by D E Dennis
“He also seems like the kind of man to use his fists over an elaborate poison,” Monica pointed out.
“That is what a stupid man begging to be thrown in jail would do. A smart one would slip his incorrigible son something seemingly harmless and then feign shock and grief when it turns out to be poison.”
She still wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know, Michael. If he was that good of an actor, you would think he’d be able to do a better job of hiding how much of a jerk he is.”
He sighed. “Mo, at this point, I think you and I can both agree that he is an abuser.”
Monica pursed her lips, but eventually, she nodded.
“He is most likely abusing his wife,” he continued, “and no doubt his son was also on the end of it.”
“That would explain why the kid turned out the way he did.”
“Probably,” Michael said, inclining his head. “But from the way I see it. If someone can beat on and abuse the people who love him and who he claims to love, it’s not too much of a leap to think he could kill them too.”
Monica’s shoulders slumped. “Man, I hate this case.”
“I do too, sis, but it will be over soon. We’re finally on the right track. We’ll talk to everyone again, confront them with what we know, and see who gives themselves away.”
She nodded. “We will do all of that, dear brother.” She strode over to her desk and returned the laptop. “And we will do it in the morning. I’m going home and getting some sleep and so are you. You’re not going to stay up all night obsessing over suspects and clues until you pass out in your chair, drooling all over your tie.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times and you’re not going for a fourth. Get out of that chair and help me lock up.”
Michael thought about arguing, but Monica was right. She was usually right, although he’d never tell her that.
He put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I’m up and I’m out, but before we go, do we have our game plan down?”
She nodded. “I’m going to arrange to meet my friend while Lance is home, but before we do that we have to find a way to talk to Penelope Charming. We need to know more about what went on between Bryan and his son in the weeks leading up to his death and I doubt we’re going to get it out of him.”
Michael replied as he gathered his things and made sure the windows were locked. “That will be our first stop and this time we won’t be turned away. We need to know how the poison was introduced and who will know Preston’s eating habits better than the person who feeds him.”
She nodded. “I say we meet for breakfast and then go straight to Fairy Tails.” Monica switched off the lights and they stepped outside.
“Sounds like a plan, partner.” Michael gave his sister a quick hug and set off for his car, the pep in his step restored.
Ghoul. Specter. Weirdo. Whatever people wanted to call the little Grimm boy who sat observing his environment instead of participating in it, Michael always thought his ability to see people as they really were was an asset, not a hindrance, and this particular skill was going to solve this case.
MICHAEL LINGERED OVER his omelet, taking his time to finish. “You ready for today?” Michael asked Monica.
They were back in the Little Pigs meeting for breakfast like they had planned. Michael figured a certain hard-working CRPD detective would be at the station by now, so he wasn’t worried about running into her.
“You mean am I ready to tell a grieving mother the truth about her precious baby and wrangle confessions out of an obstinate teenager? Of course, I can’t wait!”
Michael chuckled at her sarcasm. Monica Grimm was notoriously grumpy in the mornings but by now he took it in stride. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll find out what we need to know.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Penelope wants to talk to us despite her husband’s bullying, and Lance has been bottling up his feelings toward Preston for so long that he’ll explode with the right encouragement, just like last time.”
She grunted but didn’t deny what he was saying. “Do you think we should divide and conquer? I go to the Harts and you go to the Charmings?”
“Trying to pass the hard job on to me, eh?”
She laughed. “Yep.”
Michael shook his head. “Thanks for that, but no, I think we should do this together. Like you said what we’re going to tell Penelope will be hard to hear. I think you have the better shoulder to cry on.”
She speared a bit of egg and brought it to her mouth. “That’s true. You do tend to put people off with that ‘sitting in the corner and silently staring at everyone’ routine.”
He laughed again. They quickly finished their meal and rose to leave, leaving behind a generous tip. Lance would still be at school, so they couldn’t drop by the Harts’ till the evening, but that gave them plenty of time to speak to Mrs. Charming.
“Are you sure he’s left for work?” Michael asked while he rolled down his window to speak into the intercom.
“His workday starts at eight and it’s almost nine. He should be long gone by now.”
Michael pushed the button and waited.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Charming. This is Michael and Monica Grimm. We need to speak with you urgently. There’s new information about how your son was murdered and we can’t proceed without speaking to you first.”
“New information? What does that mean?”
“It means the police were wrong about how your son was killed and because of that we’ve wasted precious time asking all the wrong questions. If we’re going to find your son’s killer, we need to be able to speak openly with you. Penelope, please let us in.”
There was no response. The seconds ticked by and Michael pictured Penelope grabbing her phone and dialing her husband.
“Come right in.”
The gate rattled open immediately after she spoke and Michael breathed a sigh of relief. He hit the gas and drove up the drive to the front of the house.
