by Wendy Tyson
“Merry, we’ve been so worried about you. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Merry’s voice was soft, raspy as though from disuse.
“I wanted to talk to you. First, to check on you, and second…well, I have some questions.” But even as Megan spoke, she realized it was fruitless. Merry maintained the same wistful smile, the same glassy stare. Megan walked to the table and looked down at what Merry was doing. She had a pen and crossword in front of her, but only one word was filled in—and incorrectly.
Megan felt Merry’s head. It was cool and clammy. She studied her friend. Her skin was pale, her hair unwashed. She wore a pink dressing gown under the shawl, and she smelled of Becca’s rose perfume. “Do you want some ice water? Maybe a bite to eat?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Maybe a walk? Get out of this room for a spell?”
Merry looked up at her. Her eyes seemed faraway. “I’m fine, Megan.”
“Can we talk about Becca? About her relationship with Paul? I think it may be important, Merry. It might help your niece.”
Merry closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. It took her a moment to refocus. Her voice stronger but ignoring the question, she said, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“I’m worried about the business. I’ve felt so ill.”
“I understand. Whatever you need.”
“My reputation is on the line. I can’t afford to lose customers or suppliers.”
Merry ripped a piece of paper out of the crossword book. “I need to cancel an order of trees and wreaths. I’m not feeling up to opening the store tomorrow. If I give you the name of the farm, will you cancel for me?”
“Sure, Merry.”
Merry scribbled on the paper, folded it with shaking hands, and then handed it to Megan. “Thank you.”
Megan nodded. She wasn’t going to get more out of Merry today. She hugged Merry’s rigid form and left, feeling a sense of hopelessness cascade over her. Downstairs was empty. The tree was unplugged, and there were no sounds except for the tick-tock of Merry’s antique grandfather clock. Megan opened the closet door and tugged her coat off the hanger. It fell on the floor. Megan picked it up, her eyes latching onto something at the back of the closet.
It was a large leather laptop bag. Black, with a zippered top. Just like the one she’d seen in Sherry Lynn’s car.
Megan left Merry’s house with an impending feeling of doom. She wasn’t sure what was going on in Winsome, but she was quite certain Becca’s arrest was not the end of it. She had promised to let Denver’s dogs out because he wouldn’t be home until late. As she drove to his bungalow, she called Anita and Roger Becker. Roger answered.
“Megan!” He sounded pleased to hear from her. “I heard you spent some time with my wife today. She enjoyed seeing you despite the circumstances.”
“Roger, I’m calling for a favor. It’s Merry.” Megan explained her visit to the older woman’s house. “Luke said Merry’s doctor prescribed meds for her flu. Can you call Dr. Schmidt and see if anything she prescribed would do this to Merry? I’m pretty sure Henrietta Schmidt is Merry’s doctor. She won’t tell you anything, but maybe she can at least confirm if the meds should make her so groggy.”
“I’ll do one better. Anita and I will go sit with Merry—and we’ll call.”
Megan thanked him. Denver’s driveways had a fresh coat of snow and ice, so Megan pulled alongside the road near his house and killed the engine. “I locked the door on my way out,” Megan said to Roger. “Luke went to meet with Becca’s attorney.”
“I have a key. No worries.”
Next Megan dialed Bibi. “Have anything new for me?”
“Not really. I’m not seeing anything else in these books, Megan.” Bibi’s voice brightened. “I did call Vermont to get a copy of Paul’s first wife’s death certificate. I’m sure Bobby has one, but since it’s a matter of public record, I figured we could take a look. See for ourselves if there’s something wacky.”
“Are they sending that?”
“Yes, but it will take weeks to get it. I have to send in a request by mail.”
“Ah, well.” Megan dug out the paper Merry had given her.
“I called the Department of Health to inquire. The nice lady in Vermont did tell me one thing. She said I’m not the only one who asked for this.”
Megan stopped unfolding the paper. “Did she say who else asked for it?”
“No, she just said it was a man.”
