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Pandora's Deed

By Monica Mynk

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Prologue:

PERCHED in the rafters of the old stone barn, Avery Kaler swung his legs back and forth, unspoken curses hanging on his chapped lips. Sweat poured from his temples, and a droplet lingered at the tip of his graying widow’s peak then slid down his forehead. His knees knocked against the mortar-bound beams as he flicked straw into the empty stalls below, aiming for a rusty metal bucket. How dare Frank McMillan take the farm?

The first hint of sunlight poked between cracks in the roof, a cheerful intrusion to his surliness. Time to get the girl to the campground before her strung-out friends started missing her.

As the relentless rays crept closer, he caught a solid oak beam, lowered himself to a stall, and steadied his feet on the half wall before dropping to the floor. He stomped a square of the sunlight, as though that might send the sunrise fleeing back into night. Bits of hay fell from his gray trousers and landed on his waterproof boots.

He reached over his badge into his right shirt pocket, drew out a pack of wintergreen gum, and popped a piece into his mouth. Though the minty aroma persisted, for a moment, he could taste a brief hint of the old-school Teaberry gum Frank had given him as a youth. Stifling a scowl, he tossed the wadded wrapper at a spider, sending it skittering up its web. Frank’s sudden appearance posed a serious problem. He needed to be eliminated before he spilled too many secrets.

Avery crossed the barn, lifted two floorboards, and unlatched a trapdoor. The musty underground tickled his nose, and an epic sneeze nearly tumbled him down the concrete stairs. Minutes later, he ascended, the unconscious blonde flung over his shoulder like a rag doll. Her thighs poked out beneath a too-short cocktail dress. A beauty, but no Pandora.

The girl moaned. If he didn’t leave now, he’d have to drug her again. He couldn’t risk her seeing his face.

Squinting from the brightness, he slid through the barn door and carried her to his cruiser. He slung her into the backseat, knocking her against the opposite door, and causing her to stir. Poor thing. He brushed a wayward tendril behind her ear. Her head would likely ache tomorrow.

Before turning the ignition, he removed the wrinkled photo from his pocket. He traced the profile of the smiling girl posing in her college softball uniform. A petite brunette who looked nothing like the pudgy girl she’d once been. He’d snag her as she pulled into town. With luck, no one would recognize her, and she’d disappear before anyone knew she’d arrived.

He fingered his Glock then laid it in the seat, suppressing the rage threatening to consume him. First, he’d capture Pandora, and then take care of Frank. Then, he’d skip town for good.

His gaze landed on the old stone church nestled across a shallow valley behind a crumbling fence. Vines crept up the side, clinging to windows and twisting around balcony rails. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as twenty-eight years fell away, imagining the wicker basket, the rumbling thunder, and the wiggling babe screaming while its mother ran in tears. And Frank watched from the bushes. He should have killed them then.

Didn’t matter. They’d never stand a chance.


Chapter One:

SAVANNAH BARRETT pressed her sandaled toes against her apartment door as she edged it open a sliver, balancing her mug against her chest.

“Hello, Pandora.”

She spewed cinnamon tea over her crisp, white shirt. Who would show up here on a Thursday morning, calling her that name? After fourteen years.

The tea she’d managed to swallow rolled in her stomach. Clamminess spread over her as she squinted through the peephole at the frail gentleman teetering outside her apartment. Taking several deep breaths, she cracked the door to a whirring noise. “Who are you?” And how do you know I’m Pandora?

The gentleman steadied himself with his cane. “Someone who can help you find your roots.” His painfully thin body quaking, he turned to the thirtyish blond man in the three-piece suit who stood next to him. “Show her the papers.”

“Perhaps you’ve mistaken the address.” She closed the door in his face with her free hand and fastened the chain. A fumble with the deadbolt sloshed more tea on her sleeve. She must have heard him wrong. At least she hoped she had.

Through her peephole, she eyed the plastic tube that climbed the old man’s torso and wrapped around his face. It extended from a thick canvas strap secured to a black bag and explained the whirring. Poor guy. He looked so feeble, standing there holding a worn cardboard box. Shame to not at least offer him a seat and explain he’d mistaken her for someone else.

