Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Feeling overwhelmed, I stood and walked to the screen, looking out toward the grove. It was just so big. If Troy had been poisoned by something already out there, trying to find that poison would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

  “What about the cut on his leg?” I asked, my eyes still scanning the beautiful trees in the distance.

  “The ME says the structure of the wound is looking more like an animal than an implement. By running the cut mark through the database, she ruled out the most obvious culprits: a chain saw or garden trowel or other known tools. She believes it was done by a single claw. There was also an enormous amount of bruising to the hips, thighs, and abdomen, so whatever got him got him good and hard.”

  “Man,” I whispered, glad I was still facing away from Mike as tears suddenly filled my eyes.

  “The cut was to the bone,” he continued, oblivious to the effect his words were having on me, “and fortunately debris was lodged in the tissue. They’re running tests now, growing cultures. We should get more info soon.”

  “Wow,” I whispered. Poor Troy. Poisoned, attacked, drowned. What a way to go. Wiping away my tears in frustration, I turned back from the window and returned to my chair. “Troy said he was dizzy and feeling ill the whole time we talked yesterday. He must have been contaminated before he even called. At that point the poison was already working its way into his system.”

  Mike pulled out his notebook and flipped to a page where he had obviously worked out a timeline.

  “ME says exposure to the toxin likely occurred between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m. Troy called you at 5:17, so that would be correct. By the time he called you he’d been poisoned and probably didn’t even know it.”

  “After he hung up on me, how long was it before he died? Did the medical examiner give an exact time of death?”

  “Exact, no, but she gave us a range, and by combining that with other factors we’ve been able to narrow it down to him dying somewhere between 6:10 and 6:30 p.m.”

  “So he hung up with me at 5:30 and was attacked and had gone into convulsions and drowned within the hour.”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t know why all of this information was hitting me so hard, but I felt tears welling up again. Perhaps as the sequence of events became more tangible, the fact that Troy really was dead was beginning to sink in. Whether his death was intentional or accidental almost didn’t seem to matter as I thought about how much he must have suffered.

  “Thanks for telling me all of this,” I said softly, knowing Mike had things to do. I hoped he would get back to them before I began to cry in earnest. When he didn’t rise to leave, I assured him that I was okay and that he could go back to work.

  Still he hesitated, and when I looked at him through my tears I could see there was more he wanted to say.

  “Listen, Sienna, this whole accidental poisoning angle isn’t the only theory we’re working. There are other possibilities.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now that we’ve had a chance to do some background research, we’ve uncovered some things that complicate matters.”

  I waited for him to go on, suddenly afraid from the look on his face that he had found out about my government investigation. From there, he might even have assumed that I had played a part in Troy’s death somehow. Was I about to be arrested?

  “It’s starting to look like Troy Griffin had a gambling problem, not to mention some shady associates.”

  Relief flooded my veins, and I had to force myself to remain expressionless. That wasn’t what I had expected him to say, not at all.

  “Gambling problem? What kind of gambling?”

  “Every kind. Cards, dice, horses, sports, you name it. Your ex-boyfriend was a real high roller. He went to Atlantic City all the time. In the past few months, he was there at least twice a week, sometimes every night.”

  I should have been surprised by this news, but as I thought about it I realized I wasn’t. Back when we were dating, Troy loved playing poker with his buddies or taking clients to casinos.

  He had even talked me into going to Atlantic City with him once. I had no interest in gambling, but a client had given Troy two front row tickets to a concert by one of my favorite bands, so I had agreed to go. We had ended up having a great time, making the easy one-hour drive from Philadelphia, enjoying the concert, and sharing a free dinner in a restaurant afterward. Before heading back home, Troy had insisted on playing a little roulette in the casino, saying it was a matter of etiquette because the reason we’d been given the free concert and dinner was so that we would spend some money at the tables.

  We only stayed about an hour, which, with a few good wins, was just long enough for him to lose several hundred dollars. Except for that, our evening had been great fun.

  “He used to gamble when we were dating,” I said to Mike now, “but I didn’t think he was addicted. Not then, anyway. Not to my knowledge.”

  The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that our real estate ventures had been like gambling to him. The further we went with it, the more he enjoyed it. The bigger the risks we took, the more excited he had grown. No wonder he had urged me on so. He was feeding the need that burned inside himself at my expense.

  “As it turns out, Troy is—well, was—very much in debt,” Mike said. “When there’s a death, heavy debt is always a red flag, either for homicide or suicide.”

  My eyes widened.

  “You think Troy committed suicide? That he poisoned himself on purpose?”

  “No. I’m thinking homicide, given the players involved.”

  I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees.

  “You think Troy was killed over a debt he couldn’t pay?”

  “Possibly.”

  I took in a deep breath of air, trying to match what Mike was saying with what we already knew.

  “If Troy was in debt to some sleazy loan shark or something…” I began, my voice trailing off as I thought for a moment, “at least that would help explain the treasure hunt. Troy found those old documents on Monday. Maybe he had tapped every other source, and finding those diamonds was his last hope for settling up his accounts.”

