Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “No hesitation.” She could see in the set of his mouth that he was thinking something he wasn’t sharing. Part of her wanted to demand he tell her. The other part of her—the sore, achy, exhausted part—let it go.

  He handed her his cell, and she tapped in Uncle Frank’s number. A moment later, it rang through the speakers.

  No answer. What in the world? This time, she dialed the company. She was an idiot for not thinking of that the day before. She’d blame painkillers for that stupidity. The receptionist directed the call.

  “Frank Hamilton.” He sounded weary, gruff.

  “Uncle Frank?”

  “Chelsea? Tell me that’s really you.”

  “Of course it’s me.” She smiled, hoping he’d hear the expression in her voice. “Who else calls you Uncle Frank?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am. It’s been a rough couple of days. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. I’ve hired a private investigator. He’s listening now.”

  “What investigator? What’s his name?”

  “Dylan O’Donnell.”

  “You didn’t need to do that, honey. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I haven’t been receiving any phone calls. In fact—”

  “You too?” he said. “I should have realized… Everybody with company phones lost their service. I forgot your phone was on the company plan.”

  “That explains why you haven’t been answering my calls,” she said.

  “I was worried something happened to you. I had no idea where to look for you.”

  “I’m safe for now, but…” She didn’t want to tell him about the shooting, not until they were face-to-face. He sounded crazy with fear as it was. “Dylan and I are—”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “A long story,” she said. “We’re on our way back now.”

  “Good, good. I need to see you. There’s been a break-in at the company. I think it may be related to what happened to you on Monday. We’re still trying to figure out what happened. We think whoever it was stole the information about the cell plan.”

  Dylan said, “So the phone service was cut off on purpose?”

  After a pause, Uncle Frank said, “That’s the theory.”

  “Perhaps that explains my accounts as well.” Chelsea explained what happened with her credit cards and bank accounts.

  “So you’ve been without funds all this time?” Frank sounded horrified. “How have you managed?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. But Dylan’s been very helpful.”

  Dylan said, “Tell me about the break-in.”

  “It’s a private business matter.”

  “It’s a keep-Chelsea-alive matter,” Dylan said, “and that’s my job.”

  There was a long pause before Frank said, “Let’s meet, and we can discuss it.”

  She glanced at Dylan, who shook his head.

  She mouthed, Why not?

  He tapped the clock.

  Right. They were meeting the detective.

  “How far out are you?”

  “It’ll be a few hours.” She needed to see her uncle, if for no other reason than to take that panic out of his voice.

  Dylan said, “Sir, we’re meeting with Detective Cote so Chelsea can give her statement, and we don’t want to be late.”

  Frank said, “Chelsea, why don’t I go with you? He’s an old friend of mine, you know.”

  She hadn’t known that, but it made sense. Everybody in Coventry knew each other.

  Again, Dylan shook his head. What would be the harm if they all went together? She tried to convey the question with raised eyebrows.

  Dylan said, “Mr. Hamilton, would you excuse us for a second?” He snatched the phone from the console and hit the mute button. “Remember what I said at Eric’s house?”

  He’d said a lot of things. But…

  “About how everybody is a threat,” he added.

  “He’s my uncle. He has nothing to do with anything.”

  “I’m not saying he does.” Dylan’s voice was so calm, it irritated her. “I’m saying we don’t know. We can’t trust anybody until we know who’s trying to kill you.”

  “You trust the police detective, though?”

  He kept his gaze on the road. “He’s a cop.”

  “Not all cops are—”

  “Despite what you might hear on TV, most cops are trustworthy. And it’s not like I’m delivering you up to him. I’ll be with you. I don’t want your uncle there when we talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  He blew out a long breath. Stared straight ahead.

  Through the speakers, Uncle Frank said, “Are you still there?”

  “You’re not going to tell me?” she asked.

  Dylan’s lips pressed together, and his mouth turned down at the corners. “It’s my job to assume everyone’s a threat.”

  “My uncle would never hurt me.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  It wasn’t even a question. He’d nearly gotten shot saving her life.

  “Fine. For now.” She unmuted the phone. “Sorry about that, Uncle. We’re meeting the detective in Concord, and I know you’re busy.”

  Uncle Frank huffed a breath. “Listen, I’ve hired the best PIs in the state. Meet me, and we can pay your man and send him away.”

  She glanced at Dylan, whose eyes were on the road. His brows hitched, but he said nothing.

  “I appreciate that,” she said, “but I feel safe with Dylan.”

  “Chelsea.” The patronizing tone sent adrenaline to her veins. “I’m sure he’s a nice guy and a decent PI, but I already have a team of professional investigators on the case.”

  Dylan asked, “You hired Neely?”

  “How’d you—?”

  “Cote mentioned it.”

  “I did. And they’re a good firm. Look, I’m sure you’re a fine detective,” Uncle Frank said, “but I don’t know you. This is a company matter and a family matter, and you’re—”

  “Uncle.” She used the don’t-fight-me-on-this tone of voice she’d learned from her mother. “If the Lord hadn’t led me to Dylan, I’d be dead right now.”

