by Wendy Tyson
Sarah? Hard to believe she would use her own books as a blueprint for murder. Plus, she already said she had an alibi for the night Paul was murdered—for the entire week, she’d claimed.
Eloise? While she may have had reason to hate Paul, and she would have known about Sarah and Paul, it seemed a stretch to think she’d exact revenge all these years later. She’d let him go from her practice—despite the fact that she didn’t admit it, it seemed pretty clear. But Eloise was hiding something—what?
Merry? She had been acting strangely lately. And she had a great deal to lose.
Luke? He seemed closer to his father than his mother—but it was possible.
Sherry Lynn? What would be her motive? Revenge seemed unlikely. Greed?
Becca? She had motive, opportunity, and the chemistry knowledge to make it work. And with her sense of loyalty toward her mother, exacting revenge like in Love Kills seemed imaginable.
Oh, Becca, Megan thought. Why does it keep coming back to you?
Twenty-Six
Monday brought another half a foot of snow, closed schools, and a big headache in the form of a fallen tree branch. The tree branch had landed on one of the chicken tractors placed on the edge of the property, by the woods. Thankfully no chickens were hurt, but Megan and Clay spent the morning calming fragile chicken nerves and fixing the shelter.
“Great day for this,” Clay said as wind whipped snow into his eyes.
Megan nodded. Her head was throbbing from the cold and change in pressure, and it was all she could do to keep working. Her eyes stung from the pellet-like snow. She pulled a scarf up over her mouth and murmured her agreement.
“Were you expecting Bobby?” Clay said a few minutes later. He pointed toward the house, where Winsome’s police chief was making his way up the hill. Despite no hat and no scarf, he seemed impervious to the wind and snow buffeting his face,
Megan stopped hammering. She placed her tool on the ground and turned to King. “What’s going on, Bobby?”
“Can we talk?”
“Of course. Inside?”
King looked around. He nodded at Clay. “Here’s fine.” The wind picked up as though on cue, and the trees around them wailed against the assault, their branches rubbing together in unison. “Okay, maybe the barn—out of the wind. This won’t take long.”
Clay stayed behind to finish the tractor repairs while Megan led King down the hill and into the barn. Closing the heavy doors behind them, she turned on the lights, happy to be out of the wind.
“You look shaken, Bobby. Did something happen?”
King nodded. “’Fraid so. It’s Eloise Kent. She was attacked this morning.”
“Eloise?” Megan covered her mouth in surprise. “Why would someone attack Eloise?” Only Megan already knew the answer.
King didn’t bother responding.
“Is she okay?”
“We don’t know yet. She was in the barn with the horses, feeding them. I guess her farm hand was late because of the snow. Someone came in and struck her in the head with a shovel, of all things. Her farm hand arrived and found her unconscious on the floor, the shovel beside her. She’d lost some blood from a wound on her scalp, but the biggest issue is possible brain damage from the blow.”
With a shovel. Megan’s head spun. Just like Simon Duvall in the Washington Acres barn. Hadn’t Becca been asking about Simon’s murder? In fact, hadn’t she displayed an unhealthy interest in what had happened in the barn?
A shovel. Just like in Love Kills. What a horrible thing to endure.
“Were there witnesses? Fingerprints? Footprints?”
“Nothing usable so far. Somebody took great pains to be careful. And the snow has erased any footprints.”
Megan thought of Eloise’s reticence to speak against the psychologist. Clearly she had information. Was someone trying to keep her quiet? Or trying to make her talk? Poor Denver.
“Does Denver know?”
“I called him just before I came here. He was on rounds. His answering service is trying to track him down.” King leaned against the edge of a work table. His blond hair was wet from the snow, and a day or two’s worth of facial hair made him look more man than boy. “I had an officer follow up on what you found out about Blanche and Sherry Lynn Booker. Sent someone there yesterday to tell Sherry Lynn about Paul’s death, gauge her reaction.”
