The Husband Quest: The Luchettis, #4

CHAPTER 1

A ll of your money is gone .

Thinking there must still be water in her ear from taking a shower that morning, Jillian Hart tapped the side of her head. I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.

Your money is gone. Her late husband’s lawyer, Jay Daggett, spoke slowly, as if she were a half-wit.

Sadly, Jilly often had to act as if there wasn’t a brain in her head. Men liked that, especially older, wealthy men. Her specialty.

My money has gone where?

Into someone else’s bank. Daggett, a short, stout, balding man of indeterminate age, shuffled his papers and put them in his briefcase. Actually, several some-ones.

Get it back.

I can’t. Henry owed everyone in town. His reputation kept them from collecting while he was alive and there was a possibility of his recouping the losses. However...

Jilly was drawn to the peaceful, panoramic view of the ocean visible from her house on Laguna Beach. Now that he’s dead, they want their money.

Yes.

Her fourth husband, Henry Duvier, had died of a heart attack only a week ago. Considering he was eighty, that wasn’t a surprise.

They’d been married five years—longer than any of her other marriages. Jilly had been fond of Henry, enjoyed his company and that of his friends. She’d hoped his assets would allow her to remain a widow for at least a year or two—something she’d never been able to do before.

Jilly turned her back on the ocean. So you’re telling me Henry’s money is gone.

Daggett shook his head. Everything. You’ll need to be out of this house by Friday.

Not her beautiful beach house. She loved the sand, the surf, the endless expanse of blue. How would she sleep at night if she couldn’t hear the soothing cadence of the water nearby?

This makes no sense. Henry was a very wealthy man.

Until he decided to become a movie mogul.

Jilly had known Henry’s fascination with Hollywood would bite him on the butt someday. Unfortunately, she seemed to be the one feeling the teeth.

Henry’s ancestors had begun Duvier Publishing back when Gutenberg was a pup. Henry had spent his life making the family business even more successful. Then, when he was in his seventies, he’d sold out to a German conglomerate and retired to California.

But a lifetime of being a workaholic did not a good retiree make. Never having spared the time to create a family, Henry was not only bored, he was lonely. Which was where Jilly came in.

Some called her a gold digger; the society pages referred to her as a woman of means; the tabloids had long ago labeled her a serial bride. Jilly was both all and none of the above.

There was just that one movie, she said.

Daggett peered at her over the rims of his glasses. There were three.

In the manner of trophy wives, she was not expected to meddle in Henry’s business affairs. She’d been in charge of his loneliness; his Hollywood friends had taken care of the boredom.

Henry had always wanted to be a producer. All he’d produced had been bombs.

"He used his money on Aliens Are Easy, Daggett continued. Mortgaged everything for Gunfight in Cleveland. Your funds went into the Beverly Hillbillies Return."

Annoyance and disappointment flooded Jilly. She and Henry had made a good marriage, one based on trust and affection. But she should have followed her mother’s advice and stashed her personal hoard in Switzerland. Instead, she’d let Henry manage the fortune left to her by husbands one, two and three. It had hardly seemed fair to deny him access to her money when she had access to his.

Fair? When had life been fair?

She’d been dragged from town to town as a child, on the whim of her mother’s husband of the moment. Genevieve Hart had married once for love. Love had gotten her a child and poverty when her husband skipped off with every penny they had. He’d gambled it away, then promptly gotten himself shot by someone he couldn’t pay.

Jilly had been five at the time, but she remembered the overwhelming sense of panic that pressed down on them, the countless times they’d had nowhere to sleep but the street, nothing to wear but the clothes on their backs, not a thing to eat but what they could beg or steal. She would not be in that predicament again.

Is there anything left? she asked.

Just the Inn at South Fork. In Arkansas.

Arkansas? Her voice reflected the horror that was no doubt all over her face. Why on earth would Henry buy something there?

Daggett glanced at the single paper he’d left out of his briefcase. The inn was supposed to be the setting for the hillbilly movie.

And?

They never used it. He tilted his head. I’m not sure why.

The vultures couldn’t leave me the villa in Tuscany?

They devoured that first. I suspect the inn wasn’t worth the trouble.

Great, she muttered.

Daggett shrugged. Take it or leave it.

Jilly snatched the paper from his hand. I’ll take it.

What choice did she have?

Jilly sold the engagement ring and wedding band from her third—or had it been her second?—marriage and bought a plane ticket to Little Rock. Then she rented a car and drove northwest—for a helluva long time—over roads that looked like something out of Deliverance. She kept expecting to hear banjos strumming behind the thick, green foliage that lined what passed for an Arkansas highway.

On the map, the drive to South Fork appeared to be a pleasant three-hour tour. In reality it took six hours over twisting, hairpin curves. She nearly ran over a skunk, two opossums, a raccoon and what she hoped was a dog but had a sneaking suspicion was a very large and well-fed coyote. She could have sworn she saw an alligator in one overgrown, flooded ditch. But she was too far north for alligators, wasn’t she?