  “Which in itself was another kind of gamble, I guess, given his chances of actually finding them.”

  “Though maybe he did,” I said. “Maybe he found the diamonds, and he was killed not because he couldn’t pay the debt but because when he paid it, the debtor learned about the diamonds and wanted all of them for himself.”

  “Troy owed a lot of money to a lot of nasty people. Ones who have killed for far less.”

  I thought about that, my mind going back to our one evening in Atlantic City. That night it had seemed as though Troy had known a lot of people, including some very stereotypical mobster-types: The well-dressed Italian with the steely gaze and a moll on each arm; the pair of Russian toughs in Valentino suits who never took off their sunglasses, not even when we were introduced; the Asian businessman with a nasty scar across his throat and an obsequious entourage around him. Troy knew them all, and on the way home when I had teased him that they looked like the United Nations of mobsters, he had simply laughed.

  A few minutes ago, when Mike told me about Troy’s nasty associates, I had been picturing some greasy little bookie or a wisecracking loan shark in ill-fitting clothes. But now my mind was suddenly full of images far more sinister.

  “Mike, are you saying that you think Troy’s death was a mob hit of some kind?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “The man who was killed in my pool yesterday, the man I once dated, was in the Mafia?”

  Mike held up one hand, palm outward.

  “We don’t know that he was one of them, just that most of his clients have ties to organized crime.”

  I tried to understand the implications, wondering how this could possibly be true.

  “You think Troy’s death was a mob hit,” I repeated, my stomach tightening from deep inside.

  �
�Mob hits are usually a lot simpler than this. A gunshot or a stabbing, But not poison. At least not that I’ve heard of. So, again, we’ll have to wait and see. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

  The radio crackled at Mike’s hip, and he excused himself to answer it.

  “Weissbaum.”

  “Where are you, sir?” a woman asked, probably Georgia.

  “Out on the side porch. Am I needed in there?”

  “Nope, stay put. I’ll come to you. Big news.”

  Mike stood and turned toward the door, but I stayed where I was, feeling a bit faint. On the phone yesterday, Troy had said that my investigation by the government was likely Floyd’s fault. Did Floyd have ties to the Mafia too? Could he have done something with my inn that had caught the government’s attention? If so, that could very well be why I was under investigation, because somehow Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast was connected with the mob.

  Georgia emerged from the house, her eyes sparkling. At the moment, I didn’t want to hear her “big news.”

  I had enough big news of my own.

  EIGHTEEN

  “We just found out that a black bear was caught and killed in Holtwood a couple of hours ago,” Georgia said, waving her radio toward us triumphantly.

  “A big one?” Mike asked.

  “’Bout two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “That’s big enough.”

  “A homeowner let his dog out and spotted the bear digging in the trash can. He had to shoot the bear to save the dog.”

  I stood and moved toward them, asking where Holtwood was.

  “It’s a little town about ten miles west of here, near the Susquehanna River,” Mike replied.

  They were both excited, certain that the bear was the big black creature Floyd had spoken of and what had cut Troy with its claw last night. Incredible. Listening to them talk, it sounded as though bear sightings in this area were rare but not unheard of. Attacks, on the other hand, were a different matter.

  “I can’t remember the last bear attack on a human that I’ve heard of, not anywhere around here,” Georgia said, shaking her head in wonder. “That’s a real shame.”

  “Let’s work with the game commission to run a few tests on the bear to see if we can establish a stronger link with the vic. Have them do a tox screen, look for a tissue match, and see if it has a prominent claw.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call the ME too. See if she can think of any other tests that could tell us if the gash on Troy Griffin’s leg really was made by that bear. I want to be completely sure before we relax our guard.”

  “Will do.”

  Georgia went back into the house, and Mike turned to me triumphantly, saying that perhaps one question had been answered.

  “Sounds like Floyd didn’t imagine his black creature after all,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, but I’d feel even better if this one could breathe fire.”

  Mike excused himself, saying we could talk later, and then he went outside through the porch’s screen door.

  After it had fallen shut behind him, I stood there for a moment trying to process what I had just learned. It would take a while to wrap my head around the Mafia connection, but I had a feeling that finally I was on the right track. Whatever Floyd had done to get me investigated by the government, it very likely involved organized crime.

  I needed to tell Liz, but I didn’t feel like having a conversation that involved right now, so I sent her a quick text instead: Just learned that Troy had been involved with the Mafia! Relevant?

  She replied almost instantly: Could be! Will explore further. I’ll be in touch.

  I was putting the phone away in my pocket when it rang. Pulling it back out, I looked at the screen expecting to see Liz’s number, but instead it was my father. This was another conversation I was not eager to have, but I knew it was inevitable. I answered, trying to keep my voice sounding light.

