Chapter 1
The Port Harris railroad station was as Jane Kent remembered it. As she stepped from the train onto the wooden platform a glow of familiarity touched at all her senses, subtracting years and taking her back a half-decade to that period when she called the small Midwestern town, home.
Janie played with the memories-the happiness and sadness of them-only a brief few seconds. Then she turned around, paused, and walked into the station house.
There was a hesitation in Janie's manner, a kind of indecision in her step and the accompanying rhythm of large breasts, gliding hips, and strong, vitality-packed legs once she stepped inside the station house. But this passed quickly when she saw the little, old man behind the bars of a cashier's window. She walked directly toward him.
"Good-evening," she said through the bars.
"Evenin' yourself, miss. What can I do for you," the man said.
"I have to go out of town a few miles-I'm going to the Willow Acres Farm-and the train's late and--. "
"Hey there, you must be little Janie Kent, eh," the old man said, leaning forward and peering over the rims of his glasses.
"Why, yes, I am," she answered, a bit surprised.
"Thought so. I know most everybody comes into this town. So, you're goin' back to your old uncle's farm, eh."
"Yes. But just for a little while."
The man raised his eyebrows and nodded. Then he said, "Yeah, it's a sad thing about your uncle, all right. Passing away the way he did, so unexpected and everything. But then, we've all got to go and--. "
"I have to be at the house by nine," Janie said. "Is there a cab?"
"Sure. Old Tom Hanson's still running his hack. Don't rightly know where he is at the moment. Must be on a run, but if you kind of watch for him out front he'll be glad to run you out to Willow Acres."
"Thank you." Janie started to turn away from the window.
"Goin' out to see about your uncle's will, eh, Janie?" the old man said, leaning forward again.
Janie hesitated, then she said, "Yes, about that and some other things."
"You're a lucky girl," the man said, smiling. "Your old uncle was really loaded." He paused and chuckled. "Eccentric, they say, but eccentric with money, if you know what I mean."
Janie nodded, then quickly turned and walked across the room in the direction of the door that fronted the town's main street. As she moved, her blonde hair, cut short and with tiny curls bouncing at her ears, caught a glow from the overhead lights making her seem taller than her five and a half feet and adding exciting shades of light and dark to her exceptional figure. Her breasts moved in an undulation fashion, and although they seemed restricted by undergarments, there was a freedom and a sway to them that could not be denied. Or subdued. Or ignored. A teenaged paperboy could not ignore them for his eyes glued to her and followed her until she disappeared through the front door of the station house.
Janie looked up and down the small street. There was little activity; a few cars, the somberness of stores that were three hours deserted and closed, a gathering of boys on a corner, a few people moving-only the minute activity of a small town that was readying itself for the routine of mid-evening.
After looking around the area, Janie, somewhat impatiently, walked to the corner. Her high heels clicked on the sidewalk. And the sound and the area again nudged memories to her consciousness, making her remember the past, again subtracting five years from the twenty-two that she was to that time at seventeen years of age when she chose to leave her uncle-guardian's home and board a train for the mysteries of college in a far-away city. Janie looked around. The stores were the same. The dullness of the hour seemed the same too. And even the youth on the corner and the way the street lights fuzzed a halo seemed the same. Port Harris hadn't changed, she decided. It couldn't. Not the town or the townspeople. Only she had changed. For a moment she didn't know if she was glad or sad because of the changes.
Headlights turned the corner, catching Janie in their spotlight, framing her and outlining the conservativeness of the summer suit she wore, the suit that was buttoned high as if to divert attention from her breasts and the rest of her body that was sensual-looking and lovely.
Janie Kent recognized the old taxi cab and its driver at once. She raised her hand and hailed it. The cab came to a quick, but uncertain, stop in front of her. She twisted the door handle and quickly moved inside.
The driver, Tom, who Janie guessed to be nearly seventy, turned his head and said, "Where to, miss."
"Willow Acres," she answered. The driver nodded, shifted gears and jerked the cab forward.
Janie settled into the cushions of the seat. Tom Hanson did not recognize her. She was glad. She didn't like talking of the past, of Port Harris, her deceased uncle-she didn't want to talk or do anything other than those legal things that had to be done so she could return to the big city and the serious work that awaited her there.
"Guess you're goin' out to Willow Acres on business, eh?" the cabbie asked without turning his head.