“A man? Probably Bobby.”
“Not unless he went in person.”
Megan was thinking about this when she read the slip of torn crossword Merry had given her. “Alyssa Abrams” was written on the paper alongside the words “Killing Us All.”
Was Alyssa the farmer? If so, it wasn’t a name Megan recognized. But what about “Killing Us All”? Ramblings?
Then it hit her. Another book?
“Bibi, do me a favor.” Megan gave her the information. “Do you know how to do some searches on the internet?” Bibi wasn’t very tech savvy. She still couldn’t quite master her phone, and she’d had it for months.
“I can get Porter to help me. He’s still here.”
“Yes, do that. Ask him to do some searches and see who this Alyssa is.” She shared her concern that this was another author, another book. “Let’s just be cautious and find out.”
Bibi agreed. “Be careful, Megan.”
“I will, Bibi. And could you have Porter stay with you until I get home? If we’re right and there’s more than Becca happening here, someone could get rather annoyed with us.”
Bibi sounded like she was going to argue, but then she said, “Of course. It would be nice to feed that boy anyway. He looks like he hasn’t seen the bottom of a plate in years.”
Megan hung up, grateful for Brian Porter. With him and Gunther there, Bibi would be safe.
Thirty-Six
Megan pulled her metal flashlight from under the seat of the truck and climbed out. The street was slick from sleet and snow, and she tread carefully around to the back of the house. It would be easier to take the dogs out from there. The neighborhood was quiet, the nearest house, another small bungalow, dark and empty. Megan opened the gate and entered Denver’s backyard. She climbed onto the deck and looked out over his wooded yard. The snow and sleet formed jagged icicles that hung from the trees and bushes. It would have been a pretty scene were it not for the oppressive sense of aloneness.
The dogs began barking, aware that their dinner was on its way. Megan was just fumbling with the back door key when she heard it: the sound of an engine followed by silence. She heard the sound of the gate—metal on metal. Someone was here.
Megan flicked off the flashlight and moved into the shadows at the side of the yard. Quickly, quietly, she followed the fence until she was entombed in the shadows of the trees. That’s when she saw the figure come through the gate. Sheathed in black like the Canal Street stalker, it climbed the steps and jiggled the door handle. Met with a locked door, the figure left the porch and made its way into the yard. A flashlight flicked on. Whoever it was seemed to be headed toward Megan.
She looked around. Remembering the tipi tucked into the back area of the property, Megan followed a trail to the very back of the wooded yard. She circled around the back of the tipi and entered it quietly. She secured the flap that closed the structure, leaving enough space for a lookout. On her stomach, flashlight gripped in one hand like a weapon, Megan waited and watched.
She saw the glow of the figure’s flashlight as it made its way to the back door, which was still locked, and through the lower portion of the yard. Her heart beat quickly—and so loudly she felt sure the intruder could hear it in the deafening silence of the woods. Still she watched, praying whoever it was would leave.
A fe
w moments later, her prayer was answered. The light weaved and bobbed through the yard, returning to the gate. Megan climbed out of the tipi and walked over toward the fence. The snow was coming down harder now, more flake than sleet. She heard an engine start and then fade as the car left Denver’s neighborhood.
A figure in black. Someone who followed her here? Or someone who was after Denver?
Megan called the police and reported an intruder on Denver’s property. She left the dogs inside for fear that their paw prints would ruin any scrap of evidence that might remain. Back in her car, she glanced at her phone. Three calls from Bibi.
Megan called her, still breathless from fear and adrenaline.
“Alyssa Abrams is your Aunt Sarah,” Bibi said. “Here, talk to Porter.”
Porter got on and explained the search they had done to find out the identity of Alyssa Abrams. “She’s a short story writer,” he said. “She writes crime fiction for magazines like Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, which is where this was published.”
“Where what was published?”
“‘To Kill Us All.’ It’s a short story.”
Megan started the car to warm it up. She debated whether to wait for the local police to arrive but decided against it. The roads were getting slick and she didn’t want to remain here, a sitting duck if the intruder returned.
