Where There's a Will Read online

  Rose blanched. “Oh. I read in the local paper that somebody had inherited it with Dylan.”

  Dylan O’Connor. Beth’s solicitor hadn’t told her much about the twenty-seven-year-old live-in tour guide who lodged in the shoebox-sized loft Beth had once called her own bedroom. She wasn’t miffed about the fact that it was occupied—she had zero interest in playing slumber parties in the homestead with a stranger. In fact, she had zero interest in going anywhere near the house in which she’d once had such a profound interest. But for an estimated three million at last valuation, she could oblige.

  “Yeah…that would be me,” Beth said slowly. “I wrote my thesis on the case, and lived here in the Lakes for six months. I lived there alone.”

  Rose’s left eyebrow perched. “You lived there? At the homestead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  “I never felt like I was alone there.”

  Rose pursed her lips. “I don’t think I would feel alone if I lived there either.”

  “No, no,” Beth said. “Elma, the woman who owned it, she lived in town, but it felt like she was always there. I’d go to sleep and she was there, I’d wake up and she was there.”

  Rose visibly swallowed. “You’re brave.”

  Beth smiled. “It’s not haunted. I know what people say, but…trust me. No ghosts there.”

  Rose sank her hands into the large pockets of her woollen cardigan. “That’s not what Dylan would have people believe.”

  “You know her?” she asked.

  Rose’s smile was forced. “Everybody knows Dylan. It was nice to hear that the house was left to her. She loves that house—lives and breathes it.”

  Perfect. Just what she needed to hear. She wasn’t so naïve to expect that the live-in tour guide would be happy to suddenly pick up her stuff and move out at Beth’s behest so that it could be sold, but it was still jarring to hear. Beth hadn’t come to the Lakes to drop a bomb or ask to be bought out. Not right now anyway. Her solicitor had told her that Dylan hadn’t expressed an interest in selling, and Beth wasn’t there to make demands, to stir up trouble. That was what horrible people did. It was such a cliché. She owed Elma more than that.

  “You were close to her?” Rose asked. “The woman who owned it?”

  The house whip-cracked in the wind.

  Guilt tightened in Beth’s throat. Her answer was thick with the weight of outdated truth. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I’m sorry for my gain. Beth didn’t have the heart to confess that she’d been dancing away under the stars on the pool deck of a cruise liner the day Elma had been buried. To make matters worse, she hadn’t even phoned Elma for six months before her death. She’d been putting it off and putting it off, Call Elma scribbled on notepads all over her house. There was no reasonable explanation for Elma to leave Beth half of the estate, and it was heartbreaking to think that she considered Beth close enough to include her at all.

  Rose jiggled Beth’s new keys in her hand. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to get settled.” She crossed the room and gently placed the set on the kitchen bar. “I’ve put some bread and milk in the fridge.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Rose.”

  “It was no trouble at all. There are a few tea bags in the last canister on the bench there, too. Sugar’s in the cupboard. If you need anything else, I’m home all day. The Internet password is on the sheet of little notes I’ve left you on the fridge. I don’t think there’s much else you need to know…”

  “Thank you,” Beth said. “I’m sure you had plans today. I appreciate you wasting your Saturday waiting here for me to rock up.”

  “Not a problem. I’ve had most of today off and I only have to pop across town to make a house call before dinner. Oh, if you need a second set of keys for any reason,” she hesitated, “if you have a girlfriend or a partner visiting or anything, feel free to get another set made.”

  Smiling, she followed Rose out to the landing with its little table and two chairs. “It’s just me.”

  “Well, please let me know otherwise.”

  “If I have a girlfriend?”

  Grasping the railing, Rose turned on the third step. She blinked up at Beth. “No,” she said slowly. “If you get another set of keys made…”

  Oh my god, what is wrong with me? Beth licked her lips. “Right. Sure.”

  The wind swept at Rose’s cardigan as she descended the stairs and disappeared around the side of the house.

  Beth closed the door behind her and looked around the cosy space. If I have a girlfriend? Beth rubbed at her face and groaned. Later, she could die of embarrassment from making that faux pas. First, there was unpacking to do.

