When she finished, the faces of Mum, Daddy, and herself beamed, along with photos of Uncle Frank, her grandparents, and family friends. Chelsea had decoupaged the whole thing until it felt slick and shiny and perfect.
Christmas morning, Mum had gushed over the gift. She’d given it a coveted home on the kitchen counter and stored recipes in it.
Chelsea couldn’t remember when the box had disappeared from the kitchen. She hadn’t thought of it in years. Yet, here it was.
Chelsea took it out and ran her fingers across the top. They caught on something. A photograph of herself in high school—years after the box had been made—not decoupaged but scotch-taped to the top. How odd. It was almost as if Mum had been trying to cover something up—or hide something.
She lifted the photo, flipped it over. Taped to the back was a piece of paper folded in fourths.
She grabbed the scissors from Mum’s top drawer, slit the tape, and unfolded the paper to see her mother’s familiar handwriting.
My dearest Chelsea,
If you’re reading this, then I have failed, and you are in danger. Your father’s murder wasn’t random, and if I’m gone, too, then it’s very likely mine wasn’t either. If I knew who was behind it, I would tell the police. I’m getting closer. Everything I’ve uncovered is in this box.
I love you desperately, and I so wanted to shield you from this. Please know, I couldn’t be prouder of the woman you’ve become. Be safe, my beautiful girl.
Love, Mum
With trembling fingers, Chelsea lifted the lid of the box.
It was empty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dylan had been staring at the house for hours. It was a newer home on the outskirts of town with yellow siding and brick-red shutters. A two-story detached garage stood at the end of the driveway, a stairway on one side leading to Zeke’s apartment.
He’d never done anything like this before. Not even when he was a kid and his friends decided to break into the Whitneys’ house when they were out of town, just to mess with their teenage daughter. They planned to move pictures around, turn the clothes in her closet inside out, mess with her things, all in an effort to freak her out. Dylan had thought Bud, the “mastermind” behind the plot, mostly wanted to get a glimpse of the girl’s bedroom.
Dylan had gone all the way to the woods behind the house with Bud and their friends before chickening out and heading home. Far as he knew, Bud and the rest of them never got caught.
He hoped he’d be so fortunate.
Dylan had stopped at a drugstore to buy some of those latex gloves nurses wore. He had two out, resting on his thigh.
A woman, mid-fifties and thin with mousy brown hair, had been out front deadheading rose bushes when he’d pulled up. He’d driven away, turned around. Now he was parked in front of a wooded area about a hundred feet down the street, watching the driveway and hoping nobody would call the cops and report him. It was a rural street, houses interspersed here and there. He should be safe.
He prayed she would get in her car and leave. Was it okay to pray for help in committing a crime?
Probably not.
But if the woman didn’t give him some time, then Dylan would have to return at night, which felt much more sinister, creeping through the dark.
His phone rang, and he snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.
“It’s Cote. We turned up some interesting information.”
Dylan pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket. “Shoot.”
“Turns out, Zeke Granger is Arthur Andris’s nephew.”
“No kidding?”
“But it gets weirder. He’s also Laura Blanchette’s cousin.”
Dylan made a note. “Explain the connections.”
“Zeke’s father is Laura’s cousin’s son. And Zeke’s mother is Arthur’s sister.”
“So… Arthur and Laura are related?”
“By marriage only. Arthur is one of nine kids, so he’s related to pretty much everyone in Coventry. Laura is one of four kids, so she has her own web of relatives. Between them, I bet half the town is related to one or both of them.”
Dylan tapped the paper with his pen, then flipped back a couple of pages. “I asked Laura about Zeke. She mentioned that he used to work for HCI but not that he was a relative.”
“Could be she doesn’t know. That’s a pretty distant relation.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. He used to work for the company where she’s on the board. Seems it would have come up. And when he was fired for stealing…”
Cote grunted. “It’s curious.”
“Maybe more than curious,” Dylan said. “What does he do for work now?”
“He’s a janitor at Plymouth State.”
Not exactly an illustrious career, but honest work.
“Sam Early and I are on the way up to Mt. Coventry to interview Douglas Brewster. What are you up to?”
“Uh…” He swallowed a lump of guilt. “Just going over my notes, trying to put together some sort of a working theory.” Which was true. The fact that he was doing it outside of Zeke Granger’s apartment…
“Sounds good,” Cote said. “I’ll call you if I learn anything.”
Dylan shoved his phone in his pocket. This was ridiculous. The detective was trusting him with details of the investigation, and he was about to commit a crime.
He’d almost talked himself into leaving when an old white Chevy pulled out of the drive and disappeared around the corner.
Maybe it was a sign.
Dylan drove to the house and parked in front. Gloves in one pocket, phone and keys in the other. He shoved his lock-picking kit in his back pocket, went to the front door, and rang the bell.
At least the landlady didn’t have one of those doorbells with a camera. When nobody answered, he walked around the house looking at the structure as if he were a repairman or a roofer or something.
He felt like an idiot.