“What’s it about, Brian?”
Brian said, “We’re still trying to find a copy. The tag line just says ‘a chilling story of one deranged madman’s act of revenge.’”
“Revenge again,” Megan said. “Okay, can you continue to try and find it?”
“Yes. Want us to call your aunt?”
Megan glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 6:48. Plenty early for a visit. “No, I can do that. Just tell my grandmother I’ll be home in an hour, okay?”
Porter agreed. “Bonnie wants to talk to you anyway.”
“Why do you think Merry gave you that name?” Bibi asked when she was back on the phone.
“I don’t know. I don’t imagine we’ll know until you and Porter can find the actual story—or I can reach Aunt Sarah.”
“Call me, Megan. The second you know.”
“I will. Can you do me one other favor?” She explained the intruder on Denver’s property. “Can you or Brian call Denver and let him know?”
“You don’t want to do it because he’ll tell you to go home and lock your door.”
Megan didn’t answer. Her grandmother knew her well.
“Megan? Please finish quickly and come home,” Bibi said. “Denver would be right if you gave him the chance to tell you that. Whoever is wreaking havoc on the Fox family and our town isn’t afraid to kill. And I have a very bad feeling we haven’t seen the last of death’s shadow tonight.”
Megan hung up, spooked. Death’s shadow. A very good way to describe the evil presence she was feeling.
Thirty-Seven
Sarah didn’t answer her phone. Megan left her a message and then pulled the truck out onto the road, debating what to do next. She could go home and help Bibi and Brian locate a copy of this Alyssa Abrams story. Or she could swing by Sarah’s house.
The weather seemed to be letting up some, and the roads, while slippery, were mostly empty. The storm was keeping Winsome inside. Megan decided to take the risk and head to the outskirts of Winsome, to Sarah’s cottage. Although it was only seven, it felt later. Houses dressed for merriment, with festive lights and lawn ornaments, only heightened Megan’s tension. She wanted to go home and have this all be done with. A hot bath. A snuggle with the dogs. Some gift wrapping. That’s what she should be doing days before Christmas—not driving around, seeking clues about murder.
Megan tried her aunt again. Still no answer, but this time her cell phone went right to voicemail as though Aunt Sarah had turned her phone off. Frustrated, Megan increased her speed down the long curvy road that led to Sarah’s home.
About an eighth of a mile from Aunt Sarah’s, the unthinkable happened. Megan hit a patch of black ice and her truck swerved, then rolled into a frozen ditch on the side of the road. Megan slipped the truck into four-wheel drive and tried to back out. It was no use, the tires spun uselessly. She exited the truck and tried to push. Her feet slipped in the fresh mush and she landed on her knees and scraped her hand against the sharp edge of the bumper. Cursing her luck, Megan stood with some effort. Sleet was coming down again, and the pellets bit into her skin and stung her face.
Frustrated, Megan pulled the heavy metal flashlight, her keys, and her phone from the truck. If Mother Nature was going to place obstacles in her way, she’d climb over them. She texted Porter and asked him to call a tow truck. Then she set off to walk the rest of the way to Sarah’s.
The cottage was lit up like a stadium during the Super Bowl. Megan crossed the driveway to the house, just happy her aunt was okay. Sarah’s car sat in the driveway, and Megan could see one of her orange tabby cats lounging in an upstairs windowsill. Megan paused in the driveway to get the sleet out of her eyes. The air felt biting and cold, the sleet like a million tiny pinpricks against her skin. Sarah would make her coffee. The world would be right again.
Megan was about to turn off her flashlight when the beam caught something in the wooded area behind Aunt Sarah’s flower gardens. It looked like a car was parked between the trees. Curious, Megan made her way carefully across the icy pavement and into the edge of the forest. It was a car. A Honda with New Jersey license plates.
Sherry Lynn Booker’s car.
From the look of it, it hadn’t been here long. The tracks in the snow seemed fresh, and the car’s windshield was still warm to the touch. Megan tried the door. Locked.