Jilly shuddered. She wouldn’t last long in a place like this, and she knew it.

She might have been born poor, but she hadn’t spent a night outside a mansion or a five-star hotel since her mother had discovered her one true talent. Genevieve Hart was a very good wife. She was beautiful, street-smart and savvy. She could be whatever a man wanted her to be.

Her first husband had been a traveling salesman, the next a lawyer, followed by a doctor, then a CEO. At the moment, Genevieve was in Belgium on her honeymoon with a Polish count, and unavailable to help her destitute daughter.

The one time I call her, and she’s off becoming Countess Blah-blah-blah.

Well, she’d just have to handle things on her own. Drive to the inn, take a quick peek, then find a real estate agent, sell the albatross and use the money to fund another husband hunt.

Jilly sighed. She’d been anticipating some time alone. Since the age of twenty-two she’d been a wife. Before that she’d been preparing to become one.

Jilly had left her mother’s house to attend the top boarding schools, then gone on to Vassar, every move calculated so Jilly could make the best possible marriage—over and over again. Because there were three rules the Hart women lived by:

Never, ever marry for love.

Poor men are for play; rich men are for keeps.

Old men are like fine wine. Once tasted, they don't last very long.

Jilly didn’t believe in love. Love was for suckers and imbeciles. She’d never met a man she needed anything from beyond the answer to two important questions. How much was he worth and what decade had he been born in?

A sign popped up at the side of the road. Squinting against the descending sun, Jilly could just make out the faded letters: South Fork, Arkansas—Unincorporated.

Were those bullet holes in the sign post? It flashed past too fast for her to tell.

Couldn’t be, she assured herself. What did that sign ever do to anyone?

She had no more time to ponder as South Fork seemed to appear out of nowhere. She was reminded of the musical Brigadoon, one of Henry’s favorites. The town had popped magically out of the mist every hundred years.

Jilly had never cared for that movie. She didn’t understand magic or mystery. Why waste time on something that wasn’t real?

However, South Fork had the same mythical aura as Brigadoon. At the foot of the Ozark Mountains, the sleepy little hamlet was frozen in a bygone century.

Jilly slowed her rented Volkswagen Beetle—her mother would have a cardiac arrest if she saw Jilly driving such a bourgeois vehicle, but Jilly thought it was cute—and meandered down what appeared to be the only street in South Fork.

About ten buildings composed of graying wood made up the town. Each one had a sagging porch with a hand-painted sign perched on top that stated its purpose in the scheme of life.

Hillburn’s General Store. Joe’s Barbershop. Washington Primary School. The Main Street Tavern. United Baptist Church. The South Fork Jail.

She found it amusing, or maybe just sad, that the tavern stood right next to the church and the jail bordered the school. Perhaps the folks of South Fork merely found it convenient.

The only people on the street were a trio of old men gathered around a barrel on the porch of the general store. A game of checkers appeared to be in progress.

Were they kidding with this? She felt as if she’d stepped into Henry’s hillbilly movie.

Jilly parked in front of the store and clambered out of the car, which wasn’t easy, since she’d worn her best summer suit and favorite Italian shoes. The three-inch slings and knee-length, sea-green skirt were not conducive to exiting a compact car gracefully. Without air-conditioning, her suit jacket, though stylish, was far too heavy. Thankfully, she’d worn a gray silk shell underneath. When she became desperate she could always ditch the jacket.

The two men playing checkers didn’t even glance her way. The third, who had been observing them, now observed her.

Jilly plastered on her most charming smile.

The old man smiled back. He had no teeth.

Jilly’s expression froze.

Oh. He cackled. Forgot ’em agin.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a set of dentures, popped them into his mouth and clicked them together with a wink. We don’t get many visitors round here.

Uh, yes, well . . . I’m wondering if you can direct me to the inn.

That got the attention of the checker players. The one on the left jumped up so fast he knocked the board off the barrel.

What’s that? He cupped a hand to the side of his head.

The inn! her toothless friend shouted. Turn on your hearin’ thingee! He slapped his own ear for emphasis.

Damn thing makes the flies on the wall sound as loud as semi trucks, the man grumbled, but he fiddled with the plastic in his ear just the same.

Did ye knock over the board? The second checker player squinted and began patting the top of the now-empty barrel. His Coke-bottle glasses remained perched on top of his shiny dome.

If ye put on your spectacles, ye could see.

Haven’t been able to find ’em since this mornin’. I swear they walk away on me sometimes.

They walked onto the top of yer head today. The denture wearer rolled his eyes at Jilly. No fool like an old fool.

I can beat him with my eyes closed. The sight-impaired man retrieved the glasses and settled them on his beak of a nose. He glanced at Jilly. The thick lenses magnified his eyes like Mr. Magoo’s. Well, ain’t you a sight?

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but she beamed at him, anyway. Couldn’t hurt.

‘The inn? she repeated. I’m afraid I only know that it’s near South Fork."