"Yes."
"What kind of business, miss?" he asked bluntly. "I-I have to meet some people there," she answered.
"Oh, sure. About old Amos Kent's will I suppose." He paused and when Janie did not answer, he said, "If Dave Chalmers is one of those people you have to see, he's already there. Passed him on the road about an hour ago."
"Dave Chalmers?" Janie asked.
"Yeah. The lawyer."
"Oh."
"Dave's a fine, young man. Everybody in town-likes him a lot. He's pretty serious for being such a young fella and everything, and it's surprisin' as all get out how everybody's took to him, him comin' from the city and startin' practice here and everything, but I guess that's the way it goes."
He left the sentence off on a tone that hinted for Janie to pick up the conversation. She did not. He turned and glanced at her. Then he returned his eyes to the road that turned from Port Harris' main intersections and threaded through the outskirts of town toward the country road that would lead to Willow Acres.
Janie looked out the window. A few of the houses had changed and there were some new ones. But most of the area was as it had always been, old fashioned, substantial, lived-in and paid-for, the shelter of children and their parents and, in most instances, the grandparents. Port Harris, it seemed to Janie Kent, had resisted modernization. It remained a town of people and the lumber and shipping industries that supported them.
The cab bumped to a stop at the last stop street before an open road to the country section was reached. Janie jolted with the cab, then settled back into the cushions again.
"Sorry about that," the cabbie said. "After all these years I still can't get used to the new stop sign the highway department put up."
"How long has it been there," she asked.
"Ummm, around about five years, I'd say."
Janie smiled. The stop sign must have been erected about the same time that she had left Port Harris. Fleetingly, she thought of the years that had passed, the college education, her career as a sociologist-a serious one-and now her return to the place of her youth.
The farms and fields were only passing dark squares of the night as Janie looked out the window. But soon a structure came into view that moved her to a new memory, one of young sensuality and thrill and expectation.
"Do any of the Prescotts still live there?" Janie asked the cabbie.
"Only Jack," he replied. "Everybody else is gone. But Jack Prescott hangs on like a rich mother-in-law."
Jack Prescott. A tingle of sensation coursed through Janie's body as she recalled what it was like to be fourteen years old and kissed by a neighbor boy. Then she remembered what it was like to be fifteen and touched by that same neighbor boy. But when her mind dwelled on the memory of Jack Prescott's hot kisses on her bare breasts, Janie rejected the memories, tossed them out of her mind like some nasty rag sent to the rubbish heap.
"Jack Prescott is quite the young man around town these days," the driver offered.
"Really?" Jane said, working hard at disinterest.
"Yip."
"He's-married, I suppose," she said.
"Was. Ain't now. He and the little girl got divorced a few years ago. She went to the city-Jack stayed on the old farm."
"That's all he does?" Janie asked. "Just lives on the Prescott Farm."
"Heck no," the driver exclaimed. "Jack's a breeder of some of the country's best horses. He's real experimental with 'em too, I understand. Heck, he even went to college for it."
"How interesting," Janie said.
"Yip. Only twenty-five and he's just about the best catch for the young ladies around here," the old man continued. "Rich. Handsome. Smart as a beaver. And he knows how to live-least that's what I hear-the way it seems, too, by the looks of some of the city girls I see leaving his place after a week-end."
Janie did not answer. And she tried hard to dismiss Jack Prescott from her mind, too. She wanted only to hurry to her dead uncle's farm, meet the lawyer who awaited her, finish her business, then return to the city and her post as a sociologist from which she had taken a few days' leave.
Janie tried to keep her mind a blank for the rest of the trip to Willow Acres. She did quite well, too. But she could not resist the feeling of excitement that swamped her when her uncle's residence came into view. It was high, three stories with a number of towers at the top. It was painted gray, but in the darkness of the night it seemed a mysterious dwelling, one of detective stories and murder and vice. Janie smiled to herself. Yes, a mystery house, that was what her former home now was. And she was the niece of the deceased arriving for the reading of the will. Ah, that was it, thought Janie amusedly. All the elements of a mystery. But a storm was needed.
"Feels like rain," the cabbie said. "Can always tell by the way my corns hurt."
Janie was startled for a second. Then she smiled. And then she remembered how one of her college professors had once said that coincidence sometimes seems to be made up of facts and the qualities of a plot.
