The Class Reunion: A psychological suspense thriller

by N L Hinkens

  Boyd grunted his approval. “We could all do with a good night’s sleep.”

  Heather retired to the guest room and pulled out her laptop. Between the card and the graffiti on the gatepost, she was worried that Boyd was right and her presence here was putting her sister in danger. She had to figure out what was going on and put an end to it. Marco and the rest of the group were expecting an update at dinner tomorrow night. She would begin by paring down the list of suspects they had given her. Resigned to the task at hand, she spent the next couple of hours researching the names on the list and tracking down their current contact details, and other pertinent information, before finally calling it a night.

  After breakfast the following morning, she set out to pay a visit to Karen Hill, the ex-fiancée Sydney thought might still be pining after her husband, Steve. Karen was an unlikely suspect in Heather’s estimation, but she was making a point of pursuing all the leads she’d been given.

  It turned out Karen Hill ran a successful law practice and lived on a five-acre lot outside of Moline. Heather had considered texting or emailing her to alert her to her visit but decided against it. If Karen wasn’t home, she would move on to the next person on the list and come back to her later. She pulled up outside the modern Colonial style house and grabbed her backpack off the seat. It never hurt to have a recording device on hand in case things took an unexpected turn. She rang the doorbell and listened to the Westminster chime resound throughout the house. A few minutes later, a petite woman with a sleek chestnut bob opened the door dressed in leggings and an over-sized sweatshirt. She looked Heather up and down and arched an amused brow. “I can’t imagine what you’re selling on a Sunday.”

  Heather smiled, warming to the woman’s straightforward manner. “This isn’t a sales call. My name’s Heather Nelson. I’m a private investigator. I was friends with Sydney Duffy back in high school.” After a heartbeat, she added. “She’s Sydney McClintock now.”

  Karen’s brows knitted together in a flicker of a frown before she gestured for Heather to come inside. “I just brewed a pot of coffee. My husband took the kids on a bike ride. He didn’t want to let them go on their own after what happened to that poor girl Lindsay … whatshername.”

  “Robinson,” Heather offered, sitting down on a leather stool at the kitchen counter while Karen poured the coffee.

  “You saw the article then. Very sad story,” Karen said, filling a small jug with creamer.

  “I knew her well. She was a good friend of mine. She was on the student council with me back in high school—and Sydney too, of course,” Heather said, trying to steer the conversation back around to the purpose of her visit.

  “Cream and sugar?” Karen asked.

  “Just black for me, thanks.”

  Karen joined her at the counter and handed her a steaming mug of coffee. “I’m sorry about your friend. Is that why you’re here? You mentioned you’re a private investigator.”

  Heather took a sip of coffee before responding. “Not exactly. This has more to do with Sydney. You seem like a straight shooter, so I’ll get to the point. Something rather unsettling happened at our twentieth high school reunion last month. Our student council table got a delivery of flowers with a disturbing message on the accompanying card: you deserve to die.”

  Karen’s discriminating eyes narrowed. “That’s a nasty thing to happen.”

  “It definitely put a damper on things,” Heather agreed. “Anyway, as I do this kind of thing for a living, the others asked me to dig around a little and find out if anyone from our high school days still had a beef with us about something. We’re not sure if the message was aimed at one of us, or all of us.”

  Karen raised her brows, an amused grin dancing on her lips. “Let me guess, Sydney suggested I might be behind it?”

  Heather gave an apologetic shrug. “As you can imagine, I’m in a difficult position. I promised my friends I would follow up with anyone they thought might be holding a grudge.”

  Karen threw back her head and laughed. “Not me! To tell you the truth, I have to thank Sydney for taking Steve off my hands. If she hadn’t, I might never have met my husband, Brian. He’s a corporate lawyer too. We make a good team.” She gestured to a frame on the wall. “That’s the most recent family photo of us. Those are our kids, Sasha and Henry.”

