the front door, he continued on into the living room. He settled into the high-backed chair by the window. His long fingers rapped on the chair’s arm as he stared out toward the trees behind the cottage.

His uncle entered the room. You’re back early. I hope you didn’t drive fast in this fog. When his nephew didn’t respond, Fred stepped closer and tapped his cane on the floor. Good morning, Bobby.

Robert looked up. Huh? Oh, hi. What?

I said you’re back early. Speeding in the fog I assume. Fred surveyed his nephew’s face and nodded. Oh, I see. You’ve met the family heiress.

I… I … Robert stammered.

Yeah, just as I feared. Fred shook his head.

No, it’s not like that, Robert started to protest.

Fred interrupted. It had better not be. You’ll need this income even if you get that scholarship to med school. You don’t want to get involved with anyone right now, especially not this family.

I know. You already told me. Don’t worry, Uncle Fred. I’m not going to fall for some snobby rich girl.

I hope you don’t. Fred turned and walked toward the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.

Robert stood and began to pace the room. He fully intended to heed his uncle’s advice. He thought he was prepared for a conceited girl fresh from an expensive women’s school; he had known plenty of that type at the university.

But what he saw today left him reeling. He sensed something else, a deeper quality, vulnerability perhaps, beneath the arrogant surface.

Or did he? He sighed. Maybe he was blinded after all by the long legs, gleaming chestnut hair, and hazel eyes topped by lashes that almost touched her cheeks when she looked down. He could still smell her scent of apricots and peaches.

Just laugh it off, Bob-o, he thought. But he found that he couldn’t. No! He hit the arm of the chair with his fist. She was not the ordinary rich bitch. There was something beyond external beauty there.

He frowned at the unexpected developments. I need to be careful, he thought. He didn’t want any kinks in his plans now.

Chapter 3

Nothing’s Changed, Or Has It?

Amy traveled several steps past the front door before she realized where she was. The hallway was longer than she remembered, and darker. She glanced into the expansive living area to the left and winced. Her mother’s antique piano sat by the window. No one was allowed to play it these days—her father’s rules.

Sweet melodies floated to the edge of her memory—her mother’s slender fingers caressing the keys while guests sang around a fire flickering in the hearth. The flames reflected the red and gold of the shiny ornaments on a fragrant Christmas tree.

The old memory faded. Even though it was now late December, there was no tree, no decoration, no sign of a fire in the grate. Everything was dusted and shiny but unused. Uninhabited.

In the hall, masterpieces ranging from an elegant Rembrandt to an oddly shaped Picasso lined both walls. Half-round tables held a Ming vase here, a carved Lalique bowl there, all originals, the only coordinating theme—money. Everything in its perfect place—a polished museum.

Massive carved wooden doors on the right guarded the entrance to her father’s world: a study, a library, and office space. Amy’s pace slowed. She wasn’t supposed to be in this part of the house unless invited. Using the side door entrance avoided the possibility of retribution that would accompany any disorder or mishap. She held her breath and tiptoed past her father’s study, hoping the sin wouldn’t be noticed.

Bits of conversation floated out through the not quite closed study door. Yes. That’s right. Her father’s quiet but commanding voice sounded friendly enough from a distance. Just like the last time. You know what to do.

Amy wondered if the party on the other end of the phone had any idea what implacable determination lay beneath that placid tone. They would find out.

The hall ended in a sweeping staircase that led up to the residential wings. Amy breathed a sigh of relief as she turned left and darted to the back of the house, into the kitchen.

A vast plain of black and red granite countertops and shining stainless steel appliances surrounded an expansive oak workspace in the middle of the room. A thin woman with steel gray hair styled in a short bob removed a pan from the top oven. She glared at the intruder. When she saw Amy, she relaxed.

Hey, Glorie. Amy waved and headed toward a breakfast nook on the other side of the room. Windows on three sides looked out to the garden. An L-shaped bench nestled in one corner framed two sides of an oblong table, all painted in a shining white. Pillows in vibrant shades of reds and yellows lay scattered on the seats—an island of coziness in an ocean of efficiency and regulation, it was one of Amy’s places of refuge.

Today a warm yeasty aroma filled the air. Amy’s stomach growled. She plopped down on one of the benches. Mmmm, I hope I’m smelling your famous rolls. I’ve missed them.

I thought about a welcome-home cake but decided on this instead.

You made the right choice.

The whole pan is yours; you don’t have to share with anyone.

Wow! Thanks. Glorie was the only person Amy had ever known who could make whole-wheat rolls that were as light and airy as their white-bread counterparts. Something about extra yeast, Glorie had said. But Amy thought it was more like extra fairy dust. Amy’s attempts at baking resulted in something that was edible, even nutritious but could be used as building bricks in a pinch.

Glorie grimaced in what passed for a smile to those who knew her. Welcome home, Miss Amelia. She placed the hot pan on the table, along with a dish of butter.

Oh, Glorie, call me Amy. I’m too old for that Miss Amelia bit. Amy tore off a piece of the hot yeast roll and inhaled deeply.

Are you home for good now? Glorie asked, turning back to the stove.

I don’t know. Waiting to hear back from the university. Amy looked out into the garden. Like the front part of the house, it was immaculately trimmed and landscaped but with no signs of any recent human habitation. Things haven’t changed here, have they?

Glorie shook her head.

Still not celebrating Christmas, I see, Amy continued. Same old, same old?

That’s right, Glorie murmured. Same old.

Out in the garden, a shaft of sunlight broke through a cloudbank and came to rest on a fountain. The birdbath shimmered. Amy smiled. But not completely the same.

She gazed directly at the housekeeper. Tell me, Glorie, what’s with this new chauffeur? I want to know everything.

Chapter 4

Justice Comes and Soon

Ralph Cummings swiveled his padded leather chair back to the expansive mahogany desk and faced the black speakerphone. Yes, that’s right.

He noticed a shadow pass the partially opened door that led to the hallway. A vertical frown line appeared between his eyebrows. He lowered his voice.

I’ll have to call you back. His thin lips tightened as he punched the disconnect button. He stood and hurried past the floor-to-ceiling bookcases to the door. Amelia was due home from school today but surely it wasn’t her. She knew better than to come into this part of the house. Or had she forgotten their last little chat? Back for less than a day and already causing trouble. Damn you, Amelia, he muttered.

Ralph stepped into the long hallway and scanned the area, then retreated into the study. He closed the door and looked around. The phone line was secure and the paneled library was soundproofed but he had left the door open a crack. His right temple throbbed. How long had he been on the phone? He would have to interrogate everyone now.

He walked to the desk. A newspaper lay on the surface. Headlines read, Businessman honored for charitable works. Orphanage gives award. The photo showed a silver-haired man in a crisp black suit, accepting his award with a gracious smile.

Only a momentary reprieve, Ralph snarled and stabbed the photo with his letter opener. Justice comes and soon. He tossed the newspaper and other items in the side drawer, slammed it shut and turned the key. He clenched his jaw and stomped out of the room.

Amelia. He bellowed in a booming baritone voice as he entered the kitchen. How many times have I told you not to come into the front part of the house uninvited? Don’t you ever learn?

Amy flew to her feet and pressed her back against the side of the parson’s bench.