  Frank gasped. “Dead? What are you—?”

  “Sir,” Dylan said. “We’ll tell you the story, and you can tell us what you know. In person, soon. Right now, we’re going to meet Detective Cote. We’ll be in touch.”

  There was a long pause. “I really need to see you.”

  “I know,” Chelsea said. “Right now, I’m going to follow Dylan’s advice. I trust him. He’s already saved my life once. And I believe the Lord told me—”

  “Look, I’m glad you’re keeping your parents’ faith alive and all that”—tenderness gone, Frank’s voice sounded anything but glad—“but if you’re hearing voices, then maybe—”

  “We’ll be in touch.” She ended the call. She was not in the mood for Frank’s latest there-is-no-God foolishness. Not today, not when the Lord had shown Himself so faithful. She tossed the phone onto the console.

  Chapter Eleven

  The restaurant parking lot was nearly empty when they arrived. No surprise considering it was three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Dylan had never been to this place, but he’d heard of it, and it seemed like a wise spot for a meeting. Partially because it was a good hour from Coventry and thus should be safe from people who might be trying to kill his client, and partially because he was starving, and the food was supposed to be good.

  Apparently, saving a woman’s life and nearly getting shot burned a lot of calories.

  He parked the truck and came around to help Chelsea out. She’d been quiet after she’d abruptly ended the call with her uncle, and he hadn’t known what to say. Aside from a few distant cousins, all of his family on both sides were believers. What would it be like to have a trusted family member who scorned his faith? The only family she had left, for that matter
.

  Chelsea had been bothered, but apparently not that much because, a few minutes later, she’d rested her head against the window and drifted off to sleep.

  Now, as she steadied on her feet in the parking lot, she yawned. “Pardon me.”

  “Glad you got a little nap,” he said. “You needed it.”

  “Indeed.” They walked inside. The restaurant was vintage New Hampshire with wood beams overhead and hardwood floors. The walls were lined with TVs that were currently playing basketball highlights and baseball games.

  Dylan approached the host. “We’re meeting someone, a detective.”

  She glanced at the table chart in front of her. “There’s a guy waiting for two people.” She pointed through the dining room. “That him back there?”

  Chelsea said, “It is. Thank you,” and started in that direction. She made good time despite the walking cast. They skirted the mostly empty tables until they reached the booth by the windows.

  The man stood. He was a bit shorter than Dylan, maybe five-ten, had short gray hair and hazel eyes. His gaze skimmed off Dylan’s and landed on Chelsea. “Are you okay?”

  “I am, all things considered. Good to see you again, Detective Cote.”

  Apparently, she remembered him now that she saw him.

  He glanced at her outstretched hand, seemed to register the bandages, and barely touched it. “Sorry again about your mother. She was a great lady. Really devoted to Coventry.” There was a note of censure in the man’s tone, but if Chelsea picked up on it, she ignored it.

  Cote turned to Dylan with a scowl. “And you’re…?”

  Dylan grasped the man’s hand. It was meaty and sweaty and squeezing as if they were in a battle. “Dylan O’Donnell.”

  The stench of cigarette smoke wafted off Cote’s clothes, which probably explained the yellow teeth. “Private eye.” Cote scowled as if he’d said predator or porn broker and released his grip.

  Dylan was tempted to tell the guy that, until a few months before, he’d been a police detective in the biggest city in the state. He held his tongue.

  They sat at the table, and Cote focused on Chelsea. “Let’s start with what happened Monday.”

  “I told your officers everything on Monday.”

  “I’d like to hear it again.” When a server stopped at their table, Cote said, “Water all around, and then don’t bother us.”

  “Actually…” Dylan glanced at the menu, then at the young woman who waited. “I’ll have the chicken strips and fries.” He glanced at Chelsea. “What would you like?”

  “I’m not terribly hungry,” she said.

  Back to the server, he asked, “Is the soup good?”

  Cote was scowling, but he could wait.

  The server said, “The chowder is excellent.”

  Chelsea said, “Then a bowl for me. Detective, are you certain you don’t want anything?”

  “Just to get this interview started.” He glared at the server. “Bring the meals after I leave.”

  While Chelsea filled Cote in on her mountain experience, Dylan watched the man’s reactions. The detective pulled a notebook from his back pocket and took notes, nodding and asking probing questions every few minutes.

  The server delivered water, which Dylan sipped while the other two talked.

  When Chelsea was finished, she sat back, folded her hands.

  “You’re sure he was trying to kill you?” Cote asked. “It wasn’t an accident or… The man didn’t just trip or something?”

  “One doesn’t trip for twenty yards, Detective,” she said. “At first, I thought I’d gotten in the way of a suicide attempt. But he aimed at me and pushed.”

  “You think he was trying to push you off the cliff?”

  “I thought it could have just been a random act,” she said. “But this morning’s incident belies that idea.”

  “What happened this morning?”

  She told him about the shooting. Cote’s eyebrows lowered. He took notes faster than Dylan would have thought he was capable of with those beefy fingers. More qualifying questions. When she was finished, he said, “I’ll call Detective Nolan in Nutfield, find out what they’ve learned.”

