Hanging by a Threat: Weatherford Sisters Mystery, #2

By Terry Andrews

It's 1937 when society columnist Lydia Eleanor Weatherford discovers her mother, presumed dead for sixteen years, is alive and in an asylum. Her older sister has no use for a mother she is convinced deserted them, and their younger sister didn't know their mother at all, so it falls to Lydia to rescue her.

Preston Gould, heir to one of the nation's most influential papers, has no problem with his future wife's investigation of her mother's whereabouts, until things take a sinister turn. The release of Lydia's mother sets off a deadly chain of events, one that leads to kidnapping and murder.

But how is Preston supposed to keep Lydia safe when she is hellbent on getting answers with no thought to her own peril? Doesn't she realize that to create a life together, they must remain alive?

Look for other books in the Weatherford Sisters Mysteries
Book 1: A Bullet to the Heart (4/6)
Book 3: A Fatal Drip of Wisdom (6/15)
Book 4: A Dagger Cuts Deep (7/13)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Andrews
• Release date: May 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393826989

Book preview

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A Weatherford Sisters Mystery

Lydia – book 2

Terry Andrews

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Chisel Imprint Puyallup, WA

Hanging by a Threat

A Weatherford Sisters Mystery

Book 2

Copyright © 2021 by Terry Andrews

All Rights Reserved

https://weatherfordsisters.com

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without express written permission from Terry Andrews.

Cover Art © 2020 by Novak Illustrations

Edited by CJ Obray

Formatted by Kathy L Wheeler

Weatherford Sisters Mystery Books

A Bullet to the Heart

Kathy L Wheeler

Hanging by a Threat

Terry Andrews

A Fatal Drip of Wisdom

Sanxie Bea Cooper

A Dagger Cuts Deep

Kathy L Wheeler

Table of Contents

Copyright

Weatherford Sisters Mysteries

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

About the Author

Other Books

Acknowledgements

1

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August 1937- Covington Manor in the Hamptons

Whack! Sh sh sh sh.

For the third time in an hour, the green croquet ball headed across the manicured lawn toward one of several large copses, this one elm and willows.

Preston, stop doing that! It’s childish to keep sending my ball into the trees. You’re not even trying to go through the wickets. Lydia Eleanor Weatherford rolled her eyes. We’re supposed to be setting a good example for these young people?

He shrugged, not quite hiding his teasing grin. The chuckles emitted from the other players around the field only added to the absurdity of her statement.

Lydia sighed dramatically, as she followed the ball disappearing from sight. She stepped into the shrouded canopy and paused as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

…those poor Weatherford girls. Lydia froze as the startling words penetrated the dark circle.

The powerful matriarchs of New York’s most influential families were lounging a few feet from the massive willow tree, watching the young people play. Strategically situated beneath a lofty elm at the edge of the massive yard, they traded information, certain of not being overheard—unless someone chased a wayward ball into the murky depths of the weeping willow curtain, behind them. Those busybodies were gossiping about her and her sisters, Jo and Tevi.

Donna Hayes— The polished voice had dropped an octave.

Mallet in hand, Lydia pressed a finger to her lips to quiet Preston Gould’s carefree approach. The sun highlighted streaks of gold in his chestnut hair, then darkened as he moved further into the depths of the willow’s tentacles. Lydia’s ridiculous coworkers at the Sentinel where she and Preston worked, would fall all over themselves to be in her position. She crept closer to the hushed voices, silently congratulating herself on the choice to wear dark colors.

Hidden through the curtain, a man’s voice said, Hayes? That social climbing family. You could never believe anything you heard from her, right up ‘til the day she departed.

Lydia stood motionless. After all this time, what more could be said about her family? Preston moved behind her in unwavering support, hints of his cedarwood aftershave, reminding her of childhood romps in the trees on Montgomery Island.

Of course, there were signs. The talebearer continued. Claudia Montgomery’s constant lamenting about her daughter’s grief. A sniff filled the air. Claudia warned her not to marry that handsome upstart. Sailed off and died, he did, leaving her to raise those three young girls alone. An exaggerated sigh. Hums of mutual agreement rose from the group. At least Claudia did her duty before she passed, and tied Eleanor nice and tight to young Wallace Hayes. Now that Victor Montgomery has disowned his son, those girls will inherit the entire Montgomery fortune.

The dark leafy shroud closed in. The sweet aroma of wisteria and roses only moments before, now tainted the air. Strands of hair lifted by Preston’s breath tickled her neck. Lydia swiped at the distraction and tried to ignore the prickles along her spine. 

A third voice. Still, committing Eleanor to a mental institution for all these years? Even Claudia would have had something to say about that. 

Lydia started at the stark words. Mental Institution?

Steady. His soft whisper and warm breath reminded her to breathe. 

"After her death there was talk of drugs and suicide. A grunt of satisfaction. Although, I don’t suppose it really matters. The whole family moved back to that island and nothing ever came of it."

Were they saying Eleanor Hayes might still be alive? Under the shadow of the stringy canopy Lydia considered the possibility of a life which included her mother. She steadied her left hand, wrapped tightly around the shaking mallet. Her feet glued to the grass carpet.

That Lydia is the spitting image of her mother. Young Eleanor took the social world by storm. Pity, the second voice interjected.

Pity? Pity? Lydia fisted her free hand and tightened her jaw. She fastened her eyes in the direction of the condemning voices. The nerve of those vicious gossipers talking about her mother that way! Eleanor had been a victim, not some pathetic rebel. As her fury grew, all the noteworthy tidbits Lydia had garnered over the last few years about the skeletons in these old biddies’ closets, formed like arrows, sharpened for battle. 