When he was behind the house, he hurried to the garage. There were no doors but the overhead. And the only windows were high on the side. He slipped on the gloves and climbed the exterior staircase. When he reached one of the windows on the garage, he peered in.
A small SUV was parked below in the dark space. He turned his flashlight app on and shined it through the glass.
The SUV’s front bumper was smashed in.
Okay, so… maybe Zeke ran Maeve Hamilton off the road.
Dylan continued up the stairs. Door was locked, of course. He’d bought the kit when he’d first hung out his shingle and practiced on his locks at home, but he’d never used it on a case. He pulled out the tools, finally found the right one—a thin strip of metal about three inches long—and shoved the rest of the kit into his back pocket. Glancing toward the street every few moments, he worked the lock.
Finally, it clicked, and he turned the knob and stepped into a kitchen.
He shoved the pick in the other back pocket. He’d put the kit back together properly when he had time.
The space was hot and stuffy, heavy with the scent of ammonia and cat food.
Aside from that… he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Something old and dingy and cheap, but this was the opposite. Solid countertops, newer black appliances, a shiny round table for four, the chairs pushed in neatly. A stack of unopened mail had been dropped haphazardly on top. He thumbed through it—junk mail, mostly. Nothing helpful.
No food on the counter, but a few dishes had been left in the sink, which tracked with the family emergency story. Two bowls—one of water, the other of cat food—had been set on the floor in the corner.
After checking all the drawers and cabinets—kitchen stuff, nothing else—Dylan went down the short hallway, peeked in the bathroom—toiletries and a litter box that desperately needed to be cleaned—and entered the bedroom. The bed was unmade. He searched through the five-drawer bureau. The top drawer held loose change and an old, cheap watch beneath underwear and socks. The next drawers held T-shirts and
gym shorts. Bottom drawer held sweaters and sweatshirts.
Golf shirts and button-downs hung from fancy puffy hangers in the closet. Jeans and slacks were draped over other hangers. One suit, brown with a layer of dust on the shoulder. Dylan checked the pockets—empty. A set of golf clubs leaned against one wall. He searched the bag and turned up tees and balls but nothing interesting.
He peeked under the bed and startled at glowing green eyes staring back at him. The cat.
Dylan left it alone, frustrated. It was one thing to commit a crime. It was another thing to commit a crime and get nothing out of it.
He moved on to the living room.
Couch, TV. A laptop sat on the coffee table, its cord attached to an extension cord that crossed the center of the room’s beige carpet. Dylan opened it and was greeted with a password box. He pressed enter—it never hurt to try—but the screen reset itself, the cursor blinking at him.
He typed password.
Nope.
Those were his only guesses. He slammed the laptop shut.
When PIs did this on TV, there was always a clue. A stack of bills and bank statements would have been nice. Dylan cursed online banking.
No artwork decorated the space, no decor on the tables. A single photograph had been framed and hung on the narrow strip of wall that separated the living room from the kitchen.
It was an eight-by-ten. In it, Zeke Granger stood on a golf course, arms raised in celebration. Beside him, two men beamed at the camera. Dylan didn’t recognize either of them. Someone had been cut out of the picture. All that was left was a narrow forearm, a wrist, and a hand that snaked around Zeke’s arm. The fingers were hidden, so Dylan couldn’t see any rings. A narrow gold watch hung from the wrist. It was a woman’s hand, a woman’s watch.
Across the top of the black frame in bold letters were the words Hole In One! Across the bottom, The Greens Golf Club. He snapped a picture of the photograph.
Satisfied there was nothing else to see, he stepped out of the apartment, turning the lock on his way, and was just closing the door when the Chevy pulled into the driveway.
Below him, the garage door rumbled to life.
Crap.
He stuck his gloved hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts and nodded to the woman as she drove into the driveway and out of sight into the garage below.
He yanked off his gloves, shoved them in his pocket, and went down the stairs, where he waited until the woman had exited her car. She walked toward him cautiously. “Can I help you?”
“Looking for Zeke, but he’s not answering.”
“He’s out of town,” she said.
Dylan shrugged, going for relaxed. “I left him a couple of messages. I thought I’d make sure he was okay.”
The woman nodded, but her squinted eyes told him she wasn’t buying it. “Can I relay a message?”
“If you don’t mind. Tell him Bobby stopped by, and ask him to call me.” Dylan jogged down the driveway and climbed into his pickup, praying she wouldn’t follow and get the plate number.
She didn’t, just watched him until he drove away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Chelsea!”
The shout came from beyond the door of Mum’s office, and Chelsea looked up from the file cabinet where she’d been searching, fruitlessly, for whatever Mum had stored in that box.
Her intercom buzzed. “Miss Hamilton.” Mrs. Strauss’s voice was calm and emotionless, as usual. “Your uncle would like to see you.”
Chelsea opened the door.
One of the muscled bodyguards blocked her exit, his back to her.
“Excuse me.”
The man didn’t turn or move. “One moment, ma’am.”
Uncle Frank’s voice carried over the bodyguard’s shoulder. “You have no right to keep me—”
“Sir, you need to calm down.” That from the other goon. “You’re not getting near her until you do.”