The cab slowed, turned, then speeded again as it headed up the winding road that led from the main road to the house. The road was narrow. It was lined on both sides by huge, weeping willow trees. And by the time they had traveled half the distance of the road, there was the distant sound of thunder.
"There-what did I tell ya," said the cabbie, very pleased with himself.
Janie smiled again. Well, there's the mystery house and now we have the storm, she thought. All that's needed are the distant relatives waiting to greet me.
"Looks like a lot of people are already here," the cab driver said, halting his car behind a row of five other cars, all long, sleek and expensive looking.
Janie didn't know whether to laugh or to become concerned with coincidence and how it seemed suddenly to be dictating scenes of her life.
"Do you have any bags, miss?" the driver asked.
"No. Only this overnight case."
"Won't be staying long, eh," he asked.
"Not long at all."
The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door for Janie She already had a bill in her hand. She gave it to him, received his thanks, waited as he pulled the cab away, then turned and walked up the long path to the front of the house.
Janie reflected on the number of times as a child and young girl she had hurried up this same path of her uncle's house. And as she thought of it, she knew a moment's sadness for the passing of Amos Kent who had taken her and raised her when, at the age of five, her parents were killed in an airplane crash. Genuine sadness was hard to come by for Janie Kent, however. She had learned to steel herself against it. Still, she now wished that she had seen a little more of her uncle during the past five years. But one could not undo the past, Janie thought, giving her head a little toss to flit the sadness away.
At the front door, Janie paused and looked to both sides. Then she faced the door and lifted the giant, iron knocker. She brought it into contact with the door three times, feeling a little silly for the act of knocking at a door she had once burst through upon her will.
A new light flicked on in the foyer, adding to those in two other rooms that were already burning. And then there was a sound at the door, and then it was open.
Janie was a little overwhelmed by the man who greeted her. He seemed about thirty, was very tall-a good head taller than herself-and he appeared to be strongly built. His hair was very black. The short cut of it added to his muscular appearance. His eyes were dark, too, brown and very severe looking, much as if they saw within and beyond everyone upon whom they lighted. And he was of a swarthy complexion that made Janie think of the outdoors and man's activities there.
"You're Jane Kent," the man said directly, looking straight into her eyes.
"Yes. I'm-I'm sorry I'm late."
"I'm David Chalmers, your uncle's attorney," he said, opening the door fully. "And it's all right about being late. I've had experience with the Port Harris train myself."
Janie smiled. She continued smiling as she entered the foyer and David Chalmers closed the door behind her. But when he turned and she saw that his eyes swept her body in an intimate, kind of appraising way, her smile faded. She didn't feel exactly undressed by his eyes. It was more as if he were exposing parts of her, singularly and at his will; a breast here, a thigh, her navel, perhaps, then a shoulder, and on and on. His look made her feel a surge of anger, yet it was an anger wherein its origin was confused.
"The others are waiting in the library," David Chalmers said. "But, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you alone for a few minutes."
"Of course," she replied. Then added, "The others? I didn't expect anyone else to be here."
"It was your uncle's request," David said. "I suppose they're each concerned with the will-each anxious to see if they're included-but, I can assure you that their presence is just a matter of carrying out Amos Kent's wishes."
"Who are they?" she asked.
"A few distant relatives, none of whom you know, I believe."
A crash of thunder made Janie turn to the window. Then there was a flash of lightning. She turned to David Chalmers and smiled.
"Oh, you like storms, eh?" he said, smiling and revealing large, white teeth in an even row.
"Not at all," she answered.
"But you smiled at the thunder and lightning."
"Yes. You see, I've been playing a game with myself. I've been pretending that I'm here tonight for the reading of a will-you know, at a mysterious house with all the greedy relatives present . .
"Yes," he said, frowning a bit. "It is a little like that, isn't it?"
"Everything but the devoted butler," she said.
David Chalmers laughed, then said, "Come along, let's talk for a few minutes."
He extended his hand in the direction of a small study that was located just to the left of the foyer. Janie moved toward it. David started to follow, then brought her to a halt.
"Oh, say, is that you're only bag?" he asked.
"Yes."
"But...."
"I won't be staying long, Mr. Chalmers," she said.
He looked surprised, but made no comment. He merely lifted the small bag from her hand and placed it on the floor next to an old-fashioned grandfather's clock. Then he nodded in the direction of the study.