“And?”
“Officer said Sherry Lynn was upset, almost histrionic. Went on and on about how Paul had been the love of her life, blah, blah, blah.” King let out a huff. “We found out she stands to inherit Paul’s entire estate. She doesn’t know that, but I’m sure it will quiet her crying.”
So much for Bibi’s intervention, Megan thought. “Did she give you any more information?”
“Not really. As with you, she blamed most of the marital problems on Blanche. Paul was an angel in her eyes.”
“Most?”
“She alluded to some…male problems. Said Paul had suffered from impotence on occasion. He blamed Blanche, but she said it happened with her sometimes too.” He shook his head. “Thought maybe he had overdosed on Viagra.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Oh, wow is right. We talked with the county staff psychologist. We don’t have a formal profile, but the doc felt Paul had sociopathic tendencies, perhaps suffered from Antisocial Personality Disorder.”
Megan said, “That makes sense. The sadism, the lies, the need to be in control, the lack of regard for consequences.”
“And the impotence could be part of that too. Either he needed to be in control to feel aroused, or maybe he was attracted to things others would find off-putting. At least that’s what the doc said.”
“His unethical interactions with patients could be part of his profile too. One person described him as feeding off details, getting aroused by accounts of others’ pain. Some therapist. Speaking of which, did Brian Porter contact you?” She told King about Porter’s interaction at the brewery. “I was hoping your sketch artist could create a composite drawing. We can see if Becca recognizes him. Or if he’s the same guy I saw talking with Luke outside the café.”
“Brian called. He’s supposed to meet with our artist later today. We found a few additional allegations of impropriety on Paul’s part. He moved the family quite a bit, so my officers are checking in with precincts up and down the East Coast. Some articles about unpaid debts, allegations of fraud. Chances are good more of the patients on Becca’s list will match up with places they’ve lived—and will have stories to tell.”
Megan nodded. Continued transgressions fit the picture she had of Paul Fox. A charmer when you first met him. After that, always lying, always running from the messes he caused, nothing ever his fault. “Did you talk to Sherry Lynn about Blanche’s death?”
“She clammed up at that point. Asked if she needed a lawyer.”
“Interesting. Maybe Paul’s death made her nervous?”
“Sure seems that way.” King straightened up, focused his blue eyes on hers. “Megan, I came here to tell you about Eloise. I thought you should know, both for your own safety and in case you see Denver. She’s been taken to the trauma center in Doylestown. I can give him the details if you have him call my cell phone.”
“Thanks, Bobby. I’ll find him and let him know.” She waited, sensing there was more.
“We found something else, but this you need to keep quiet. I mean that. No Bonnie, no Merry. No one. At least for a day or two.”
“Okay…” No information that started that way was good.
“After you and I talked, I had my officers run some reports on Paul’s history. Where he was born, school records, that sort of thing. It seems Paul was quite a liar. He didn’t go to Penn, as he says on his website. Well, he went to a cognitive psychology seminar program, but he never actually attended graduate school there. He has an associate’s degree
from a community college in New York. That’s all we could find.”
Megan whistled. “He got away with that for a long time.”
King nodded. “He convinced a lot of people he was legitimate.”
Megan felt stunned. She thought of Eloise. Could that have been what she was hiding? The fact that she allowed this man to work with her most troubled patients without a sufficient background check? Megan could see how it could happen. He was Merry’s brother-in-law—Eloise would have taken him at face value. Until it was too late. Other employers and patients would too. When was the last time she’d called an older employee’s school to confirm graduation dates? Never.
And diplomas could be forged.
Megan said finally, “Fits the sociopath angle. Could also explain why he stopped counseling. Maybe someone was on to him.”
“Like his daughter. And the list of patients she’d put together.” King seemed to be weighing his next words. “He was also married before, Megan. Blanche was his second wife.”
This was news. Eyes wide, Megan said, “Who? When?”