  At the kitchen counter, Beth nibbled on the leftover sandwich she’d bought before she’d left Sydney. It had that day-old, service-centre taste: the tomato overripe, the bread soggy with ranch dressing. But it was better than nothing.

  Beth swiped breadcrumbs off her laptop keyboard and typed “The Blaxland Homestead” into the search engine. Images of the house swirled onto the screen.

  Now that she was there in the Hunter Valley, the fact that she was renting in Jembala Lakes rather than checking into a bed and breakfast seemed profoundly presumptuous. Dylan O’Connor had made no contact with her. Obviously, somebody needed to take the first step, but what if her initiative wasn’t welcomed? Sure, she hadn’t just driven up for the weekend to draw straws with her co-inheritor, but she was about to invite herself into a workplace to take up a job offer extended by a deceased woman’s words in a three-year-old will.

  Elma’s will outlined Beth’s entitlement to half of the homestead’s income from the historical tours—if Beth played a role in the business with her co-inheritor. In the event that an inheritor does not assume managerial duties, the income from the business remains solely with the inheritor actively managing the business. Her solicitor had only briefly explained the clause, convinced that somebody like Beth wasn’t going to relocate to a country town for a tour-guide’s salary—assuming that it was even enough to support two people. However, now unemployed, Beth figured she could take some time to become reacquainted with the house. Her credit card debt could slowly dwindle on what must surely be a modest income while they figured out their options.

  She hit the down key on her laptop and raked her eyes over the Yelp page for The Blaxland Homestead.

  This tour is unbelievably good!! The house isn’t too far off the motorway. If you’re coming from Sydney, take the Maitland exit at the end of the M1. Only about 20 minutes out from there. A few places in town to eat. I recommend the local pub by the lake. But save lunch for after the homestead—place is a bit sick with all of the death stuff. The worst is the uncut (no pun intended!) murder scene from “The Blaxland Files” playing in the first room you go into—for heaven’s sake, even the Television Code of Practice banned that scene from air! The tour is supposedly ages 12 and up, but that’s only if your kids have the temperament of Wednesday and Pugsley Addams. Pretty gory if you ask me! Tour is very informative, though. We had Dylan as our tour guide. She took us into each room and explained what happened there. 5/5, I’d say.

  Wouldn’t recommend for kids under 14. Or anyone with a weak stomach.

  Our NSW Adventure Tour stopped here on the way to Tamworth Country Music Festival. We had Dylan as our tour guide. What a character—very witty, should be on stage. She knew everything about the place and was great with my eleven-year-old, who had a lot of questions. We had an elderly couple on the tour, and the elderly woman had a lot of problems going up and down the stairs. Dylan was very patient and did her best to help the woman out, setting up chairs, helping her into each room, making her feel at ease. The woman was obviously embarrassed about holding the tour up, but Dylan made jokes to make her feel comfortable. She speaks very quickly though, so you have to focus to catch up.

  Visited here while chaperoning my son’s school history excursion. Interesting place. T
our guide Dylan is great, but doesn’t really have a filter once she gets on a roll. Bit of an oddball.

  This house gives off a kind of electricity that makes your skin crawl. There’s a bathroom just off the hallway if you need to throw up after seeing the postmortem photos. Parking is great, though.

  The house is preserved to look exactly as it did when the Blaxland family lived there, even most of the furniture is original. It’s like stepping into a time capsule. It’s very clean and smells great. Obviously, the carpet has been replaced—gross if it hadn’t been, considering! (If you already know the story of the Blaxlands and how they were left after the daughter Sarah hacked them up, you’ll know what I mean!)

  Don’t come here if you’re squeamish!!!!

  Best historical tour in Australia! Now, you may not realise it if you’re from another country, but gee whiz did this case have an impact on Australian history! Divided the whole bloody country! Can still remember studying this case in school back in the seventies. Sarah Blaxland was the first Aussie woman tried and acquitted for murder. Come on, her grandmother was an escaped convict—of course it was her, it was in her blood! The Blaxland trial marked the first time Australia questioned whether a woman of Sarah’s social standing was capable of something this bad. She got off too bloody easy. Guess you’ve gotta think about the way it was back then—nobody wanted to hang a woman. Doubt it’s actually haunted, so don’t go here if you’re just going for the gimmick. It’s not really about that. It’s about Australian history.

