An Irresistible Impulse (2 page)

Not, she mused, that she was dependent on friends for her own emotional stability. To the contrary. She saw herself as being abundantly self-sufficient, living alone and enjoying the solitude. Every major decision she’d made in her twenty-eight years had been truly hers. Yet, perhaps it was precisely this independent lifestyle that heightened her
appreciation for the companionship of others. Warm companionship. Stimulating companionship. An intelligent mind off which she might bounce her thoughts. Interesting thoughts to bounce off her own mind.

Unbidden came the image of one tawny-haired man. What if
he
were chosen? It might be fun, she mused idly. And interesting. He obviously had a sense of humor.
That
, she sensed, was going to be a necessity in the days and weeks ahead.

The turn of the van from the main road onto a private one brought more immediate thoughts to mind. She’d been familiar with the route they’d taken, had driven it many times herself—toward Killington to ski, toward Rutland to shop. Yet she’d never taken this side road. They hadn’t been driving for more than five minutes. Logistically, it would be right.

To either side, towering stands of pine and hemlock crowded the shoulder of the road, leaning eagerly forward for a better view of the van and its passengers in much the same way the people in town had done. Abby chased a strange eeriness from her mind as she kept her eyes on the road ahead.

And she was rewarded. For around the next seemingly endless bend appeared firsta garden house, then a garage, then an absolutely
huge and beautiful home with the simple legend “The Inn” emblazoned on its lamppost.

“This must be it,” came the resigned rumble from Tom.

“Not bad,” Louise allowed reluctantly.

Abby, however, couldn’t restrain her pleasure. “It’s charming,” she breathed. “Where did it ever come from? I’ve never
heard
of an inn being tucked away so successfully!”

The van had stopped and conversation would have done the same had not the officer who opened the door by Abby’s side appreciated her enthusiasm. When he grinned, she knew she had an ally. “Nice, isn’t it? And southern Vermont’s best-kept secret to boot!”

Taking the hand he offered, Abby stepped from the van to admire better her surroundings. “Is it a
public
place? I mean, can
anyone
stay here?”

“Usually…yes,” he answered, lending a hand to the older woman before turning toward the house. “Now…no.” There was a certain finality to his tone, a chill reminder of their purpose. Anxious to hear whatever he might say, Abby kept pace with him on the broad flagstone path, her slim-heeled pumps tapping a rhythmic cadence, her full skirt swirling just below her knees. She was unaware that the driver of the van had unobtrusively
taken up position behind Louise and Tom and now followed watchfully.

“One of the reasons this inn was chosen for you folks,” the first officer went on, “is that it
is
secluded and unknown, so to speak. There’ll be no other guests staying here for the duration of the trial.” Pulling open the large screen door, he stood back. “Hope you’re hungry. Sybil’s a terrific cook.”

At the moment Abby was indifferent to the enticement offered, for she was suddenly besieged by warring emotions. On the one hand she was thrilled to find herself in the gracious foyer of a sprawling mansion set on acres of land; on the other she felt no freer than a bird in a cage. One part of her felt pure delight at the thought of vacationing at this inn; the other was appalled at that delight, given the sobriety of the occasion. She felt excitement and trepidation, anticipation and apprehension. Hungry?…Not quite.

“Ah!” came a gentle male voice. “You’re here!” Abby turned to meet her host, a man whose kind expression was in keeping with that voice. “I’m Nicholas Abbott. And welcome to The Inn.”

Nicholas Abbott extended his hand to each of them in turn. His warmth helped dispel that chill she’d felt moments before. Dressed casually in slacks, an open-necked shirt, and a golfing sweater that buttoned
from waist to hip, the innkeeper was as gracious as the setting he’d created. He spoke slowly, reassuringly, as if understanding the unsureness his guests had to be feeling.

“My wife, Sybil, and I hope to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. We’re really a self-contained entity. But if there’s anything you need and can’t find, please feel free to ask either of us…or your trusty guards.” He cast an eye toward a large room branching from the foyer. “Uh-oh. Looks like your trusty guards are hungry.” The men in question stood looking longingly toward the end of the room that was beyond Abby’s view. “Let’s go have lunch,” her host suggested gently. “The others have just begun. I’m sure they won’t mind pausing for further introductions.”

His words brought home the fact that, if this was the beginning for Abby, there were others for whom it was the third day of sequestration. Curious, she followed Nicholas Abbott toward the adjoining room.

The two court officers stood aside to let the small troop enter. Abby found herself in an enormous room, the front half of which was comfortably furnished in typically New England parlor style, the rear half of which was an elegant dining room dotted with casually set tables for four, at which were scattered
nine other jurors and two additional court officers.

“Hear ye!” Nicholas made a lively gesture of clapping his hands for attention. It was far from needed. The newcomers had captured every eye in the room the instant they’d entered it. “We’ve got another three to add to the group.” Speaking more softly, he extracted first names from Abby, Louise, and Tom, then went carefully around the room giving similar identifications to each guarded face.

Abby couldn’t have remembered eleven names in one round if she’d tried. The most she could do was to note a fairly even sexual split and the predominance of jurors older than herself. Just one woman appeared to be close in age, perhaps even a year or two younger. This woman’s name she made a point to catch. Patricia. Blond-haired and fair-skinned, Patricia returned both her interest and the half-smile Abby was able to offer before being ushered to a free table.

Moments later, she found herself seated with her fellow new arrivals and a court officer, a woman who had quietly shifted her place setting to their table from that at which she’d begun the meal.

“I’m Grace Walsh.” She grinned knowingly. “…Just in case you didn’t catch the
name the first time around. I’ll be here with you throughout the trial.”