“Her name was Nancy Brown. She was from Bennington, Vermont. And she died eighteen months into their marriage.”
“How? How did she die?”
“She fell down the steps.”
Megan let that sink in. “An accident?”
King chewed on his thumbnail, already torn to the quick. “You tell me.”
“Seems suspicious.”
“Vermont police thought so too. In the end it was ruled an accident. No proof.”
Megan thought about her conversations with Becca. Surely if Becca had known she would have mentioned it.
“From what we can tell, no one knew about Nancy,” King said. “They married at twenty-one, she died when he was twenty-three, he met Blanche seven years later.”
“Two wives, two accidents. Two coincidences?”
King nodded. Megan knew he was thinking about Becca, about more reasons for revenge. But with dawning horror, Megan was suddenly thinking about something else.
“I read two more of Sarah’s books this weekend, Bobby. Including Love Kills. In it, a son kills his father for betraying his mother. With affairs. And multiple wives.” She frowned, thinking of the storyline. “And the weapon used? A shovel. Just like with Eloise.”
King’s face paled. “I guess I’ll be having another conversation with Becca Fox.”
“Her brother too.” She thought about Sherry Lynn, all she had to gain when two wives were out of the way. “And maybe Paul’s mistress.”
King nodded, his mind already elsewhere. “Pray that Eloise makes it. Otherwise, we’ll have another murder on our hands.”
Twenty-Seven
Denver reacted with rage Megan hadn’t anticipated. “She’s my only close relative, Megs. Eloise was there when my own parents weren’t. Other than my sister, she’s all I have left.” He slammed a hand down on his SUV, eyes narrowed to slits. “A week before Christmas. What bastard does something like this?”
And so Megan spent Monday night at the hospital beside Denver. Eloise had been transported to Penn and was in the ICU, so they could only see her during defined periods. The rest of the time they sat in the family area, holding hands, mindlessly watching a muted Christmas program on the television overhead. Denver’s worry was palpable. There was nothing Megan could do but be there, and so together they waited.
Sometime around midnight, the doctor, a young black man with a tight smile and tired eyes, told them she was in an induced coma and would stay that way for several days. “Go home. Get some rest,” he said in accented English. “We will contact you as soon as there is a change.”
The drive home was quiet. The snow from earlier in the day had subsided, and the roads were mostly clear except for drifts along the sides of the road and the patches of black ice. Denver drove, his focus on the road, his eyes straight ahead.
As they neared Winsome, Denver said, “Come home with me, Megs.” He looked at her, his bright eyes searching her own.
“I’d like that.” Emily was staying with Bibi, and it was well after two. Too late to go home without waking everyone. Although the truth was, Megan wanted this. She wanted to awaken in Denver’s arms. She wanted to get up and see his face before her day even started.
They pulled into his driveway at 2:39.
By 3:17 they lay next to each other, naked, spent, limbs entwined, and sound asleep.
Bobby King woke Megan up at eight. She answered the phone groggily, her free hand searching the bed for Denver. His side was empty. The scents of coffee and bacon told her where Denver was and what he was doing.
“What’s up?” she asked Bobby, trying to wipe the sleep from her voice.
“I think we have a match on your stranger. His name is William Dorset. Does that ring a bell?”
“No. Should it?”
“He was one of Paul’s patients when they lived near Syracuse. Youth record is sealed, but I’m guessing Fox was treating him for behavioral issues. Now Dorset lives in Norristown. Has a record, which is why we identified him so quickly. And a few café patrons reported seeing him on Canal Street. One person even recalled seeing him leave news clippings at the café.”
Megan told King about Alvaro finding clippings before Paul died.
“Which may link him to Paul and prove that he was here in Winsome and had opportunity.” King paused. “I’d like you to come into the department and see if he matches the guy you saw talking to Luke.”
“Have you asked Becca or Luke about him?”