Only he hadn’t. When he lowered the box, he revealed two pink rosebuds planted in his shirt pocket.

Covering her mouth, she smothered a gasp and pressed her other palm against her chest. Not the roses. Identical to the ones left in her basket at birth?
It couldn’t be. She slumped against the wall. “I’m not ready for this.”

Rapping drowned her whisper. The door shuddered against her spine, and chills coursed to her toes. Who was this man? And why now?

“Ms. Barrett? Pandora?” The deep baritone resonated. The younger man.
She pressed her ear to the wood. What would she miss if she didn’t open the door?

“We have information about your biological family. Please, allow us a few minutes.”

Relaxing her grip on the mug, she peeped through a crack, letting the chain catch. “My name is Savannah.” Her heart throbbed like drumsticks pounded on it, the racing blood roaring in her ears.

“Of course you’re Savannah. You’re also Pandora.” The old man slipped into a coughing fit. The younger one braced him.

“Look, I don’t want to be Pandora.” He had no right coming here dredging up her wretched past, not when she’d worked so hard to start over and forge a new life. “You should go.”

Withered fingers squeezed into the opening before she could slam it.

The younger man pushed the door wider. “Please, Ms. Barrett. Listen a few moments, and then decide. Mr. McMillan traveled a long way to see you.”

Wheezes overcame the older man. The box slid from his hold.

The younger man caught it and tucked it under his elbow. “As you can see, he’s ill. It would be better if he could sit.”

Savannah set her mug on a coaster and rocked on the balls of her feet. If this man was a biological relative, he’d have answers to her lifetime’s worth of questions. A stack of unpaid bills taunted her from the kitchenette counter. Would he offer an inheritance? Something to compensate for her having such a rotten life?

She met the young man’s gaze and undid the chain. “Twenty minutes. Then I have to leave for work.”

Mr. McMillan placed a pallid hand on her tanned one. “I hoped…” Another wheeze. “…you’d remember me.”

“Well, I don’t.” But a distant memory stirred within her, of the man talking with her adopted parents. Had she always known him?

He fished for his wallet and dug through folded receipts. Seconds passed, and finally he produced a worn photograph and a piece of Teaberry gum.

She stared at her six-year-old self, a chunky girl standing in a group of girls in the church foyer. A younger version of Mr. McMillan handed her a foil-wrapped candy.

Palms raised and fingers curled, she stumbled backward over the trim separating her dingy carpet from cheap linoleum. The Bubble Gum Man.

His companion stepped forward, forcing her into the living area.

She kicked three pairs of discarded shoes away from her tattered couch. Why couldn’t he have come when she’d cleaned the place? Not that she ever did.

“Mr. McMillan, is it? Sorry about the mess. I’ve had a rough week.”

Clambering closer, he scooted away a pile of junk mail with his cherry cane. “Please call me Frank.”

“Frank.” A relative? She turned to the younger man. “And you?”

The man extended a smooth right hand with lanky fingers. His left sported a diamond-studded wedding band. “Mr. Anderson. Mr. McMillan’s lawyer.”

Frank grinned. “Peter.”

Peter wrinkled his nose toward the spotted carpet, soiled from a previous tenant’s pet. “We have an offer, one I think you should consider.”

#

GEOFF SPENCER sat on the porch swing, shucking corn and flicking the husks into the growing wind. His devoted beagle raced around his muddy farm boots and skidded under his seat, the little guy’s exuberance not jaded by the impending storm. Geoff dropped the corn and scratched the beagle behind the ears. “Calm down, Cyrus. Save your energy, and I’ll take you for a run when the storm passes.”

A rusted pickup meandered toward him, and the veins in his forehead twitched. His body tensed, and he counted to ten. He could imagine his mother chiding him from behind the screen door to not release his rage on the messenger. It wasn’t the mailman’s fault. If only she were still here. Maybe she’d know what to do.