  “You have a beautiful family,” Heather said, with a tight-lipped smile—quashing an unexpected pang of jealousy.

  “Thank you. I’m very blessed.”

  “I should get going. I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Heather said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning with something this banal.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Karen said, setting down her mug. “I get that you’re trying to help your friends. Sydney’s a nice girl, and I don’t bear her any ill-will. Between you and me, I doubt the message is targeted at her.”

  Heather got to her feet and carried her mug over to the sink. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll let her know you’re not harboring any unresolved grudges.”

  Karen accompanied Heather to the door. “You might want to leave out the part about me thanking her for marrying Steve,” she said with a wry grin. “She might think I’m insulting her.”

  Heather laughed. “You can count on it.” She waved goodbye and strode down the path. She had a feeling she would enjoy working with Karen Hill if circumstances were different and she had never left Iowa.

  Back in her car, she dialed Sydney’s number, eager to put her mind at rest. The phone rang several times before a harried voice answered, “This is Steve.”

  “Hey, Steve. It’s Heather. I’m just leaving Karen Hill’s house and I wanted to fill Sydney in on our conversation. Is she available?”

  “She can’t come to the phone right now. She’s really sick. I think it’s food poisoning.”

  16

  Alarm bells went off immediately in Heather’s head. In light of everything else going on, it seemed like a strange coincidence that Sydney had suddenly come down with a case of food poisoning. On the other hand, she didn’t want to cause Steve any undue concern by voicing her suspicions prematurely. “I’m sorry to hear that. When did she come down with it?”

  “Just a few minutes ago,” Steve said, sounding frazzled. “She went out to pick us up some lattes and she complained about feeling nauseous and dizzy on the way home. She’s blaming the oysters we had last night. I was just about to call the Waterfront Bistro and ask if anyone else was affected, although I’m pretty sure she would have felt sick before now.” He hesitated before continuing, “You don’t think this could have anything to do with the messages, do you? It’s just with the arson, and Reagan getting cut off on the freeway, and now this—I’m really worried. I want her to go to the ER and get checked out, but she thinks I’m overreacting. I probably am, it’s just disconcerting. Sorry, I know I’m rambling.”

  “I doubt it’s related,” Heather said. “Whoever sent the messages would have no way of knowing when or where you were going out to eat, and no way of tampering with your food.”

  “No, you’re right, of course.” He gave a nervous laugh. “We’ve been a bit on edge ever since the arson.”

  Heather drummed her fingers lightly on the steering wheel. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going to tell the others at dinner about the graffiti and the card that had been sent to Violet’s address. It would almost certainly heighten their fears, and—what was worse—it would turn the spotlight on her.

  “Maybe you can let Sydney know I called and that everything’s good with Karen,” Heather said. “I hope she feels better soon. If she can’t make dinner tonight, I’ll be sure to email her with an update on everything we discuss.”

  Heather hung up, her thoughts racing in several different directions at once. Even though she’d assured Steve that the food poisoning would be unrelated to what was going on, she couldn’t help wondering if that was actually the case. She kept circling back to Lindsay’s bizarre death. It had al
l begun there. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some underlying connection she was missing. The strange hook she’d found in the brush still bothered her too. But was she reading too much into it? It could have been lying there from before the accident, for all she knew.

  Pushing the conundrum to the back of her mind for now, she opened up Google Maps on her phone. There was one more name on the list she wanted to visit before meeting up with the others at dinner. Dan Wilcox was the bereaved husband of Josh’s patient—the ex-model he had more or less admitted to being attracted to. Heather didn’t particularly relish the prospect of interviewing the grieving husband. Words were wholly inadequate in these kinds of situations. But he had threatened Josh, so she had to make sure he could be eliminated as a suspect.

  Thirty minutes later, she pulled up outside a picturesque farmhouse set against a backdrop of fields mantled with corn swaying gently in a light breeze. She had emailed Dan Wilcox earlier and explained she was writing a book on the god-complex among psychiatrists, and that she had heard about his wife’s suicide and wanted to know more about her story. Dan had readily agreed to an interview. Whether or not he was behind the messages, it was clear from his response that he harbored considerable anger and resentment toward Josh.