  My father’s voice, on the other hand, sounded every bit as tired and worried today as it had yesterday. I hated having to burden him at all, but I knew he would find out what was going on out here eventually, and that it was best I tell him myself now. Of course, I left out most of the details, including my job suspension and the government investigation. Instead, I focused on the series of events he would most likely be reading about in the newspaper.

  “Remember that phone call I got yesterday when I was at your house?” I asked.

  “The one where you sounded kind of angry? The problem at work?”

  “Um…it wasn’t about work. I just said that so you wouldn’t be worried. It was Troy. Troy Griffin.” He was quiet for a moment, so I continued. “He was calling from the bed-and-breakfast. He was lost out in the grove and saying some pretty strange things. Then he hung up on me. He wouldn’t answer when I tried him back, so when I left your house, I drove out to Lancaster County to talk to him face-to-face.”

  “Oh, Sienna, I know Troy was important to you at one time, but I sincerely hope you’re not thinking about starting things up again with him. You’re not, are you? He doesn’t begin to compare with Heath. In your heart of hearts you have to know that.”

  I walked toward the screen door, opened it, and stepped outside. I needed some fresh air, even more than I was getting on the porch.

  “Of course I know that, Daddy, but that’s irrelevant now anyway. Troy is dead. When I arrived here last night, I-I was the one who found his body. He had drowned in the pool. Here at the B and B.”

  My dad gasped. After a moment of being speechless, he found his voice and started asking questions, wanting to make sure I was okay and trying to figure out what had happened. Like Heath, he wanted to come right away to help handle things and make sure I was all right, but I wouldn’t let him. We went around a little bit on that one, but in the end I got him to agree that right now his place was with his wife, not out here with his daughter. Once he had voiced all of his concerns and sympathies, and I had given him back every reassurance that I could, I moved on to the next part of what I had to say.

  “The thing is, Daddy, the circumstances around Troy’s death were very odd. The police are trying to figure it all out.” I told him about the horrible gash on Troy’s leg and the bear that had been caught ten miles away just this morning. Then I explained Mike’s theory about the poison and the convulsions and the drowning, saying that Troy had probably handled some sort of pesticide that had done him in. In response, my dad was appropriately horrified, but I was glad his mind never seemed to go toward the idea of foul play. With his only daughter out here, and him with his hands full back there, the last thing he needed to know was that a murderer might be on the loose, especially one sent by the mob.

  Then I told him about Floyd and Nina, saying that they had been found near Troy, both unconscious. I had already explained that Troy had likely been poisoned by a pesticide, so while I didn’t say the same about Floyd and Nina, my father seemed to draw the conclusion that all three had shared the same fate, but that poor Troy was the only one who ended up losing his life from it.

  “I hate to burden you with any of this at all,” I said, “but I had to tell you because of Emory. With Nina in the hospital, I wasn’t sure what we should do.” I went on to explain that Jonah and Liesl had looked in on Emory last night, but I couldn’t expect them to fill Nina’s shoes for very long.

  Without missing a beat, my father said that he would contact a local home health agency and set something up. As he spoke, I could already hear him flipping through his trusty Rolodex.

  “You remember. They sent some workers out when your grandpa broke his hip. What was the name of that one we liked so much? Heidi? Helga?”

  “Hilda, I think.”

  “Hilda! That’s it. I’ll ask for her. She was good with Emory, and from what I recall he seemed comfortable enough with her.”

  I felt so bad that my father had to fool with any of this right now, but it had to be done, and as Emory’s guardian, he had to be the one to do it.
He found the company’s contact information and said he would call as soon as we hung up. Before we did, he asked about insurance on the inn, saying that I needed to call my insurance broker right away, if I hadn’t already. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I had left all of those matters to Floyd, and not only did I not know who my insurance broker was, I wasn’t even sure if I had an insurance broker. I managed to evade the issue, but as we ended the call, I couldn’t help feeling just a little bit like a liar.

  Slipping the phone in my pocket, I realized I was standing very near the gate to the pool area. I wasn’t sure what things would look like in there in broad daylight, but I wanted to see. Would there be a chalk outline where Troy’s body had lain? Any law enforcement officers still in there, working the scene? Hesitating for just a moment, I finally forced myself to step forward and take a peek through the bars of the gate.

  As soon as I did, I regretted it. I could see no chalk outline or any technicians, but what I could see was blood, dried blood, that had come from Troy’s leg and spilled on the cement patio and dried to a horrific rusty brown. Turning away immediately, I decided to find Mike.

  With one hand resting lightly on the bulge of the gun at my waist, I followed the sound of voices around the fencing and crossed the yard to the far side of the shed. As I went, I thought again about Floyd and his possible involvement with the Mafia, and it struck me that there might be another explanation for the baby naming business on his computer in the office. What if the guests who stayed in the inn were mobsters? If so, then perhaps the reason the records were falsified was to allow them to be here incognito. That wasn’t a comforting thought—mobsters sleeping in my beds, eating in my kitchen, swimming in my pool—but at least it might answer one question in a way that made sense.