The three men peered at one another, then back at her. Their smiles became frowns. You don’t want to go there.

Why not?

They exchanged glances again.

Jilly was starting to get nervous. Had a tornado carried the place away? What would the land be worth? From what she’d seen so far, not much.

You just don’t.

I own the inn. I need to take a look before I put it on the market.

You’re going to sell? Toothless asked. Good luck.

Is there some sort of problem?

You might say that.

Exasperated, she sighed. What is it?

No one’s been able to stay there overnight for years.

Jilly had visions of bats in the bedrooms, skunks in the kitchen, holes in the roof.

Sorry to tell ye this, ma’am, but the inn is haunted. They nodded solemnly, as if they’d just said her best friend had died.

Jilly burst out laughing. Towns appearing from the mist, ghosts at the inn. What next? Unicorns playing peek-a-boo behind the trees?

Their grave expressions gave way to confusion. What’s so funny?

There’s no such thing as ghosts!

The old men’s eyes met, and together they shrugged.

Well, the one who did most of the talking drawled. She is from out of town.

The three were brothers—Larry, Jerry and Barry Seitz.

Jilly stifled jokes about Larry, Curly and Moe. Somehow she didn’t think they'd find her funny. Hardly anyone ever did.

Being funny was not something her mother approved of, and she’d squashed Jilly’s attempts at humor very young. On the husband hunt, being pretty, attentive and vapid were important. Being smart and amusing were not.

When Jilly insisted that she had to see the inn, even if it was haunted, the men climbed into her Beetle without an invitation. They instructed her to head north out of South Fork.

This here car— Barry nodded at the dash of her bright-red Volkswagen —it’s foreign, ain’t it?

Larry and Jerry tsked in the back seat. She could see them in the rearview mirror, shaking their heads.

Um... Jilly considered. German. Yes.

We don’t hold with that here.

Germany?

Foreign cars. He pointed at the selection of automobiles parked in front of the buildings they passed on their way out of town. Every one was American-made.

This isn’t mine, Jilly said. I rented it.

And I bet they were glad to see it go.

Actually, she’d nearly had to arm wrestle another customer for possession of the last Beetle on the lot. The dome-shaped Volkswagens were in high demand.

How much farther is it? She noted the fading sunlight.

A mile or two.

She’d be able to take a quick look around and be halfway back to Little Rock before dark.

They passed several houses. Coming into South Fork, Jilly had glimpsed a few mailboxes, but the residences had been too far back from the road to see. On this side of town, the homes were set on cleared land. The better to show off their horses, it seemed.

Is there a reason people keep their horses in the front yard? she asked.

Barry blinked, then frowned. Where else would they keep ’em?

The barn?

Why would you have a barn at your house?

Why would you have a horse at your house? she thought, but kept the comment to herself.

Turn here!

The shout came from right behind her, and Jilly jumped so high she nearly banged her head on the ceiling. A quick glance in the mirror revealed Jerry pointing at an overgrown dirt trail.

Almost missed it, Barry said. That’s the one.

Jilly spun the Volkswagen onto the side road. Dust flew up and coated the hood of the car. Dense foliage slapped against the doors and windows. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and cool, gray shadows settled over the forest.

You’re sure this is the way to the inn? she asked.

Think so.

What if they didn’t know? What if she went off a cliff? What if they were mad killers bent on taking everything she owned, then dumping her body in the backwoods?

The Deliverance banjos began to play again in her head.

Suddenly the trees parted, and her Volkswagen shot into a clearing.

She almost ran over the horse.

Watch out for Lightning! Barry shouted.

Jilly hit the brakes and glanced, flinching, toward the sky. The sun was out once more, not a cloud to be seen. What lightning?

Lightning. Barry pointed at the ancient horse placidly cropping grass next to her right bumper. The animal hadn’t even glanced up when she skidded to a stop near his nose.

Did he used to be fast? she asked.

No. Barry got out of the car, pulling the seat forward so his brothers could follow. He used to get hit by lightning a lot.

He weren’t exactly the smartest animal. Larry tapped his head. Stood under the trees. Never did learn.

Jilly contemplated the chestnut horse still grazing in front of her car. His back was swayed, his mane was going gray and he had streaks of white hair, almost like scars, in three separate places on his rump.

They oughtta call him Lucky, she said.

Since the horse didn’t appear to be moving anytime soon, Jilly turned off the car and got out. She took her first look at all she had left.

She was in big trouble.

The Inn at South Fork had seen better days—probably in 1865. The three-story structure was composed of peeling, yellowed paint and weathered wood. The porch steps had several holes, as did the windows. She didn’t even want to consider what the inside was like.

Jilly turned to speak to the brothers but the clearing was empty—except for her and the horse.

Guys? she called.

The only answer was the whisper of the wind through the trees.

Fine. Jilly started for the inn. I can do this myself.

The grass tickled her ankles. Wildflowers snagged her panty hose at the knees. Before she’d taken five steps, her heels