  This is a real haunted house! Took my family here in January—one of the hottest days of the summer. And guess what? Cold spots everywhere. My wife said that a hand touched her on the elbow when she was taking the stairs, like someone was trying to help her up. She thinks it was the brother, because he was a real gentleman apparently, a real ladies’ man in town back in the day. As soon as my wife told everyone on the tour that someone touched her on the elbow, my twin daughters both said that something touched them on the back of their necks. Maybe Sarah was jealous of the attention her brother was giving my wife and was threatened by my daughters, too? I was a bit irritated by the tour guide. She didn’t believe my wife and daughters, thought they’d made it up for attention. Needless to say, not impressed. Rude.

  House was cool, but that’s not why I’m here on this site. Look, I’m not gay or anything but…the tour guide is really hot! Like, I-can’t-stop-thinking-about-her hot. Story is interesting, too, I guess.

  Reply @AussieGal87 I’m with you on this!! I think I fell a little bit in love!

  At the counter, Beth straightened. It was three-forty. The last tour listed for Saturdays was at four.

  She swiped up her coat and keys.

  Chapter Two

  The last of the tour patrons meandered out the back door and over to join the rest of the group beneath the windows on the south face of the homestead. There’s no thrill quite like circling back to the beginning, Dylan thought. Quickly, the chatter died down and she had their undivided attention again.

  She pulled Photo Number One from the folder. She tapped the laminate with her index finger and pointed to the window above their heads that was pictured in the photograph. “Hand it ’round,” she said, “take a moment to have a look and tell me what you think you see.”

  Tim Burton’s look-alike with the big hair only had the photograph between his fingertips for a hot second. “It’s an orb!” he declared.

  Dylan took inventory as they each took a turn looking between the photograph and the second-storey window. Two squinty-eyed sceptics to her left, a tilted head to her right, a chewed lip front and centre—she could work with that. Tim Burton-the-Believer and his nodding wife? Definitely. The Flintstones in the back row? She had Wilma and thirteen-year-old Pebbles on the bandwagon, but Fred was going to take a bit more convincing.

  Almost ten years of on-the-job experience had taught her that the key to winning over cynics lay in giving them the choice. If she put the ball in their court, it was bound to bounce right back. “I’m happy to talk more about it if anybody wants to hang back for a few minutes,” she said, “but I know ghost talk isn’t up everybody’s alley, so I’ll leave it up to you.”

  The two sceptics to her left weren’t having a bar of it. They thanked Dylan profusely for the tour and headed back to their car. Tilted Head followed suit. But the Tim-Burton pair’s expressions were easier to read than the instructions on the back of a two-minute noodle packet—they weren’t going anywhere. Chewed Lip and The Flintstones stuck around too. Six out of ten. Those were good odds.

  She pointed up at the back of the house, at the spotlight that overhung the gutter and lit up the gift shop barn at night. “As I said inside, the second Mrs Blaxland wasn’t a fan of the telephone when it first came to Jembala Lakes. More pointedly, Mrs Aileen Blaxland wasn’t a fan of her stepdaugher, Sarah, being able to make easy contact with relatives on her late mother’s side of the family.”

  Fred Flintstone’s hands went to his hips, his beer belly jutting out as he listened.

  “Most of the wealthy townsfolk had a telephone, but the second Mrs Blaxland wanted her stepchildren to work for their privileges. In comparison to her own daughter, she thought the Blaxland children were spoilt and entitled, and regardless of the fact that her new husband was one of the richest men in the district, she wasn’t allowing a telephone in—”

  “Sorry, love,” Chewed Lip interrupted. “Can you slow down a bit? You’re rushing.”

  It wasn’t the first time Dylan had heard that. “Right. Sorry,” she said. Slowly, slowly. “Most people think that if Aileen Blaxland had allowed a telephone in the home, the night of the murders would have turned out very differently. Her stepson would have been able to notify the police about his father’s murder and his missing sister and stepsister.