One very large hand seized her knotted fingers. Another covered her mouth, simultaneously backing her out of the protective foliage, without drawing unwanted attention. 

His hands dropped from her mouth and she hissed. Bully. Lydia tried separating herself from his hold.

The embrace held firm. His voice inches from her ear penetrated the rising steam. Lydia don’t be foolish. They were moving on to a different subject, anyway.

Lydia could feel the warm puff of air at her nape. How do you know? Had breathing always been this hard around him?

Preston shook her gently. Don’t think I’m completely ignorant. As you well know, I’ve also been the object of their malicious chatter. Hell, I’ve participated in a conversation or two, myself. 

A few steps returned them to the bright sunlight, causing Preston’s hair to once more shine like a gladiator’s helmet. He spun her body around and pinned her with his steady gaze. Doesn’t matter who the narrator is. The pattern is always the same. He held up a finger. One, select an individual. Two, fish around for the most outrageous thing you've ever heard about them. He added another finger. Three, lower your voice forcing everyone to lean in. Four, drop the bomb. Up went two more fingers. Five, sweep up with a closing statement. His open palm swept down like a broom.

Lydia’s eyes tracked the movement. As the Social Expert at the New York Sentinel, some of her best work had come from listening to errant tales. This had been different. Lydia shivered. 

Do you think it could be true? Curse the hope in her voice.

His hand paused in midair, swept to her face and he lifted her chin. What? You mean your mother in a mental institution?

She nodded.

I don’t remember much about her death, but I think it was around the same time my mother died. He paused. Maybe my father knows something about it.

That’s not terribly reassuring.

Why are you asking me, Weatherford? You’re the reporter, Preston goaded.

Frustration gripped her. Yes, of course. But this seems. I don’t know...possible. Why would everyone tell us she was dead? Why would she be in a mental ward? Lydia pinpointed brown flecks in his green eyes.

Preston’s eyes dropped to her lips. They grew dry and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.

His rough thumbpad brushed a tear on her cheek, she hadn’t even noticed. Whoa, don't get ahead of yourself. You’ve been at this awhile. How many rumors have you heard over the years?

Hundreds. Lydia stepped back, arms across her midsection, pressing the mallet against her shoulder.

Uncle Victor told them Eleanor was dead. If it’s true, it could change everything. She met his eyes, unable to hide her confusion. Preston, what should I do? Her usual confidence shaken, Lydia turned to her best friend, boss and steadfast ally.

His signature stare indicated he was giving the question serious thought. Lydia shifted to her other foot. 

He cocked his head, eyebrows lifted. I think this situation is too close to home for you. To get to the truth, you need to treat this rumor as though it’s about someone else’s family. She searched his face. Lydia, when you hear an unsubstantiated rumor, you have a fifty-fifty chance of proving it. He hesitated, then added with a grin, You have to be able to verify at least part of it, in order to publish it as fact.

What was wrong with her? She couldn’t even crack a smile at the overused cliché.

Preston allowed her the necessary silence, as she studied the bucolic scene over his shoulder, pondering his words. Of course! This rumor might have been about any one of the local high society families, currently spread out across the manicured lawn.

What would I do? Investigate. I do it all the time. Glancing over her shoulder at the gossipmongers that had altered her afternoon, and perhaps the rest of her life, Lydia’s body buzzed. She lifted her chin and pressed her shoulders back. Where should I start? What do I have to work with?

Preston groaned. I suppose we’re done here. You have that bloodhound look now. He pried her grip from around the wooden handle. I’ll return that. He raised his arm and pointed his finger across the vast lawn. Go ahead. Find out if it’s true.

Three strides into her run, his parting words tickled her ears. Let me know if you need my help.

2

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August 30, 1937 – New York, Sentinel Newspaper

Lydia held her hands under the warm water. Disgusting! When would the New York Sentinel come into the modern age? There wasn’t even a decent light in this miniscule water closet. It’s not like I’m the only female working for the newspaper. Still, some businesses didn’t even provide a separate washroom for women to use. She squinted into the ancient mirror, examining the ink smear on her cheek. It was probably time to head home. 

Two full days wasted on research. She hadn’t found any obituaries for Eleanor Hayes in New York or the surrounding states within the last twenty years. She’d found one article in the Sentinel. ELEANOR HAYES (n. MONTGOMERY) ACCIDENTAL DEATH, written by none other than Horace Gould, Preston’s father. The owner and editor in chief would have been a young man back then. 

Hurry up in there, Lydia. I’m still waiting. The plea was accompanied by pounding on the door. The room might be small, but it was always in demand. She grabbed a towel from the hook, dried her hands then wrapped the knob and pulled the door open. Lydia handed the fabric to Ginger, one of three other ladies lucky enough to be employed by the Sentinel. She strode away ignoring her coworker’s rolling eyes and muffled chuckle. Who knew what kind of germs might be clinging to that handle?

Lydia weaved her way through the large pressroom to the small chamber that housed the Sentinel archives. She nodded to a group of reporters in a heated discussion, hands flying, swear words hanging over their heads like a murky cloud from a chain smoker. Their deafening noise accompanied the stench of burnt coffee and stale cigarettes. Lydia smiled. This was home.

Hey, Weatherford. Any luck? The gruff voice of Gilbert Chambers