Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  Now, she took in Tabby’s appearance. Her long brown hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head. She wore a beige jacket over a teal blouse, black slacks and high-heeled sandals. She’d applied makeup, though it didn’t completely cover the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks.

  Tabby caught her looking. She squeezed her hand just as the elevator dinged.

  The third floor was unlike the first two. To the left, another receptionist guarded the doors to the executive offices. Tabby led them through a door on the right and along the corridor until they reached Tabby’s office.

  Chelsea followed Tabby inside.

  After Dylan closed the door, Tabby asked, “What happened?”

  “This is Dylan O’Donnell,” Chelsea said, “a private investigator. He’s helping me figure that out.”

  The two shook hands, and Tabby gave Chelsea a one-raised-eyebrow look. Chelsea knew her friend well enough to know exactly what the woman was thinking. You picked a hottie.

  Chelsea had to agree.

  Tabby indicated the single chair in front of her desk. “I’ll just grab another—”

  “I can stand,” Dylan said.

  Tabby shrugged. “If you don’t mind…” She rounded the desk and picked up the receiver on her phone. “Let me just send my calls to voicemail. Otherwise, we’ll be interrupted every two seconds.” She pressed a couple of buttons and set the receiver down.

  Chelsea took the lone chair. Dylan leaned against a file cabinet. The office wasn’t very big, and there were no windows, but Tabby had made the space her own. Family photos—her parents and siblings. Pictures of places she’d been—ski slopes, hiking trails, mountaintops. The woman was an adventurer.

  “What’s going on?” She directed the question toward Chelsea, but Dylan stepped forward and lifted his phone so she could see it.

  “Do you know this man?”

  Tabby peered at the screen. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “His name is Zeke Granger. Does he work here?”

  “Never heard that name.”

  “Has he ever?”

  She tapped on her keyboard, read the monitor. “He used to. Want me to send you the details?”

  “Please.” He rattled off an email address, then asked, “What have you heard?”

  Tabby shifted to face Chelsea. “Someone tried to kill you?”

  Chelsea opened her mouth, but Dylan, again, spoke first. “Can you tell us exactly what you heard?”

  “I heard from a guy down in sales whose sister is on the police force that someone pushed you off Ayasha View. But if that were true…” She took Chelsea in, squinted. “How could you have survived that?”

  “It’s a long—”

  “What else?” Dylan asked.

  Chelsea glared at him. What was his problem?

  “Right,” Tabby said. “I heard you were shot at, but nobody knows any details about that.”

  “Anything else?” Dylan asked.

  “Just… nothing else like that. But other stuff, yeah.”

  Dylan prompted, “Like?”

  “I guess there was a break-in? There were cops all over the executive offices, and someone said private investigators, too.”

  “In accounting,” Chelsea said. “They stole some of my private information.”

  Tabby’s eyebrows rose. “Like what? Are you safe?”

  Chelsea’s gaze flicked to Dylan. “He’s helping me get to the bottom of it.”

  “This is all confidential,” he said. “Anything else you’ve heard?”

  Tabby reached across the table, and Chelsea took her hand.

  “Whether it’s true or not, I don’t care.” Tabby’s earnest expression held hers. “The company’s struggling. I get that. You have to do what’s right for HCI, which may not be what’s right for Coventry.”

  “I am not planning to relocate the factory, if that’s what you heard.” Chelsea let go of her friend’s hand. “It never even crossed my mind.”

  Tabby sat back. “Look, you don’t owe me anything.”

  Chelsea’s short laugh was not amused. “I thought we were friends.”

  “So did I,” Tabby said. “But if you don’t want to tell me—”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  Tabby’s lips pressed together, turned down at the corners.

  Chelsea sat back. “What?”

  Tabby reached in the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. She glanced at it and slid it over.

  Dylan stepped behind Chelsea’s chair to read over her shoulder.

  It looked like a torn piece of paper had been scanned and then printed on another piece of paper. The jagged edge of the original showed as a faint shadow on this one. Whatever had been on top—letterhead, the first part of the message, the lines indicating the writer and recipient—they’d all been torn off, leaving just a couple of lines.

  …investigate possible locations for factory relocation to Mexico or SE Asia. Per C. Hamilton, must be near a major airport and have reliable shipping and employee pool.

  “I never suggested to anyone…” Chelsea couldn’t imagine where this had come from. “I have no intention of relocating the factory.”

  Tabby’s face showed no reaction. “Okay.”

  Dylan picked it up, turned it over, but there was nothing else on the sheet. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was emailed as an attachment.”

  Chelsea sat back. “Who sent it?”

  “I’m not sure where it originated. I started hearing rumors and talked to Sid.”

  Chelsea turned to Dylan. “Sid runs the factory.”

  “Sid forwarded it to me,” Tabby said. “He said he’d gotten it from someone in corporate, but he didn’t say who. I have heard names, though, people who are supposedly on the ‘relocation team.’” She made air quotes around that. “One name keeps floating to the top. Laura Blanchette.”

  Dylan said, “Laura was your mom’s friend, right?”