“Not yet. We wanted to see your reaction first.”
Megan agreed to be there by ten. She climbed out of bed, donned one of Denver’s pajama bottoms and a navy blue Colorado State t-shirt, and headed downstairs. She found the veterinarian drinking coffee by the window, his gaze on the snowy horizon.
Megan wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “Good morning.”
Denver pulled her gently so that she was in front of him. He leaned down and kissed her softly, then more intently. His eyes still looked bruised and tired, but his dimpled smile was genuine.
“I made you some French toast, bacon, and coffee.”
“You’re the best. Thank you.”
Megan started toward the coffee machine, but Denver held her back with a light tug.
“It feels right having ye here, Megs.”
“It was nice to finally stay.”
“It doesn’t have to be a one-night thing, ye know.”
Megan kissed him, long and hard, knowing exactly what he was proposing. Her hands traveled the length of his strong arms, his solid chest. She loved his virility and his gentleness, his sense of humor and his intelligence. He was a study in contrasts, and she loved him. But she loved her life on the farm too.
When Megan didn’t respond with words, Denver disengaged. He walked to the coffee machine and poured her a mug of coffee, adding cream until it was just the color she liked.
“Denver,” she said.
He swung around. He looked so hopeful just then, hopeful and sexy. Megan wanted to reach out and touch him. She ached to give him what he wanted. What she thought he wanted. Instead she said, “Have you heard from the hospital?”
“Not yet. I’m going down later today, after appointments.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Ye have your own stuff to do. I’ll be fine. Another time.”
He didn’t sound upset or rebuffed, but Megan took it that way. She drank her coffee slowly, inviting the sting on her tongue and the heat in her throat. Why did love always have to hurt? She wondered. No matter how right it seemed to be.
“That’s the man I saw. I’m pretty sure.” Megan squinted at the photo of the stranger Porter had met. He was dark-haired, looked to be in his early forties, and had a large, heavy brow. His mouth was his
most distinguishing feature. It was full and small, with corners that turned down. When Megan had seen the man on Canal Street, he was in profile. But this picture looked close enough to be a hit.
“William Dorset, huh?” Megan glanced at King, who was standing to the side, away from the drawing. His cramped office smelled like Italian hoagie and Lysol. Megan noticed a picture of Clover on his desk. He had another on his credenza, one of Clover doing a handstand by the canal. Other than that, his office was institutional ivory. “I only saw him that one time. Do you think he’s the guy who’s been stalking the café?”
“I can’t say for sure, but if I were a betting man, I’d say I have my mark.” King rubbed his face. “Why would he want to know about you? That’s what’s throwing me off. Eloise had a history with Paul. It’s possible she somehow knew about this William and he wanted to keep her quiet. But you? It’s not like you, or even Bibi, had much to do with the Fox family.”
“I gave Becca a ride into Winsome. Bibi and I have been talking with Merry. Maybe he thought we were interfering.”
“Maybe.” King sounded skeptical. “And what about the books? How would this guy have known about Sarah?”
Megan had to admit, his involvement with Sarah seemed especially hard to explain. “Paul wasn’t exactly professional. Maybe he mentioned Sarah at some point to other patients.”
“Or somehow used her as a warning.” King seemed to consider this. “It’s possible.”
“Well at least you have a name and a face. It will be interesting to see what Becca and Luke have to say about him.”
King lifted the file that held the photo. “I’ll call you later?”
Megan nodded. “Please do. I’m as anxious to find out as you are.”
Megan was surprised to find Luke Fox at the farm, talking with Clay. The two men stood on the edge of the property, behind the barn, and were faced in the direction of the abandoned Marshall place. Megan made her way across the farm, Gunther at her heels. Even from this distance, she could tell Luke was upset. He was gesturing with two hands, his bearded face a mask of frustration. Clay looked his normal calm self, so it was hard to tell if they were arguing—or if Luke was venting.