  He opened the front door as Heather was walking up the stamped concrete pathway. She could tell by the listless, glassy look in his eyes that he’d been drinking, even though it was early in the afternoon. Evidently, he wasn’t coping well with his wife’s untimely death. “You must be Dan,” she said, extending a hand in greeting.

  He shook it limply and ushered her inside to a tasteful kitchen with cherry wood cabinetry and oil-rubbed bronze fixtures. The granite counters were littered with miscellaneous items and the sink was full of dirty dishes. A small stack of used paper plates sat atop the table and the trash can was overflowing. Dan Wilcox appeared to have lost the plot since his wife’s demise in more ways than one.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Heather began. “As I explained in my email, my deadline’s looming, and I only need two more stories to supplement the research I’ve done on this important topic.”

  Dan ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I should have filed a malpractice suit. I wanted to, believe me, but Ruby’s family talked me out of it. They didn’t want the whole world knowing the sordid story. I think they were afraid the media would turn her into a sideshow—her being a model and all.”

  “What type of modeling did she do—catwalk, magazines?”

  He sniffed, pinching his brows together. “A bit of both, back in the day. Ruby had gone as far as she could in her modeling career. She was never going to make it to the big time. I think she’d finally realized that, but she took it hard. That’s when the depression set in. Modeling was really the only dream she ever had.”

  “How did you two meet?” Heather asked.

  “We were high school sweethearts. I was captain of the football team and she was a cheerleader.” He twisted his lips into a regretful smile. “Same old cliché.”

  Heather made a show of writing something down in the notebook she’d brought with her. “How long had she been going to counseling for her depression?”

  “About six months or so.” Dan’s face darkened. “If I’d had any idea what was going on in that office behind closed doors between her and Josh Halverson, I’d have pulled the plug on it a long time ago.”

  “So do you think Ruby began to latch onto her doctor—transference, I believe they call it?” Heather asked, scribbling it down and underlining it. “It’s a common thread in all the stories I’m documenting.”

  Dan’s eyes glittered with hate as he leaned forward in his chair. “I blame him for what happened. He had her completely under his control. Ruby was sick—she wasn’t thinking straight. She came home one day and told me she was in love with him and wanted a divorce. Who do you think planted that idea in her head?”

  Heather painted on a perturbed frown. “That must have made you feel so helpless.”

  “That’s the problem with these doctors,” Dan fumed. “They have too much power over vulnerable people like Ruby. He had access to all her mental health records. I was out of the loop. I only knew what she told me. Somebody needs to hold these doctors accountable. I bet she wasn’t the only one he took advantage of. There’s usually a pattern with these kinds of people.” He waved his hand angrily through the air, getting visibly more worked up by the minute. “Just like that doctor who abused all those Olympic gymnasts. It went on for years and no one blew the whistle on that lowlife.”

  Heather nodded along in agreement. “So, in your opinion, Dan, what’s the public supposed to do?”

  “That’s the real question, isn’t it? What do you do when you can’t get justice?” He scowled and rubbed a hand over his knuckles, his gaze drilling into her.

  Heather swallowed, trying to hide the fact that her hand was shaking. If only he knew how well she could relate to the emotions roiling around inside him.

  “I’ll tell you what happens,” Dan growled. “When people get sick and tired of being sick and tired, they take matters into their own hands.”

  Heather arched a questioning brow. “And how do you feel about that?”

  Dan folded his arms over his chest. “I say good on them. Somebody needs to do what needs to be done.”

  Heather gave an enthusiastic nod. “That’s a great quote, somebody needs to do what needs to be done. Do you mind if I use that in the book?”