To the left of the long gravel driveway, fallen leaves danced around the silos and swept across the pumpkin patch, chasing after his farmhands, who’d heeded the forecast and already left for the day. He’d given a decade to build up this farm to its glory. He couldn’t lose it all now.

Robert Arnold eased out of his truck and shuffled to meet him. Slow as itch. That’s what Nana Jean would have said. That, and bless his heart. So many memories. How could he leave them behind and start fresh somewhere else?
Robert leaned on a wooden column to the right of the steps. Fidgeting with his mailbag, he stared at the shucked corn.

“Good Thursday morning, Robert.” Geoff tried not to chuckle at the pudgy mailman’s distraction. “Hand me a bag from the chair over there, and I’ll wrap a few ears for you.”

Robert wiped sweat from his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief. “You don’t need to go and do all that.” He grabbed two bags and dropped them at Geoff’s feet.

“My pleasure.” Geoff stuffed each bag. “Quit being so nervous and give me the letter.”

Robert let out a noise—a cross between a sneeze and a gasp. “Who told you?”

A red Camaro whipped into the driveway, stirring up gravel.

Cyrus tucked his tail and bolted into the doghouse. Robert looked after him, as if he might hide in there, too. “Shoulda known. Crazy aunt of yours.” Hands shaking, he fumbled with the mailbag clasp and retrieved a certified envelope.

Pressing his thumb into his chin, Geoff stifled a groan. He’d spent all morning trying to get Mona off the phone. She couldn’t stand staying out of his business. “Yeah. Mona’s a mess.” He reached for the letter.

“Wait. You gotta sign.” Robert fished in his bag for a pen and shoved the receipt in Geoff’s face. “Be fast. Susan’s makin’ fried green tomatoes for lunch.”

Geoff scrawled his name across the page. “See you later, Robert.”

“Billy-Bob! How’s the redneck delivery biz?” Mona strolled to the porch, laughing as he scuttled down the steps. “Give my regards to Susan. Tell her I hope she chokes on a tomato.”

Robert stumbled to his truck, corn forgotten, envelopes spilling behind him.

“Mona, you’re awful.” And the bane of his existence. If blood didn’t bind them…

Geoff chased after Robert, snatched up the letters, and passed them and the bags of corn through the truck window. He dodged broken tree branches and returned to the porch as Robert sped away.

She snorted, draping an arm over Geoff’s shoulders and reaching for the envelope with the other. “Why do they let that hayseed keep delivering mail?
Aren’t you going to open it?”

Lord, please give me patience. “You can open it, if it’s bugging you so much.”

She broke the seal and eased the paper from the envelope. “Lighten up, nephew.” The paper smelled of a strong ink and appeared to be a form. “This is absurd.” She scowled. “Like Mary Lou said, it’s a declaration of ownership of your property. They’re scheduling a transfer.”

Geoff rubbed his temples, his chest tightening. If she hadn’t called to warn him first, he wouldn’t have believed it. There must be a legitimate reason, or the lawyer would have never agreed to send a letter. He gathered the shucked corn and set it in the house. When he came back out, she’d torn the paper into pieces and dropped them on the mat. “Mona!”

“It’s nothing. A bunch of nonsense. Frank McMillan lurked around town for thirty years without saying a word. I bet it’s a scam.”

Geoff knelt and pocketed the loose pieces of the letter. He’d tape them after she left. “Let me talk to Larry before we go getting too upset. I doubt tearing it to shreds makes it any less legal. What do you know about this guy? Does he still live around here?”

“He’s a reclusive photographer, without a lick of common sense. One time he set up a photo booth at the town fair, and they caught him trying to force a kiss on some woman. And then…”

As he suspected, gossip. Letting her words blur, Geoff focused on a centipede crawling between the deck cracks. Herb could be ruthless, even criminal when he wanted. Was it possible he’d stolen the farm from Frank and hidden it all these years? When she finished, he stood. “Why would he think he owns my farm?”

“No one knows. He went to the war and didn’t return for a while. Herb moved onto the property after he left, and everybody assumed Frank made a legal transfer.”

