by Jill Orr
“And this was okay with you?” I asked.
“It was,” she said, “until a few months ago. I decided that perhaps it was time to move on and find a love of my own. I had begun to feel lonely.” Her eyes flitted over to Holman when she said that. And although he pretended not to notice, his cheeks burned pink.
“And what—you told Dale?”
“Yes. He got angry and tried to persuade me to stay with him, but eventually he accepted my choice.”
“What changed his mind?”
She held my gaze for a few seconds, perhaps trying to decide if she was going to answer me honestly. “Let’s just say that Dale did not want to upset me.”
“Why not?” She didn’t respond. “Listen, I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth.”
A look passed between Holman and Rosalee, then he gave her an encouraging nod.
She said, “Dale uses the Tavern to launder money.”
And there it was. “Let me guess,” I said as the pieces fell into place. “He used a fake French butter supplier to funnel the money?”
“How did you know?” Rosalee seemed honestly surprised.
Holman too. “Riley, I’m very impressed—”
“Don’t even.” I gave him a death glare. I was still annoyed that he’d left me in the dark about Rosalee. “Never mind how I found out.” I didn’t want to drag Ridley into this mess if I could help it. Besides, I had more pressing questions. “Why is he laundering money in the first place, and what does all of this have to do with the murders?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Holman said. “And I want to be clear that we do not have any concrete answers yet. But our working theory is that Greer must have found out about Dale and Rosalee—and possibly even about the money laundering. So she hires local thug Justin Balzichek to vandalize the Tavern.”
“But why? What was the goal there?”
“Greer had a terrible temper,” Rosalee said, “but she wasn’t stupid. She would know that if the Tavern was damaged or destroyed, the authorities would be all over it during the insurance investigation. They would no doubt uncover the financial discrepancies. It was only because your Jay was inside that the investigation took another turn.”
My mind flashed back to the day that that hammer came hurtling through the large plate glass window, narrowly missing me. The panic. The confusion. Jay sprung into action and called in the authorities, who swarmed the place, certain that the attack had been intended for the DEA agent, of course. After all, there was no shortage of criminals who wanted Jaidev Burman dead.
“I think she intended it as retribution on me and Dale.”
“Women have been known to act irrationally upon finding out their partner has been unfaithful. Fun fact,” Holman said as he lifted one bony finger into the air, “the popular expression ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ is from the play, a tragedy naturally, called The Mourning Bride written by the late William Congreve that premiered in 1697—”
Both Rosalee and I stared at him. He blinked. “What?”
“The murders?” I said, trying to steer him back on track.
“Oh, right.” He paused for a fraction of a second, and I could tell he wanted to finish his Mourning Bride story, but fortunately he let it go. “Well, if Greer had indeed discovered Dale was being both financially and sexually unfaithful, it could be that he had Greer and Balzichek killed to protect himself.”
“How much money are we talking about here?”
“Over the years? Millions,” Rosalee answered.
“Millions?” I gaped. “Was he selling heroin or something?” Whenever I heard about someone laundering that kind of money, my mind immediately went to drugs. I blame Jay for that. And Netflix.
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. He did some work for a client who preferred to pay him in cash. He chose not to report that income.” She said this as if not paying taxes was a legitimate option and not a federal crime. “I am the only one left who could expose him. I think he had Greer killed to silence her, and now he’s trying to set me up to take the blame.”
If any of this were true, it would make sense that Rosalee was in hiding. Dale Mountbatten was a powerful man with deep pockets. If he had already killed twice to protect his secrets, there’s no telling what he might be willing to do. And desperate, violent men are never to be taken lightly.
I picked up Rosalee’s train of thought. “So if Dale did set this whole thing up, that would do two things for him: One, in addition to neutralizing the threat from his wife, it would get you effectively out of the picture. I mean—you could potentially be given the death penalty for double homicide.” Rosalee winced at the words. “Sorry, but it’s true. It would also completely discredit any accusations you made against him, because it would look like you were just trying to save yourself.”
“Exactly,” Rosalee said. “Now you understand.”
For a brief moment I did, but then I remembered that two days before Greer was killed, Rosalee had sauntered into Sanford Farm & Home and bought a sledgehammer. I debated whether or not to tell her I had this piece of information, but ultimately my eagerness to hear her explanation superseded my self-control. “Sheriff Haight says he has records proving you bought a sledgehammer just prior to Greer’s death.”
Holman turned his head sharply to look at Rosalee. Clearly, she hadn’t mentioned this to him.
“Yes, so? I have been planning to do some work at the Tavern for months, years, actually. Ask Melvin. He will tell you. There is an old root cellar that’s full of half-walls and strange angles. I want to knock out the walls in order to gain more storage.”
“You were going to knock out the walls yourself?” I asked, giving her my best yeah right look.