  “Right.” How could Laura possibly be involved? She knew Mum’s loyalty to Coventry. Of course Laura wasn’t involved in any relocation, because there was no relocation. The rumors were a lie. Even Chelsea was beginning to forget that.

  It was insane—the idea that she would move the factory, and the idea that someone would want everyone to think she would. By the look on Tabby’s face, even her best friend believed it.

  Dylan set the sheet back down. “I assume there’s been a lot of gossip.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Tabby focused on Dylan. “Lots of talk.”

  “Can you tell us what you’ve been hearing?” Dylan asked.

  “Uh…” Her gaze flicked to Chelsea’s.

  Chelsea waved a hand. “Go ahead. I’m sure it’s all horrid, as well it should be. I haven’t even taken my place yet, and the employees already think I’m planning to destroy their lives.”

  “I know that’s not true,” Tabby said. “You just have to do—”

  “What’s right for the company. So you said.” Chelsea couldn’t force any kindness into her voice for her old friend. How could Tabby have believed this foolishness so quickly? “But Coventry and HCI are a team, always have been. What’s right for Coventry is right for Hamilton Clothiers.”

  Tabby blinked. “Okay. I know your mom thought that—”

  “As do I.” Chelsea’s voice had risen. She wanted to force the anger away but feared what lay behind it. How could she run a company when everybody distrusted her before she’d even taken her place? And who would do such a thing?

  And why?

  “The rumors?” Dylan prompted.

  Tabby turned to him. “First, you should know, the rumors started before Mrs. Hamilton died. There’d been rumblings. We try to keep our ears out for stuff like that—”

  “We?” Dylan asked.

  “In human resources.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “I had a few employees come to me looking for more information. I knew nothing and assured them that Hamilto
n had roots in Coventry and asked them to please not spread the rumors further. Of course, that never works. And this rumor proved more insidious than most. Since Mrs. Hamilton’s death, the rumors have been flying.” Tabby smiled at Chelsea. “They don’t know you like I do. They don’t trust you.”

  Tabby did know her, and she didn’t trust her either. Chelsea said nothing.

  Her friend focused on Dylan again. “Anyway, it got to where we were hearing timelines—by spring, all manufacturing would be closed down. Ridiculous rumors. I mean, even if it were the plan, it would take more time than that to make it happen.

  “And then, that”—Tabby waved toward the piece of paper—“started circulating, and people panicked. I first saw it on Wednesday, but I think it’d been around at least a day before that. I hear production’s down. We’re falling behind on orders. People are scared and angry. And then Earl in packaging gave his two-week notice today. That set off a firestorm. People think he’s got some sort of inside information. Truth is, Earl’s wanted to relocate to Manchester ever since his daughter gave birth to his first grandchild.” She sighed, shook her head. “The timing was terrible.”

  “What is your job here?” Dylan asked.

  “Officially, I’m the training manager. Unofficially, I’m in charge of employee relations. When people are worried or hate their jobs, when they want to move into another department or have a problem with a coworker or a boss, they come see me.”

  “Sounds like a lot of responsibility,” he said.

  “Normally, I love it. This week, it’s been rough.” She focused on Chelsea. “It would be easier if I knew for sure what to tell them. But everything’s so uncertain right now with nobody running the company.”

  “Frank is managing it,” Chelsea said.

  Tabby sat back. “Yeah. I mean, theoretically.”

  Chelsea didn’t like the tone. “What does that mean?”

  “Look, I know he’s your uncle, and he’s a good guy. Everybody loves him. But he’s not your mother. He’s hardly been here since she died. He sent out a memo telling people that the company has no plans to relocate, but…” She shrugged, sat back. “Problem is, everybody likes Frank, but nobody thinks he’s up for the job of running Hamilton. Since he took over operations, production has been down, sales have been down. The general scuttlebutt is that Frank doesn’t know what he’s talking about. His memo had no effect.”

  Dylan perched on the arm of Chelsea’s chair. “What would quell the rumors?”

  Tabby met Chelsea’s eyes. “Make a public statement, one that would be printed in the newspaper, and then call an all-hands meeting with the employees. Tell them personally what your plans are, not only to not relocate, but how you plan to turn the profits around.”

  “I don’t have enough information about what’s been going on to have a solid plan for that yet.”

  “You don’t need a solid plan,” Tabby said. “Just… Hmm. Maybe just some plans to make plans. Maybe even…” Tabby looked beyond Chelsea a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Why not ask the employees what they think? Ask them to send you their best thoughts for turning the numbers around. It wouldn’t hurt to get their input, and it would be a good first step to returning to that feeling of solidarity HCI used to have, before…”

  Her words trailed off, and she straightened some papers on her desk. “Anyway, I’m just—”

  “Before what?” Chelsea asked.

  Tabby glanced at Dylan, but Chelsea kept her eyes on her old friend. “Before what, Tabby?”

  “Before Frank took over operations.” Her lips flattened. She swallowed and sat back. “He’s just… He was great in sales. In operations, he’s not been good for the company. I don’t know why exactly. I can’t put my finger on it. But ever since he took over operations, morale has been going downhill. Maybe it would have, anyway. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Who ran operations before Frank?” Dylan asked.

