Freya was so filled with hate, it was eating away at her. No wonder Clive was such a mean bully. He had his mother to teach him.
When Freya jabbed the gun into her ribs this time, Isabel flinched. She could only imagine how horribly painful a gunshot to the stomach would be. The pain alone would probably kill her.
Stop thinking like that, she told herself. Concentrate on getting away.
The longer they sat waiting, the more impatient Freya became. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble. You should have signed the land over to my son.”
“Why would I do that? Your son hired men to kill me.”
“You stupid girl,” Freya scoffed. “Clive isn’t smart enough to plan a murder. He didn’t know anything about it. That boy would have nothing if it weren’t for me.”
Isabel couldn’t hide her surprise. Was Freya telling the truth? “If it wasn’t Clive who hired those men to kill me, then who was it?”
The smirk on Freya’s face gave her the answer.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked, and before Freya could admit it, Isabel said, “Did you do it alone or did you have help?”
“Walter hired men for me.”
“Walter MacCarthy?”
“Enough talking. Shut your mouth.”
Isabel ignored the demand. “You’re right, Freya. I am stupid. Do you know, when I met you, I felt sorry for you? The poor woman who raised a difficult boy on her own. I got it all wrong, didn’t I? Not that it matters.”
Freya remained silent. Isabel decided to try praise to get her talking.
“It was very clever of you to convince your son and everyone else in Glen MacKenna that he was the rightful heir. So tell me. Is he?”
She still didn’t answer. Isabel wasn’t deterred. “If you were so certain that Clive is Compton’s son, why didn’t you get proof? I know DNA testing wasn’t as sophisticated back then as it is today, but you could do it now. There are enough of Compton’s relatives alive who would be a familial match, including my sisters and me. Why didn’t you insist he get tested?”
“Walter said he could take care of it if it became an issue.”
If it became an issue? Of course it would be an issue. “Is he Clive Compton’s son?” she pressed again.
Freya shrugged. “He could be.”
“You’re a very smart woman. You manipulated everyone to get what you wanted.”
Freya nodded. “Yes, I am smart,” she agreed. Her expression was smug. She sat back and moved the gun a bit farther away from Isabel.
Isabel messed up then. She should have kept silent. “There’s just one problem. Compton gave the land to me.”
“In a couple of hours that won’t be a problem. You’re going to sign the land over to me. If you don’t, you’ll have a little mishap and disappear.” To underscore her point she shoved the barrel of the gun into Isabel again.
Isabel knew Freya planned to kill her either way. Did she think Isabel would believe she’d let her walk away if she signed the land over? And killing her with a bullet wasn’t a little mishap. It was murder.
Freya pulled the cuff of her blouse up to see the time on her watch. Isabel noticed the charm bracelet then. At first glance the cubes dangling from the bracelet looked like dice, but when she looked closer, she realized there were red clown faces on each side. Good God, Freya was the clown-loving freak. “You gave that painting of a clown to Walter MacCarthy, didn’t you?”
The switch in topics must have confused Freya because she made Isabel repeat the question. “Yes, I gave it to him.”
“Where would you find such a thing?”
“I didn’t find it. I painted it.”
That certainly explained a lot.
“You’re very talented.” Isabel almost choked on the words.