The room seemed bare to Janie. She looked around. Although nothing within the room had been changed, it still seemed different. Then she noticed that the top of her uncle's desk was clean, and she knew that this was what had been changed.
Always, her uncle had had a mountain of papers and books on top of his desk. Now they were gone, just as he was gone. She felt another rumble of sadness at her breast.
"Why don't you take this big chair?" David Chalmers suggested.
Janie nodded, then sat down as David walked behind the desk and assumed the swivel chair that was there. It creaked. It always had. It was a good sound, one that took her back to many conferences that she had enjoyed with her uncle during his lifetime. And now she was to begin one that involved his death. The sadness she had felt increased.
David Chalmers clasped his hands in front of him. He held them together in a strong clasp, at the same time looking intently at all of Janie's body, running them over her shoulders and breasts and waist and legs, then more interestedly there as Janie, for some unconscious reason, crossed them and revealed her knee and several inches of nylon above it.
David unclasped his hands and leaned back. Again, the chair squeaked. Then he said, "I presume you know that your uncle's will takes into consideration that you are his nearest-and dearest, too, I guess-relative."
Janie nodded, then uncrossed her legs and leaned further back in the chair. The new position did not escape David Chalmers' darting eyes. Now they centered directly at her breasts. She tried not to breathe too deeply.
"Did you know that your uncle had been ailing for quite some time?" David asked.
"I guessed it," she answered. "We did write each other, but not often. And I was in Europe on a grant. And when Uncle Amos did write his letters were long, rambling things about his philosophies on life."
"Oh, you know about those, eh."
"I was raised on them. Or, I should say, a different one every month or so."
"You're a sociologist, right."
"Yes. I work for the King Foundation."
"Doing what?"
"Investigating trends of poverty, tracing family case histories of the constantly poor."
"Oh."
The way David said it made Janie think that he didn't hold much lot with sociologists. So, somewhat defensive, she asked, "How long have you been Uncle's attorney?"
"About four years," he replied. "I was practicing in the city, then decided that small town life appealed to me more. So, I moved here, and shortly afterwards your uncle got in touch with me, retained me, and I've been representing his interests ever since."
"I wonder why he would ever do that," she said, almost to herself. "Henry Quill was always his attorney."
"Mr. Quill retired. It was he who recommended me to your uncle."
"Oh, I see," she said.
David leaned forward again. He smiled, then said, "If you're thinking that I'm the greedy lawyer in your make-believe mystery plot, Miss Kent, you're wrong."
"Oh, I'm not thinking that," she answered quickly.
"Good," David said, the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. Then his smile faded and he said, "You're a very serious young lady, aren't you, Miss Kent?"
"I hope so," she said.
"Why?"
She hesitated, then said, "Because life is serious, I think. It should be taken seriously."
"And you take your work seriously, too, I presume?"
"Very."
"Your uncle was pretty serious about some things, too, Miss Kent. Were you aware of that?"
"Uncle was serious about something different every day," she said. "I haven't kept up with his latest fads-and that's exactly what they were."
David scowled, then said, "You didn't take your uncle very seriously, is that right, Miss Kent?"
"That's absolutely correct."
"Did you consider the fortune he amassed on his own a fad-a hobby, too?"
"In a way," she said.
David Chalmers leaned back. He laced his hands together behind his head and looked straight at Janie. Then he said, "You'll find that Amos was very serious about his will and the prerequisites it contains. It's a very odd will, Miss Kent. But I warn you now, don't tamper with it, don't try to have it invalidated because of what it asks of you. It would never work. Not in this county where it would have to be reviewed in court."
"Prerequisites," Janie repeated. Then said, "What it requires of me?"
"Yes."
"But I don't have much time," she blurted. "I have to get back to the city-to my work--. "
"Your uncle's will pretty well establishes the work that's lined up for you, at least for the next several months, so don't worry too much about leaving Port Harris."
"But I have to-right away-as soon as possible."
"You'd better hear the contents of the will first," David said, straightening, then pushing up from his chair. "Come along, it has to be read in the presence of the others."
Janie felt angry and unhappy all at the same time. She couldn't understand this mixture of feelings. And she felt that something bad was about to happen to her, something that would disrupt the stability of her life in the city, something that would cause her unrest and frustration, something that might even reveal a side of herself that she would rather not see. But she stood up and preceded David Chalmers out of the room.