Okay, more than gossip. Theft was possible, and if Herb kept disorganized records like his dad, it would be hard to determine.

Unless… A shadow crossed Mona’s tan-wrinkled face, and she averted her gaze. Had she been involved in the theft? He squinted at her, furrowing his brow.
“You knew all this and didn’t tell me? For how long? And why come forward now?”

“I didn’t see the relevance.” She marched down the steps. “What will you do?”

“I’ll call Larry and see if he wants to bring Anna Leigh by for supper and talk about it.”

“That harebrained fool of a lawyer about sent you to prison when Maria died.”

“Not his fault. Most people suspect the husband in a situation like that. We won the case, didn’t we? They found me innocent.” Geoff flicked his gaze to the rain-swollen clouds. “Larry’s a well-respected attorney. He’ll fight for me to keep the farm, and we’ll win this one, too.”

“If you say so…” She sauntered to her car.

“See you at church?”

“You know I don’t like that place. Those old women are rude to me.”

Thunder clapped. His shoulders drooped. He’d tried. Again.

Cyrus darted out from behind a bush, his teeth bared.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get out of this storm.” Cyrus at his heels, he moved to the living room, dropped to the couch, and cradled his temples in his hands. A meeting on Thursday? What had the letter said?

After removing the paper from his back pocket, Geoff rearranged the torn pieces and taped them together. Yep, Thursday. To discuss the transfer of his farm. Transfer, not claim. Mona had been telling the truth for once. He’d have to talk to this McMillan man. If the guy owned the property, Geoff could offer compensation.

He took out his phone and flipped through his contact list, tapping the screen. As he waited for the ring, he paced the room. Floorboards creaked.

“Morgan and Morgan, Attorneys-at-Law. This is Sheila. How may I help you?”
He spun and returned to the couch. “Hello, Sheila. It’s Geoff Spencer. Can I speak to Larry?”

“You’re lucky, sugar. He’s getting ready to head out to court.”

Larry whistled into the phone before he spoke. “I meant to call you.”

“You already know?” Stupid gossip train. “Athena called yesterday from the bank and said they couldn’t find the title. Then Mona called, and a few minutes later I got this letter telling me some McMillan guy owns the farm, and I can’t stay without his consent.”

“I heard so, too. Mr. McMillan lives in town, not far from church. He’s private, though he pops in for the morning services on occasion. The old guy who carries the cherry cane.”

“Right. Frank.” Geoff scratched his head. “The Bubble Gum Man. Why do you think he’s coming forward now?”

“Not sure.” Larry cleared his throat. “We’ll meet tomorrow and look over the details.”

What would the details show? From the sound of it, everyone thought the transfer had already been settled. “I hope so. I don’t know what I’ll do if he wins the claim. What about my men?”

“Well, you can reason it out with him. He’s a decent sort. I can’t see a man in his nineties wanting to run the farm. Would he let you rent?”

Geoff kicked the coffee table, knocking over an old picture frame. He held up his palms and counted yet again. Losing his temper wouldn’t do anyone any good now. “I’m not going to pay rent to live in my home and run my farm. That’s crazy.”

“He might rent, but if he’s the owner, it’s not your farm. There’s nothing you can do.”

Geoff set the frame back on the table, taking in his mother’s warm smile. How he missed her. She’d know what to do. Heart heavy, he returned to the kitchen. “This McMillan guy is Herb’s age, right? What if he dies? Does he have anyone who’d stand to inherit?”

“He’s got a great-granddaughter, and to beat it all, she didn’t even know. He’s telling her today. Strange family, this is.”

As Larry spoke, Geoff turned the faucet all the way on and plugged the drain. He added a drop of soap. “This great-granddaughter—anyone I know?”

“I told you, it’s a funny thing.” Larry’s hard swallow resonated through the speaker. “Her name is Savannah Barrett. You knew her as Pandora.”

Geoff dropped the phone in the sink and scrambled for it. “Panda Barrett.”

Anyone but her.

He slammed the phone against the counter, jostling the battery free. No water reached the circuitry. “Guess I’d better get packing.”

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