  Dylan said, “And what have you learned?”

  Cote turned to him, scowl firmly in place. Based on the deep wrinkles, he guessed it was a semi-permanent expression. “Not much. The guy who works at the park, Douglas Brewster—”

  “Dougie works there?” Chelsea asked.

  “Has since he graduated high school.” He barked a phlegmy cough. “He was there the morning of the incident.”

  Dylan said to Chelsea, “You know him?”

  “Since preschool.” She focused on Cote. “How is he doing?”

  “I guess it’s good the kid’s got a job, but he’s useless as a bean fart.”

  Nice simile.

  Chelsea glared. “You have to know how to talk to him. He needs to feel safe.”

  Cote’s thick eyebrows lifted. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “It’s been years, but—”

  “You know nothing about Dougie Brewster and nothing about Coventry,” Cote said. “Things have changed in the decade you’ve lived away.”

  She lifted her chin. Dylan waited for her to dress down the cop or defend herself, but she did neither. Instead, she asked, “What did Dougie tell you?”

  “He saw nothing. I hung around the next morning, questioned a couple of hikers who said they’d been up there the morning before. I asked around town, too. Nobody saw anyone that morning.” His eyebrows lowered. “No one even saw you.”

  Dylan’s heartbeat kicked higher at the skepticism in Cote’s voice, but Chelsea remained unfazed. “I came up the path from my house.”

  “So you said. Seems odd, though.”

  “Which part?” Dylan couldn’t keep the anger from his tone. “That Chelsea was capable of climbing the mountain, or that you’ve been incapable of learning anything helpful?”

  Cote glowered at him. “Listen—”

  “It’s okay, Dylan.” Chelsea focused on Cote, her voice cool. “I can assure you that I was there. There are a number of paths one can climb to get to the hiking trails. There’s the one behind my house. There are others on the far side of the mountain closer to the state highway. If someone wanted to remain hidden, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”

  The cop shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Chelsea kept her face unreadable. The woman was a wonder under pressure.

  Dylan said, “So, basically, you’ve learned nothing.”

  Cote focused on Chelsea. “You’ll be at your mom’s house?”

  “I’m not sure where I’ll stay,” she said.

  He nodded slowly, seemed to be contemplating. Then he said, “My wife works over at Hamilton.”

  Chelsea’s shoulders relaxed. “What does she do?”

  “She works in the factory. I just wanted to say… Coventry needs HCI. I didn’t know your dad well, but I know he loved our town, and he loved the people there. He wouldn’t want you to destroy it.”

  Chelsea sat back. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I have no—”

  “I’ve heard you’re planning to move the factory to Mexico or hire out the manufacturing to Southeast Asia.”

  “You shouldn’t put so much stock in baseless rumors, Detective.” She folded her hands and rested them on the table, showing calm but probably feeling anything but. “Be assured, it is not my plan to relocate Hamilton.”

  He eyed her, that scowl in place. “We’ll see.” He stood, handed Chelsea a business card. “Call if you learn anything or if anything else happens. How can I reach you?”

  Dylan stood, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a business card of his own. “Chelsea’s phone isn’t working, but you can reach her through me.”

  The man glared, snagged the card. “You learn anything, you let me know.”

  “You’ll do the same?” Dylan asked.

  Cote’s laugh was
filled with scorn. He turned to Chelsea. “I’ll be in touch.” And then he walked away.

  A moment later, the server brought their meals.

  Chelsea smiled at her. “Sorry about that. He’s not the friendliest fellow.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  After she left, Dylan said, “Cote’s a real joy, huh?”

  Chelsea seemed distracted, troubled. After he’d taken a bite of chicken, she a spoonful of soup, she said, “Uncle Frank was right. Seems the whole town has heard the rumors. But is that motive enough for murder?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Chelsea woke up as the pickup slowed and turned onto a bumpy road. She looked around, expecting to see the little town of Coventry, but what greeted her instead was the sight of Daddy’s cabin.

  Police tape had been fixed across the front door.

  “I thought we were going to Coventry?” During their late meal, he’d told her he wanted to see the trails and the cliff where she’d fallen.

  “You fell asleep before we made it back to the highway.” He parked the truck and turned his green eyes on her. “You need to rest.”

  “But we have to—”

  “Rest. Your uncle’s PIs are working the robbery. Your friend works mornings on the trails, so he won’t be there tonight, anyway. And with that broken foot, after the day you’ve had, you shouldn’t be climbing anywhere.”

  She was exhausted, whereas he looked as fresh as he had that morning at the food bank.

  Wait. That morning at the food bank had been… this morning.

  It had been a very long day.

  She stared at the cabin. Charming from the outside—if one pretended the yellow police tape weren’t there—but dark and dreary inside. And the scene of a recent shooting. “You don’t expect me to stay here, surely.”

  “Just thought you might want your stuff.”

  That was a good point. If they were in Coventry, she could go home and grab clothes, even if they didn’t stay at her house.

  “I talked to Eric,” he said, “and he told me the cabin has been cleared. Not sure why they haven’t removed all the police tape yet. He said it was fine for you to collect your things.”