What was she doing here? Megan remembered the briefcase. And the book. And her hypothesis about Sherry Lynn’s home repair prowess.
And the fact that Sherry Lynn would inherit the Fox estate with Paul dead. And with Becca out of the way? One less person to protest. But why Sarah? And why Sarah’s books? And what did it mean that Sherry Lynn was likely inside Sarah’s very well-lit cottage?
Megan stood in the cold, shivering, thinking about Sherry Lynn and the car parked in the woods. Her mind flashed to the laptop bag in Merry’s closet. Could Sherry Lynn and Luke have been acting together all this time? Megan could envision it. An affair. A mutual desire to inherit Paul’s money. The need to get rid of Paul—and have Becca out of the picture too.
A need for revenge.
But what about the books? And why would Sherry Lynn want revenge? She was the one set to inherit. Greed could have caused her to kill Paul, but Megan was hard-pressed to see why Sherry Lynn would carry on with the rest of the charade.
Maybe Paul had been cheating on Sherry Lynn too. It was his MO. But that wouldn’t explain why she was here with Sarah.
Megan wanted to call the police, but she was suddenly aware of the quiet—and her vulnerable position. No car, no weapon. If someone heard her, she would be in danger. Megan turned the volume off on her phone. She was about to text Porter to ask him to call Bobby and 911 when she saw she’d received a text from Brian a few minutes earlier. It was about Alyssa Abrams and the short story. The text said, “Call us. Bibi said story is about a teen who holds a town hostage in his quest for revenge.”
A chill snaked its way down Megan’s spine. She knew the connections to Sarah’s books weren’t always literal, but this one struck her as different.
A town held hostage: by attacks and murders.
A teen boy seeking revenge: Luke Fox.
Revenge for what? Megan thought back to the photo on Sherry Lynn’s Facebook page, the image of the father and son on one side, Blanche and Sherry Lynn on the other, and Becca in the middle. With a start, she saw the dynamic differently than she had before. Blanche and Paul looking at Becca. Sherry Lynn and Luke looking at Paul.
No one was looking at Luke. The r
esponsible one. The less demanding child.
Merry had given Becca money—money from Paul. Money meant for Luke’s newest venture? Merry being held hostage now, a prisoner in her own house. That was her message, slipped innocently to Megan under the guise of a business favor so her maniacal nephew wouldn’t suspect her cry for help.
Hostage. Anita’s words echoed in Megan’s ears: Paul had held his family hostage. He sadistically destroyed Becca and Blanche’s self-image. He superficially propped up Luke’s. Luke was turning the tables. Torturing those he blamed for torturing him.
She suddenly saw the man who was grinning in all those Facebook photos differently. A history of job hopping. Superficial friendships. Girlfriends who were unattractive in his father’s eyes. An empty shell. A constant failure to the one man who Luke wanted desperately to please.
Megan imagined the entire period of the last few weeks as a play, with Luke as the playwright. First revenge against the man who jilted him one too many times—the man he couldn’t please. His father’s death would be staged over several days, while Paul was sleeping, and his final demise would take place in a taped-up room, with Paul fully aware of his impending death. Luke would have worn protective gear. He would have watched as his father, already weak from poison, coughed and sputtered and slowly suffocated, his mucous membranes scorched from the chemical, his lungs filling with fluid.
Then revenge against Dr. Kent, the woman who caused their family to leave Winsome, starting their string of bad luck. Her revenge was swift and sudden—just like her actions against Luke’s father. One blow to the head. Down and out.
Next, revenge against his sister—who in the end had the support and attention he felt he deserved. He could have forced her to set that fire, or set it himself and abandoned her there, threatening her life if she spoke up. Luke would have enjoyed torturing Becca most especially, doing to her the things her father had done. Filling her head with doubt, playing on her insecurities, and finally, simply threatening her if she didn’t concede. Holding her hostage in her aunt’s own home. No wonder Becca tried to run.