“I was!” Rosalee seemed offended for the first time in the conversation. Apparently the insinuation she was weak was more offensive to her than the insinuation she was a murderer. “It was going to cost me over three thousand dollars to hire someone. I am not going to pay those prices when I am perfectly capable of doing the work myself!”
“All right, all right,” I said, holding my hands up. I decided to leave it alone for now. “But you have to admit, that looks bad.”
“I don’t care what it looks like. The truth is the truth.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. If she was lying, she was damn good at it. “Listen, Riley. I’m scared for my life. Do you know what that feels like? Every minute, I’m terrified Dale Mountbatten is going to find me and do to me what he did to his wife and Balzichek.” Her big green-gray eyes seemed to get even bigger and greener and grayer with every word. She was mesmerizing. “The only place I feel safe is here with Will,” she said and looked at Holman, who looked back at her like she was a combination of Princess Leia, Jessica Jones, and Daenerys Targaryen.
I asked the obvious question: “Why not go to the police? I know you’re scared, but you’re also holding all the cards in a way. You could tell Sheriff Haight everything you know, and the authorities would crawl all over Dale Mountbatten.”
Rosalee looked down at her half-eaten croissant and picked a toasted almond off its top.
“Or are you afraid that you’d be implicated in the money laundering? You could explain that you were just a pawn,” I said. “The authorities would have to realize you had no control over that—”
Rosalee looked down and to the left, refusing to meet my eyes. Then the realization hit me. “You’re not living here legally, are you, Rosalee?”
When she raised her eyes to mine, they were not filled with the sort of misty-eyed emotion I might have expected, and they were certainly not filled with fear. Her face was hard, unyielding, and defiant when she said, “No. I am not.”
“What the hell are you thinking?” I whisper-shouted at Holman as he walked me out of his apartment.
“Right now?” He blinked. “I was actually thinking how curious it was that a woman your size ate twice as many croissants as the rest o
f—”
“Holman!” I cut him off. “I mean, why would you agree to hide her? You could get in a lot of trouble for this!”
“I didn’t plan it. I was doing some research at Sterns for my book the other night, late, and I saw her hiding behind one of the mausoleums. She said she needed help. What was I supposed to do?” A deep pink hue spread across Holman’s cheeks.
“Ohmygod,” I said. “You like her!”
“No, I…I—” The rapid-fire blinking was back in action.
“Please.” I rolled my eyes. “And promise me you’ll never play poker for money. You are possibly the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
He furrowed his brow. “I don’t enjoy games of chance, Riley. I would think you’d know that.”
I ignored him and lowered my voice another notch. “What if she’s guilty? The evidence doesn’t look good…”
“I don’t think Rosalee is guilty.”
“What we need to do is go straight to the police.”
“Then she will get deported—if Dale doesn’t get to her first.”
“Maybe not. Carl can help her.”
“We only need a little more time,” Holman said, almost pleading. “We just need proof that Dale Mountbatten was behind Greer’s death.”
We were standing outside Holman’s apartment, and I was aware Rosalee was probably listening to every word through the open window. “Let’s talk tomorrow,” I whispered. “At the office.”
“Would you like some tea, Will?” Rosalee’s question drifted outside like a siren song.
The two pink splotches darkened on Holman’s cheeks as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
For a guy who didn’t like games of chance, Holman was certainly taking a big one on Rosalee. And I didn’t like his odds one bit.
Self-Care Assignment #2:
A Better You Through Guided Meditation
Find a comfortable spot on the floor, grass, or other foundational surface. Configure your legs into a W position with your knees touching the floor in front of you and your feet extending behind you diagonally. Do not be alarmed if you feel a tight pulling sensation under your kneecaps or a numbing, pins-and-needles sensation in your lower extremities. This is just trapped negative energy trying to work its way out.
Imagine that you are in a field of green grass high on a mountaintop. Blue sky surrounds you, white fluffy clouds dot the horizon. The air is clear and crisp. In the distance, you see a child walking toward you. You look into her eyes and recognize them as your own. You realize this child is your younger self. She looks sad. When you are near enough to reach her, grab her by her narrow shoulders and hurl her off the side of the mountain. Listen to her screams as she falls deeper, deeper, deeper, down toward the earth below. Be aware of the dull thud her body makes as it hits the ground. #wileecoyote
We are what we think and become what we thought. Feel all of your negative beliefs, fears, and emotional trauma evaporate as your inner child gasps for air in the valley below. She was holding onto these damaging beliefs because she didn’t know any better. By snuffing out her infantile ignorance, you are now free to heal and move forward without the drain of these memories and experiences. #byebyelittledemon
Spend at least fifteen minutes journaling about how this guided meditation made you feel, noting how luminous and unencumbered your conscious mind now feels. Go forth into the world a blank slate, determined not to allow the many psychic vampires you encounter access to your newly tranquilated state of being.