“You mean that they don’t give
you
any time off either?” Tom grunted in a tone just short of sardonic.

Grace shrugged off the question with a dismissing wave. “Oh, I’ll probably have a morning or afternoon off every now and then, but for the most part…you’re stuck with me.”

Smiling, Abby took a closer look at this person with whom she was “stuck.” In her late forties, Grace Walsh made a very proper appearance, with her brown hair anchored in a staid bun, her face devoid of makeup, her blue uniform fitting her ample body with just a hint of room to spare. Yet there was no sign of the grim matron in this woman, no clue to suggest that she might next be walking a criminal to and from a prison wagon. Rather, she seemed eminently approachable…so much so that Abby yielded to her own clamoring curiosity.

“Tell me, Grace,” she began, helplessness written across her features, “how is this all supposed to work? I mean, I know that we’ll be cut off from the outside world. But exactly how far does it go? There are those little Day-to-day things that people do—laundry, phone calls, reading. How much of that will be affected?”

The kindness with which Grace responded did little to blunt her words. “Everything, I’m afraid. You’ll come into contact with no one but courtroom personnel, your fellow jurors, those of us who’ll be staying with you, and the staff here at the inn.” She shifted her gaze to the waitress who approached bearing a large tray. “This is Katherine Blayne, the Abbotts’ oldest daughter. She lives with her own family back in town, but she’s here helping out every day.” Then she turned to Katherine. “The stew tastes great!”

The eldest Abbott daughter grinned. “There’s plenty more whenever you’re ready.” Lowering her tray onto a nearby stand, she transferred a basket of bread, a central vegetable dish, and individual salads to the table before returning with a large serving bowl and dishing out hearty helpings of a steaming beef stew. “I hope this is okay for you folks. If any of you have any dietary restrictions, please let us know. We’ll be glad to make substitutions.” Katherine glanced quickly at the table to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything and then returned to the kitchen.

“Hmmmph!” Louise scoffed softly as she eyed the heaping plate before her. “And I was worried about my
husband
gaining weight…”

Grace turned to Louise and said cheerfully, “One of the beauties of this place is the opportunity for exercise. There’s a pool out back, but now that the end of September’s here it may be too cool to swim. If any of you run, though, Ray over there”—she quirked her head toward the guard who’d driven the van and now sat at the table she’d left earlier—“would be more than glad to take you. He’s a pro. Enters marathons and all. And the paths around this estate are ideal for running.”

The thought held major appeal for Abby. She’d been running since she first moved north and discovered that the fresh air—warm in summer, crisp in spring and fall, downright frigid though invigorating in winter—did miracles for the cobwebs that formed periodically in the private corners of her mind.

“I might just take him up on that,” she quipped. “I have this funny feeling that after sitting in the courthouse seven or eight hours a day I’m going to need
something
.”

Her reference to the trial seemed to sober them all. As Abby listened for it, conversation in the room was sparse. Rather, there were the sounds of eating—silver touching china, the clink of glassware as it moved from table to mouth and back, an occasional cough. Eyes down, she focused on her lunch,
eating absently, trying to tell herself that a certain awkwardness was only natural. After all, the people in this room had been thrown together through circumstances quite beyond their control. Each had his own life, his own friends, his own loyalties…and there were still two more jurors to be added to the unlikely assortment.

“When do you think the trial will begin?” she broke the silence on impulse to home in on Grace.

The woman raised her eyes skyward. “With any luck we’ll get our jury completed this afternoon. If so, opening statements should begin tomorrow morning.”

Nodding, Abby returned to her meal. Tomorrow morning. At least she wouldn’t be waiting around as some of these others had done. Two more jurors. Her thoughts took a frivolous turn as she wondered again whether that enticingly human male with his casual stance and his amused expression would be one of the two. A surreptitious glance toward the other tables convinced her that he’d be by far the most attractive of the group.

Then her eye met Patricia’s, and the other gave a meaningfully exaggerated yawn. So the group was as fascinating as she’d feared? Ah, well, there was always Scrabble, or a good book, or if worst came to worst, she
could spend her free time writing letters to Sean.

She hadn’t realized she’d chuckled aloud until Louise called her on it. “You don’t seem as bothered by the situation as we are. No husband at home? Kids? Job?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied softly, “I certainly have a job. But you’re right. I don’t have a husband or children to worry about. It makes a difference.”

Evidently her frank concession was enough to quell the older woman’s curiosity. There were no more questions asked. Indeed, the meal progressed in silence through gingerbread à la mode and a welcome pot of herb tea. It was only when the foursome prepared to leave the table that Grace spoke up.

“There’s one thing I’d like to ask you all now,” she began. “The judge will elaborate on this tomorrow morning, but let me say quickly that you aren’t to discuss this case with anyone. That means no talks with each other after court or at night. I know it might get pretty tense holding it all in, but that’s the rule. We ask that you honor it.”

She’d ended on such an urgent note that for the first time the three nodded in agreement. “Good. Now then,” she resumed more buoyantly as they headed for the lobby, “you’ve each been assigned a room. That’s another nice feature about The Inn—private
rooms for all. I think I’ll have Mr. Abbott show each to his own. Clean up if you want. Take a rest. Then,” she paused to look around for her quarry, “if I can corral my colleagues we can get down to the business of taking you back to your homes to pick up your things.”

Lorraine was at her elbow examining everything. Most things—clothing, cosmetics, blow-dryer—were easily approved and promptly stowed in Abby’s canvas traveler. Other things, to her dismay, were vetoed. A headphone cassette system to run with was out, as was a portable radio or any other device
for providing a musical accompaniment to relaxation. As Lorraine explained, there couldn’t be any risk of an outside message “infiltrating by electrical means.”