The door flew open and Penelope ran out to meet them the moment they stepped out. “What did you mean the police were wrong about how Preston was killed? Why wasn’t I told about this? I don’t understand, Mr. Grimm.”
She was still dressed in her robe and nightgown, wisps of hair had escaped her messy ponytail and blew in her face making her look even more frazzled.
Monica gently took her arm and led her back inside. “We’re going to explain everything, Mrs. Charming. Just take a deep breath.”
She tried to calm herself as they took the familiar route to the living room. Monica guided her into a seat and the two of them joined her on either side.
“Please explain,” she said softly.
Monica obeyed the request. “We found the person who met your son in the woods on the night he died.”
She bolted upright. “You did?! But why didn’t you say you found the killer?”
“Because,” Monica said, taking her hand. “We don’t believe her to be the killer. We’ve talked to her and the police have talked to her and from what she shared, we learned that your son was very sick when they met. Too sick to have been drunkenness or an upset tummy. Mrs. Charming, we believe your son was poisoned.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief, but as Monica further explained their theory of mad honey disease, those same eyes welled with tears.
“But who would do this? Why?”
Monica looked sadly at Michael before continuing. “Mrs. Charming... during the course of the investigation we’ve uncovered some things about your son. This is going to be hard for you to hear, but...”
Monica told her everything. Using Abigail for her money, rubbing Lance’s nose in being passed over, and finally attempting to assault Ella.
“That is not true,” she screeched, leaping to her feet. “That can’t be true!”
“It is true,” Monica said calmly. “I’m sorry but your son forced himself on
a young woman and she was so terrified, she left her shoe behind in her haste to get away.”
She was pale and trembling, the shock seemed to age her fifty years. “Forced himself on—” was all she got out before her eyes rolled back in her head and she dropped like a sack.
Michael caught her just before she hit the ground. He turned to his sister, an armful of middle-aged woman, and said, “That went well.”
Monica helped him place her back on the couch. She ran out to make a cup of tea while Michael tried to revive her.
“Penelope?” He rubbed her cold hands. “Penelope, can you hear me?”
She woke with a snort. “Hmm...what? What happened?”
“You fainted,” he said gently. “Why don’t you take a minute?”
She pushed herself up and the first spot of color appeared on her face. She glared at him, reddening. “I don’t want a minute. I don’t want to be talked down to or told I can’t handle it or treated like a child. I just want someone to tell me the truth!”
She was looking at him but Michael had a niggling feeling this speech was for someone else. He looked at her steadily. “This is the truth. We don’t know who but by now we can point to the why. Preston did not treat the people in his life very well and as for what he did the night of the party there can be no excuse or justification.”
Penelope’s face crumpled. “My b-baby. What happened to him?” She covered her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Michael settled next to her while Monica rushed in with the tea. “Here you go. Drink this, it will help.”
The tea sloshed dangerously in Penelope’s shaky hands, but she was able to bring it to her lips and take a few sips.
“Thank you,” she said faintly. She looked between the two of them. “You’re both being so kind. Much kinder than I deserve.”
“Why would you say that?” Monica asked.
Penelope lowered her gaze, staring in the depths of the brown liquid. “I’m a terrible mother,” she whispered, chin wobbling. “I ask what happened to my son, but I know what happened. I stood by and let it happen.”
Michael’s and Monica’s eyes met over Penelope’s head. It seemed the truth was finally going to come out.
“We heard that things have been difficult between Preston and his father over the last few weeks,” Monica stated.
“Difficult,” she scoffed, lips curling. “That is an understatement. It’s been war in my house for months now ever since Preston turned eighteen. Bryan was always tough on him, pushing him and criticizing him, but Preston bore it in silence. Until one day, he must have realized he didn’t have to take it anymore. He was an adult now and he could make his own decisions and he told his father as much.”
Her hands tightened on the glass. “Bryan did not take it well. He started going on about, if Preston thought he was a man now, he needed to start acting like one, and real men weren’t futureless drunks who lived off their parents and knocked up silly townie girls.”
Michael could guess these words weren’t her own. “So you knew about Peyton and the baby?”
She nodded, looking miserable. “Yes. I was disappointed in Preston for being so irresponsible, of course I was, but that baby is still my grandchild. I wanted us to help and support her however we could but... but Bryan said no.”
She sniffled. “Bryan thought the whole incident would scare Preston straight, but he kept acting out and the more Preston rebelled, the more Bryan tried to tighten his hold on him.”
“What did your husband think of Preston throwing that party the moment you two left town?” asked Monica. “Still drinking and carrying on even though you had cut him off?”
“He was livid. He grounded him. Said he was only to go to school and come straight home. Told him, if he touched another drop of alcohol, he would make sure he’d regret it.” She shook her head. “That is why on the night... he died, they got into a huge fight.”
Michael blinked. “Preston and Bryan fought? About what?”