“This is ridiculous!”
Chelsea pushed the man in front of her. “He’s my uncle. Get out of my way.”
The man stepped aside, and Uncle Frank rushed to her and pulled her into a hug. “Thank God. Thank God you’re okay.”
She allowed the embrace a moment, then pulled away. “What happened?”
Uncle Frank’s eyes were wide as he took her in, seemed to be searching for wounds. “Shots were fired.”
“What? Wh—?”
“Up on Coventry. I just heard. I thought… I’d heard you were here, but I thought maybe you and that PI…”
“I’ve been here all day.”
And then what he said registered. “Shots fired on the mountain? A tourist or…” Dougie. “Was anybody hurt?”
“I don’t know. I just heard it had been reported.”
She turned and rushed into the office. “I need to make some calls.”
She reached her desk and lifted the receiver.
“Ma’am.” Mrs. Strauss’s no-nonsense tone matched the calm look on her face. She stood in the open doorway. “I’ll find out what happened and let you know.”
Oh, right. She had an assistant now. She set the phone back on its cradle. “Thank you.”
The woman returned to her desk, leaving Uncle Frank in the office, along with one of the bodyguards.
She focused on the muscled man. “Thank you.”
The man gave Frank a look through narrowed eyes before stepping out the door. He left it ajar, as he’d done during all of Chelsea’s meetings that day.
Chelsea sat and nodded to the chair across from her. “What have you been up to?”
“I was at the factory. Had a meeting with Sid.” He waved the words away as he settled in the plush chair. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”
Everything related to HCI was something to concern herself with, but she didn’t say so. It would take time for Uncle Frank to see her in this role.
She told him about the interview, the memo, and the survey that was scheduled to be delivered before the day’s end. She, Tabby, and the HR director had decided the best strategy would be to send the memo and survey just before the bulk of employees left for the day. The interview would air that evening. People would have the weekend to consider what to write on their surveys and process the good news without the input of naysayers around the water coolers. Maybe by Monday morning, HCI could move on to the business of increasing productivity and profitability.
While she talked, Uncle Frank’s expression shifted from slightly surprised—as if her efforts were amusing—to frustrated. When she finished, he said, “You should have talked to me first.”
“I messaged you yesterday.”
“And I told you, I’m handling the rumors.” His voice was low, controlled, but she heard the hum of anger beneath it.
She’d received his brief text the evening before—Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control. It hardly counted as a response.
“I thought you were going to lie low this week,” he said, “come in next week. I was trying to give you space.”
Space? She didn’t think so. He was trying to keep her out of it. Trying to protect her, like Mum always had. “I need to quell these ridiculous rumors and get my company out of the red.”
“Your company?” His forehead wrinkled beneath his white hair. “I get that you’re the majority shareholder now, but don’t forget those of us who’ve slaved to make this place what it is.”
Irritation prickled her neck, tightened her shoulders. She forced a placating tone. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. You’ve dedicated your life to Hamilton Clothiers. But I feel a responsibility to this company and to the employees. Right now, they’re afraid for their jobs. That fear is causing people to quit, people we need. They’re angry and scared. Production was already down, and it’s dropped further since Mum died.”
“How do you know—?”
“I’ve talked to people. I’ve looked at the numbers.”
“A company is more than just numbers on a spreadsheet.
The story is more complex than that.” The false exuberance in his voice wasn’t convincing when he added, “Maybe we could go over them together.”
As if she weren’t intelligent enough to figure them out for herself. She understood she hadn’t worked at HCI, but she did have an MBA. And numbers were numbers.
She swallowed the words that rose. This man had known her since she was born. It made sense he didn’t view her as competent yet. She would have to prove she knew what she was doing, and that would take time. “Perhaps, eventually, you and I can go over them together,” she said. “For now, I feel I’ve got a solid understanding of where we stand.”
“I seriously doubt that. Did those numbers tell you about the equipment failures we’ve had? Did they point to what I suspect is sabotage?”
She pushed back in her chair. “What are you saying?”
“Somebody messed with the machinery over at the factory. Numbers are down because we’ve had to wait for parts to complete repairs.”
“I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When exactly? At the funeral?” He huffed out a breath. “After someone tried to kill you?”
A valid point. But… “From now on, you tell me everything. No more trying to protect me.”
He nodded, but he didn’t seem happy about it.
She shifted in her seat, trying to take on the confidence her mother had always worn when she was in this office. But the chair felt uncomfortable, the role unfamiliar.
It would take time. She didn’t have time.
“What we’re doing today with the interview and survey is only the first step in restoring our employees’ faith. But it is an important first step.”
“What about our customers’ faith?” Frank asked. “Have you thought of that?”
“Oh. Customers love American-made—”
“Not the general public. Retailers, wholesalers. The people who buy our products and put them in their stores. Your little TV stunt is going to make them worry about the health of HCI. I’d managed to keep our financial situation under wraps, but when that interview airs, everyone in the industry is going to know we’re in trouble.”
Legacy Reclaimed Page 19