  Dan pulled his brows together in momentary confusion as if he’d suddenly remembered the purpose of her visit. “Don’t put my name after it. Next thing you know, he’ll be suing me for threatening him or something. I want to remain an anonymous source, you understand.”

  Heather bent over her notebook and jotted a few things down. For all his bluster and bravado, Dan was a coward—which cast considerable doubt on the idea that he was behind the threatening messages, let alone the arson. “I think that’s enough for me to go on for now,” Heather said, closing her notebook. “If I think of anything else, I’ll email you. I appreciate your time, Dan.”

  “You’re lucky you caught me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ve been fishing in Montana for the past week. We slayed them.”

  Heather raised her brows. “Lucky indeed,” she said, hurrying to the door before he could launch into a prolonged fishing story.

  Back in her car, she crossed Dan Wilcox off her shrinking list. She would verify the fishing trip, of course—she was a professional, after all—but he had no reason to lie to her. She checked the clock in the car and made a quick calculation. There was still time before dinner to make one more stop. It might be worth driving by Roy’s place again to see if he was home. She made a U-turn on the road and drove back out to the subdivision where he lived, slowing down as she approached the house. A woman in skinny, ripped jeans and a baggy V-necked sweater was standing at the bottom of the driveway, one hand on her hip as she watched a toddler pushing a plastic tricycle around. Was this Roy’s wife and child? Reagan hadn’t mentioned anything about a family, but maybe she didn’t know about them. Heather pulled over and switched off the engine. She observed the woman from a distance for a few minutes before climbing out of her car and approaching her. “Hi,” she called out with a friendly wave. “I’m looking for Roy Krueger. Does he live here?”

  The woman’s heavily lined eyes narrowed as she sized up Heather. “Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Janis Wells. I’m a clerk at the law offices of Bodensteiner and Kern,” she said, pulling a file out of her backpack and holding it up. “We’re trying to track down any living relatives of Roy Krueger.”

  A flicker of interest crossed the woman’s face. She cast a quick glance at her son who was still peddling around in circles singing to himself, oblivious to the adult conversation. “You’re out of luck,” the woman said. “Roy’s at work. Or so he says.”

  “Are you his wife?”
<
br />   The woman made a disgruntled sound. “He has yet to put a ring on my finger. I’m Aidy.”

  Heather gestured to the little boy. “Cute kid. What’s his name?”

  “This is Trevor.” Aidy pulled a face. “Everyone says he takes after Roy’s side of the family.” She threw a curious look at the file folder in Heather’s hand. “Does Roy have some money coming to him or something?”

  Heather cocked her head to one side. “That’s what we’re trying to determine. We need to gather some more information. Roy didn’t respond to our email so I’m pursuing it in person.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a big fat inheritance.” Aidy patted her stomach. “It couldn’t come at a better time. Our second child’s due in April.”

  Heather assumed a puzzled expression and flipped open the file folder, making a show of checking her information. “I may be mistaken, but it was my understanding that Roy had an older daughter also.”

  The woman folded her arms across her chest and smirked. “He thought he did for the longest time. But she’s not his, is she?”

  17

  Heather got back in her car and pulled out of the cul-de-sac where Roy lived, headed for Marco’s restaurant. Aidy’s words tumbled around inside her head like lottery balls in a raffle drum, each new combination offering a less satisfactory explanation than the one before. Heather had tried to press her for more details about Lucy, but Aidy had clammed up and told her to talk to Roy about it. Heather left her number with her and asked her to call when Roy returned. After that, Aidy steered Trevor’s tricycle back up the driveway and disappeared around the side of the house—the little boy wailing in protest.

  Heather mulled over the ambiguous comment as she drove. If Lucy wasn’t Roy’s child, then whose child was she? Was Reagan hiding even more of a checkered past than she had divulged? Heather chewed on her lip, considering another possibility that took her breath away. What if Lucy was Marco’s daughter? As earth-shattering a thought as it was, it would explain Anna’s cryptic comment the day before: I’ve a hunch their connection went a whole lot deeper.