  “Look around, the closest house is a mile away, but back then, the homestead was even more remote. If the boy could have telephoned, he wouldn’t have had to ride the ten k’s into town, and Aileen wouldn’t have been left alone in the house with Sarah. Or the murderer,” she quickly clarified. “Or whoever you think did it.” Long ago, she’d made her own assumptions about the unsolved case and the unconvicted Sarah Blaxland, but it wasn’t her job to push her theories on her guests. “Anyway…the telephone could have saved Mrs Blaxland’s life.” Dylan waved her finger above her head. “This spotlight up here was installed three years ago, and this photo was taken the night it was installed.”

  Wilma fiddled with the scarf around her neck. Her red hair whipped about her face in the wind. “Why would you take a photo of a spotlight in the first place?” she asked, sceptical, as she doubled her scarf.

  “Insurance purposes,” Dylan fibbed. “We’d had a break in—smashed window and whatnot. The insurance company wanted proof we were taking precautions if we wanted to make a claim, so we had to prove we’d installed a sensor light. Turns out we proved something else instead.”

  Fred tilted his head as he studied the photograph. “It just looks like a reflection of the spotlight on the glass.”

  “Could very well be, sir. But it could also be what those ghost hunters call an orb—can’t discount that either. See this?” She pulled another photo from the folder. In it, the “orb” was gone, and in its place, was a shadow by the window, a murky silhouette of human shoulders, the back of a head, a raised arm.

  “You think that’s the stepmother?” Wilma asked.

  “Sure do. Bit of a coincidence that she’s looking out over to where her body lay that night, isn’t it? I imagine that she probably wouldn’t like to see the spot she drew her last breath so exposed, totally bathed in light…”

  Wilma nodded. “And what’s in that room, behind the window?”

  A flash of blond caught Dylan’s attention. Her eyes snapped up. A woman was sitting on the bench outside the gift shop barn, looking Dylan’s way with a nervous smile. She was pretty. Very pretty. All rugged up, her slender frame was swallowed up in layers
beneath her navy coat. Tight black boots hugged her calves, stopping just below the knee. Her hair danced above her shoulders in the wind…

  Wilma said her name. Blinking, Dylan looked back at the waiting group. “Hmm? Oh, storage room. Just storage. Anyway, if you have any other questions, feel free to give me a buzz.”

  “Can we take a photo of the photos?” Chewed Lip asked.

  Dylan shook her head and snatched the photos back. “Don’t want people thinking we’re playing on the ghost thing.”

  “Oh,” Chewed Lip said, disappointed. “Of course.”

  “I only show this to the occasional group I know won’t make something else of it.” False. “We’re not about the ghost thing here, so please don’t mention this if you leave a Yelp review, eh? We’re really big on those reviews, though, so, uh, if you do get a chance…”

  The blonde across the yard stood, tucked her hands into her coat pockets, her gaze focused on Dylan.

  “Catcha later, thanks for coming!”

  Dylan made her way across gravel to the gift shop. The woman was a few inches shorter than Dylan, her slim figure accentuated in dark denim jeans and a maroon jumper. Grinning, Dylan clicked her tongue. Well that’s a cute little button nose if ever I saw one. “Hello, there…”

  “Hi.”

  “Wow.” Dylan reached for the padlock to the shop door, blindly unlocking it as she focused on the other woman. “You have very blue eyes. Very, very blue eyes. Perhaps the bluest in all the land…”

  Blondie didn’t seem to know how to take that. She smiled shyly.

  Dylan gasped playfully. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t know until this point?”

  Teeth worried at a full bottom lip. “Excuse me?”

  Dylan pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. “You didn’t know that you have blue eyes?” she teased.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, I…I knew.”

  What the hell is wrong with this woman? She was flushed, her stare unfocused. If I were wearing that many clothes, I suppose I’d look like I were on the verge of passing out too. “Yes. I’m aware that you knew,” Dylan chuckled. “I’m kidding.” She shoved the keys into the pocket of her denim jacket. “When someone pays you a compliment, I’ve found ‘thank you’ to be sufficient.”