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Dear Miss Ellison,
Thank you for your email. To answer your question, a psychic vampire is a person who drains others emotionally. They can do this literally by draining your auric life force or metaphorically by continually taking without giving anything back to their victims. Psychic vampires are not to be confused with actual blood-sucking vampires who appear in folklore and the Twilight series. #noneedforgarlic #teamedward
Additionally, I have checked with my supervisor and he says “tranquilated” is indeed a word, despite it not appearing in Merriam-Webster’s. (Click.com is considering trademarking it.)
Yours in Loving Alignment,
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Personal Romance Concierge™ and F.L.Y.
Guy™-in-training
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CHAPTER 16
WEDNESDAY
I woke up the next morning exhausted. Probably because I hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a couple of hours and the sleep I did get was punctuated with dark dreams about corpses, bloody sledgehammers, almond croissants, and the wild ponies of Chincoteague. It did not make for a restful night. I checked my phone before even getting out of bed. No call from Flick. Damn.
Over my morning coffee, I tried to sift through all the information that had come in over the past twenty-four hours on the Mountbatten case. Rosalee and Dale Mountbatten’s longtime affair. Rosalee’s accusation that Dale was laundering money through the restaurant. Greer’s murder. Balzichek’s murder. The attack on the café. Rosalee’s illegal status. Obviously, it was all connected, but I was having trouble figuring out how.
If I believed Rosalee’s story, like Holman seemed to, Dale Mountbatten hired a hit man to kill his wife, tried to pin it on his lover, then had the hit man killed to close the loop. But why? Money was the obvious answer…but the money was already his. Why would he go to such drastic measures? Rosalee said it was revenge for her wanting to move on from him, and I suppose that was possible, but something about that didn’t ring true.
I was mulling over these thoughts on my walk into work when I almost ran smack-dab into Dr. Hershel Harbinger, my former boss at the Tuttle Corner Library.
“You certainly look lost in thought, my dear,” he said with the ever-present twinkle in his eyes. “Mentally writing the next front-page scoop for the Times, I trust?”
I smiled, my automatic response to seeing Dr. H. “Something like that,” I said. “What are you up to?”
A sad look crossed his face. “I’m afraid I’m heading over to see my dear friend Franklin—you heard he had a stroke, right?”
I nodded.
“I thought I’d bring Patricia a breakfast pastry from Rosalee’s. Poor dear hasn’t eaten much lately. I remember those long days at Louisa’s bedside. It’s easy to forget to take care of yourself during a time like this.” Dr. H had lost his wife years ago to a long battle with cancer. I rarely had a conversation with him in which he didn’t mention her name.
“I’ve been working with Ash, their grandson, over at the funeral home.”
He nodded. “I know Patricia is so glad to have him here to help out with everything. He seems like a nice young man.”
I wasn’t exactly sure I agreed with that assessment, but it was hardly the time, place, or audience with whom to get into that, so I decided to go with a diplomatic, “He’s been very upset about his grandpa.”
“That boy certainly has been through a lot.” Dr. H sighed. “What with his mother passing so suddenly last year…”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Eudora Winterthorne hadn’t m
entioned anything about Ash’s mother dying.
“Yes, Franklin and Patricia have been so upset over the whole affair. Suzanne, Ash’s mother, died in a car accident last year just before Christmas.”
“I had no idea,” I said.
“Ash was driving at the time.”
My hand flew up to my throat.
Dr. H nodded. “A semi coming the opposite direction on the highway was going too fast and lost control. It was raining, Ash swerved to avoid a head-on collision and…” he trailed off. “Suzanne didn’t survive. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but Franklin said the boy has been consumed with guilt and grief ever since.”
Poor Ash. I couldn’t imagine living with that kind of guilt. It put some of his strange behavior into perspective. I knew shame could get inside a person’s heart and lead them to some dark places.
“That’s awful,” I said. “I had a conversation with Mrs. Winterthorne about him and she didn’t mention anything.” I knew I didn’t need to say it; Dr. H would get the implied question about why Eudora Winterthorne wouldn’t know about something like this.
“Franklin and Patricia probably didn’t mention it to her. I’m sure they were just trying to protect the boy.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “Eudora can be a bit of a gossip, you know.”
I nodded, the irony of the situation completely lost on him. “Thanks for letting me know.”
I heard a car pull up behind me and I saw Dr. H hold a hand up to the driver. “That’ll be my ride! Take care, my dear,” he said and gave me a cheery wave goodbye.
I turned to watch him go.
“Mom?” I should not have been surprised, yet I was. There was my mom sitting in her car, Uber beacon proudly displayed on the windshield.
“Riley? Is that you?” she called out through the passenger-side window as Dr. H climbed into the back of her Camry.
“Yeah, Mom, of course it’s me,” I said. “You can see me, right?”
