What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(101)

“Marry him today,” she said. “It won’t be as bad as you fear.”

Kellen believed her. But...she looked around. No one was near. “Bisnonna, what are you doing here so far away from everyone?”

“I was looking for the restroom.” She dabbed at the sweat on her cheek, and her hands were shaking. “One should always go before a wedding. But it’s very far and I’m afraid I’m confused.”

“There’s no one to take charge of her,” Birdie said in a low voice.

The kids had disappeared, probably doing exactly what Bisnonna wanted to do—visit the restroom before the wedding ceremony began.

“We can’t call security to come and get her,” Kellen said.

Bisnonna Debora moaned and slid down the tree trunk.

Birdie caught her arm.

“Would you take her...?” Kellen asked.

“Okay.” She slid her arm around Bisnonna Debora’s waist. “We don’t trust any of the staff now?”

“I don’t know. Anyone Arthur hired—”

Birdie fumbled for her phone. “I’ll call Carson. He’ll meet me and take her.”

“Perfect.”

“We can do this. We’ll get Bisnonna Debora cared for, and we’ll be back as quickly as we can.” Which was as quickly as Bisnonna Debora could walk. “As soon as you know your destination, let me know!”

“I will.” Kellen moved on, moving quickly, holding her skirts off the grass, watching ahead of her, following the star path—which disappeared halfway between the barn and the wine blending shed. “No!”

Rae must have run out of stars. Kellen looked between the two buildings.

The barn was too open, with too many ways to get in. But the shed had one way in, the door.

The shed it was.

The door should be locked, but a pick set could open it. All the windows were up at the second-story roofline, a long line of old-fashioned warehouse-type awning windows. In there, a kidnapper could contain Rae and pick Kellen off as she breached the door—Kellen, and whoever came in with her.

Obviously, she wasn’t going in the front door. She had to get to one of the windows. The cherry fruit pickers were finished for the summer, so no ladders were available, but there was a lean-to built onto the shed, a place to store lawn mowers and, oh gee, clippers. Kellen smiled. Nice shiny long sharp clippers, much better for defense than colored pencils.

When she tried the door to the lean-to, it creaked open into a shadowy interior. Inside, gardening equipment was neatly arranged on hooks around the walls, and the pink handles on the hand tools made Kellen think this was Verona’s domain. So many of these tools meant to pierce and turn the earth qualified as weapons; Kellen chose a thin pointy set of pruning shears, light and easy to carry. She smiled at the eight-foot ladder; it would get her onto the lean-to roof and from there, up to the windows.

Climbing a ladder in petticoats and pantyhose was a special hell reserved for, well, her, but she did a good job of it. Dragging the ladder up onto the lean-to roof while trying to maintain silence made her strain and puff—whoever had invented corsets with their cursed plastic stays should be damned—and Kellen was glad that none of the windows were open. Of course, that might present a problem all its own...

She placed the ladder on the lean-to roof, leaned it against the shed’s wall and wedged it into place with her colored pencils. With her heels tucked in her belt and the clippers in one hand, she got to the top of the ladder, to the last step that warned, “Danger! Do not step on me!” And she stepped on it. That got her chest height to a window. She dug her fingernails under the bottom seal and tugged. The hinge moved; the glass shifted a reluctant inch.

Yes! Yes! Why lock a window up so high? Using a deliberate motion, she opened it as wide as it would go, stuck her head in and listened.

There. She could hear Rae’s voice saying, “My mommy and daddy are going to come for me, and you’re going to be sorry.” She gave the word a loud, whiny emphasis.

Kellen loved it. Her little girl was alive and defiant.

She pulled out her phone and to Max and Birdie, she texted, Wine blending shed. Then she waited, wanting to tell them who they were facing. She had expected to hear Arthur’s voice. But while this voice was familiar, it was definitely not Arthur.

A man spoke. “The only part I’m sorry about is—” He stopped in the middle of his sentence, as if he was trying not to be goaded.

Kellen froze.

Who was he?

No matter. Rae was alive, and it wasn’t going to be easy, but Kellen could get herself inside.

She texted, Not Arthur, slid her phone back into her pocket, hung her pruning shears on the wall, one handle on either side and out of her way. She placed both her hands on the sill, and using all of her upper body strength, she raised herself to the full extension of her arms. Now. This was the tricky part. She maneuvered herself sideways, crooked one knee and never mind the damned heavy skirt, got her leg inside. After that, everything else was easy. The turn, the rotate, the slow drop onto the top of the giant oak wine cask...

It was like killer Olympic gymnastics, only in slow motion and with death as the punishment for failure.

Her toes touched, barely, and she lowered herself to stand flat-footed. She took a moment to balance herself on the sloped oak.

“What was that?” The man’s voice echoed up to the high ceiling and around the bare metal walls.