Penelope lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you everything, but Bryan wouldn’t let me. He said it was private, family business and there was no reason to speak about it, since it had nothing to do with his death, but when Preston came down for the glass of water, he had alcohol on his breath.”
“He had been drinking?”
“Yes, while he was up in his room pretending to work on his science project. Like I said, they got into a horrible fight and Bryan went mad. He stormed up to his room and tore it apart looking for the bottle.”
Michael nodded along. That explained the difference between Preston’s immaculate office and his messy room. “Did he find it?”
“No, but that didn’t stop him from telling Preston he was going to carry out his threat and cut him out of our will.”
“How did Preston react to that?” Monica inquired.
She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk to me. I tried but he said he didn’t feel well, and he just wanted space. He locked himself up in his room and then the next time he came down, he announced he was going out and left.”
“And Bryan went after him, didn’t he,” Michael said gravely. “Explains why he was on the security camera leaving Fairy Tails the night your son was killed.”
"Yes."
"My goodness, but what must have gone through your head," Monica said incredulously. "Your husband rushes after Preston, mad as ever, and the next day his body is found?"
She jerked. "What? No, I never thought— He would never go that far! Bryan went out and searched for Preston for an hour, but couldn't find him. I know he didn't find him, because he came back ranting and raving about how he was really going to do it this time. Preston was out of the will and out of the house."
Michael wasn’t convinced. "He must have been very frustrated," he said. "Preston was drinking, fathering babies, destroying his future along with the Charming name. That's enough to get any father angry, but how did Bryan in particular handle his anger?"
Penelope turned to him, her eyes glassy. "I don't know what you mean."
"Mrs. Charming, I think we've reached the point where we can share the truth. All of it. I need you to be honest with me. Was Bryan ever physically abusive toward Preston?"
Her lips trembled. "He never was physical with Preston."
"Penelope, please. "
"I'm telling the truth." A tear ran down her face and splashed into her teacup. "It wasn't Preston that he hit."
Monica reached out and grasped her hand. "I'm so sorry."
She sniffled. "No, Preston endured my husband's sharp tongue. Bryan would say the most awful things to him. Just awful. He chipped away at my sweet, laughing baby until no trace of him remained." She lowered her head. "And I let it happen."
Michael shifted to face her. "Penelope, I won't pretend I know what you went through or even that I have the solution, but I want you to know that if you need anything at any time. You can call us, and we will do whatever we can to help you."
"Thank you," she said softly. "But what I really need is for you to find the person who killed my son. Despite what he did, he was my only child."
"We will find the person responsible," Michael promised. "But in the meantime, maybe you should get out of the house? Stay with friends?"
"I can't stand to be around anyone right now. I gave the butler a vacation. I haven't allowed any visitors but you and the police. I don't want rehearsed condolences or leftover casseroles. I want to be alone in my grief."
"Maybe you would like to spend a few days at a hotel?" Monica offered. "You won't have to worry about cooking or cleaning or... your husband. You can have that time to yourself."
She seemed to be truly considering it. "Maybe, I could do that," she said hesitantly.
"You can," Monica said firmly, "and if you need us to drive you and help you get set up, we'll be happy to do so."
She nodded, looking a bit stronger.
Michael decided it was time to broa
ch the reason why they were here. "Penelope, what you want is for us to find the killer and we believe we can do that, but we need your help."
"How?"
"I know you weren't with Preston the whole time, but as far as you know, can you tell us what he ate and drank that day."
Sitting up straight, she cleared her throat and tried to put some steel in her voice. "Yes, okay. Well, I made him his favorite breakfast that morning: eggs Florentine, yogurt and granola, and fresh fruit. I made it all myself. We don’t employ a cook and only Preston and I were alone in the house at breakfast time. The maids don’t start work until ten.
“As for lunch, Preston doesn't eat the school lunch, so I packed him leftover roasted duck and salmon salad. And that's it. He wasn't feeling well so he refused dinner and wouldn’t let me make him any snacks. He also didn't stop for food on the way home."
"How do you know Preston didn't stop?"
"He was grounded. He had to come home right after school and Bryan had me time him. My husband would call exactly fifteen minutes after school let out to make sure Preston was home and Preston arrived in thirteen minutes that day."
Michael accepted this easily. "So after he came home the only thing he consumed was a glass of water, nausea medicine, and the alcohol from his hidden stash."
"Yes.” She looked between them. “Does that help?"
Michael glanced at Monica. "That tells us everything we need to know, Mrs. Charming. Thank you."
Monica got to her feet and stood them both up. "Mrs. Charming, if it's alright with you, we're going to take a look around Preston's room and see if we can pick up anything the police may have missed. Why don't you lie down for a bit? You've had a terrible shock."
"Yes, I think I'll do that." Her voice was barely louder than a mouse. "Thank you. Preston's room is upstairs, the third door on the right."
She shuffled out of the room, still clutching her tea for dear life.