  Tabby smiled, probably relieved at the simple question. “Chelsea’s mother was in charge. But then, the board reorganized, decided Mrs. Hamilton should focus on bringing in new business and Frank could run day-to-day operations.”

  Dylan turned to Chelsea. “Did your mother like that idea?”

  “I don’t think so. But, even though she was the majority shareholder, she took the board’s advice on most things. She often counseled me to gather trustworthy people and consider their advice carefully. That’s what she did.”

  “The board was wrong about that one,” Tabby said. “Like I said, I like your uncle, but…”

  Great. So it seemed like her first tasks as CEO would be to remove her own uncle from his position and try to keep the employees from mutiny.

  Tabby started to run a hand through her hair, but her fingers tangled in the bun. She wrenched it out, let the hair fall around her shoulders. “Sorry. It’s driving me…” She snatched a ponytail holder from her desk, yanked her hair back, and worked it in a ponytail as she continued. “If someone’s trying to kill you out of spite or to keep you from moving the factory, then stopping the rumors would maybe stop the killer, right? So if you call an all-hands meeting—”

  “She’s not doing that,” Dylan said.

  Chelsea looked up at him. “I don’t see why not.”

  “You don’t?” He stepped away from her chair and turned to face her. “Someone’s trying to kill you, Chelsea. We’d need to hire a private security firm to ensure your safety. Everyone would need to be searched. Until we stop the killer—”

  “If I put an end to the rumors, then maybe the attempts on my life will stop.”

  “Even if that were the case, would you be comfortable knowing the person who pushed you off a cliff, who shot at both of us, is free? And might be in the room?”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the V of his golf shirt. “It’s just too dangerous.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dylan drove away from HCI feeling more unsettled than before they’d arrived. Somebody was spreading rumors about Chelsea.

  Were those rumors motivating the would-be killer? If Zeke Granger didn’t work for the company any longer, why would he care? He likely wouldn’t, which meant he was working for someone else. Who’d hired him?

  He’d asked Tabby before they left if she knew of any employees who were angrier than the rest or perhaps capable of murder. Her face had paled, but she’d promised to think about it and pass along any names that came to her. Maybe, if they got a name, they’d be able to connect it with Granger.

  Beside him, Chelsea stared out the window. The skin on her cheeks had paled, and her arms were crossed despite the stuffy heat in the cab of his pickup.

  He turned up the AC. “Tell me about how the stock works,” he said.

  She looked his way, sighed. “My parents owned sixty percent. I owned twenty. So now, I own eighty percent.”

  “And Frank?”

  “Five, I think. The rest is owned by others who invested over the years, people Mum and Daddy trusted.”

  “You’ve inherited your parents’ stock. What happens to it if you die?”

  She looked away, out the far window again. “Daddy set it up so the company would remain in the family.”

  He waited, though he already guessed what the answer was.

  “If something happens to me, the stock is to be distributed evenly among the remaining family members.”

  “So, Frank?”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong.”

  “Of course. I was just curious.”

  They drove in tense silence. He let a few miles pass before he said, “Tabby’s idea was a good one, you know. You should make a statement. Just not in front of the whole company, but I’m sure you could get an interview on TV. Your company is one of the biggest employers in the state.”

  Chelsea barely glanced his way. “I’ll ask Frank.”

  “You’re the CEO, right?”
/>   “Not officially.”

  Oh. Did that matter? “I don’t know how all that stuff works.”

  Her muttered “me, either” was barely audible.

  Chelsea was the majority stockholder. Which meant she was in charge, whether she had the title yet or not. And if that was the case… “We could call the TV station today, get that set up ASAP. And there must be a local newspaper you could—”

  “I said, I’ll ask Frank.” Her irritation was obvious.

  Except Frank didn’t seem competent. If something happened to Chelsea and he was left in charge, the business would likely collapse. “Why don’t you call him now?”

  She blew out an annoyed breath but reached into her purse and yanked out her phone. She dialed. He could hear the faint sounds of the phone ringing, then, “This is Frank Hamilton. Sorry I missed you. If you leave…”

  She ended the call. “I’ll just text him.”

  “But you need to do something, sooner rather than later. There’s a void at HCI.”

  She turned to face him. “I told you I needed to get to work, and you told me that keeping me safe was more important. Do you remember that?”

  He turned the truck—probably too fast—onto the little town’s main drag. “It was yesterday, so yeah, I remember.”

  “Yesterday?” A short pause, then, “Seems like weeks ago.”

  No joke.

  His stomach growled. If yesterday had been weeks ago, then it stood to reason that breakfast had been days past. No wonder they were both irritated.

  “We need food.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked alongside the grassy park on the shore of Lake Ayasha and led Chelsea to a picnic table in the shade of an oak tree, where he could keep an eye on the surroundings. She took a seat with a view of the lake, and he sat beside her. They’d had enough conversation for a while. And the view was pretty. They dug into their meals from the Greek restaurant in town. They hadn’t spoken much beyond deciding where to go and what to eat. Now, he pulled open her small sack of chips before opening his own.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  The gyro was delicious, just what he needed.